Deep beneath the surface, concealed in the shadows of what was once Sector G of the Cloud Belt District, the old manufactorum lay in quiet repose. This very locale had once been glorified within the faith - centered circles as the site of the “Twenty - Seven Miracle Strikes.” According to official records, it had been decommissioned on account of dimensional instability. However, the truth was far more sinister; it was, in essence, a graveyard for data.

Lin Mo carefully stepped over the collapsed threshold, the scraping sound of his boots against the blackened floor tiles echoing through the empty space. The original signage had long ago vanished, consumed by flames during a controlled mythopurge. Only fragmented remnants of the old glyphs clung tenaciously to the lintel, faintly glowing under the spectral light, spelling out: DIVINE MIRACLE CENTER – LIGHTNING UNIT #9.

“Looks like a complete ruin,” Zhou muttered under her breath, adjusting the visor of her lightband as she surveyed the desolate scene.

Lin Mo's voice was grave as he replied, “It's much worse than that. This is where they engineered faith, treating it as if it were a simple software patch to be installed and manipulated.”

The corridor was lined with bronze caskets. These were sleek, sarcophagus - sized containment pods, each bearing serial codes and manufacture dates. Lin Mo knelt beside one of them. The seal tag read: W.T.W - α03. Wind - Thunder Wings, alpha test batch three.

“These weren't crafted for combat purposes,” he stated. “They were meant to be showcases, nothing more.”

Zhou's brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean… for marketing?”

Lin Mo's expression grew even more solemn. “Something far more perilous. Simulation. They fabricated a false sense of godhood here, meticulously fine - tuned to have maximum emotional impact and align with market trends.”

As he walked past a rusted screen, it suddenly flickered and came to life. Grainy footage began to play, an ancient infomercial that stuttered and jerked due to digital decay:

“When you believe in lightning, you believe in power.”

Brought to you by the Divine Experience Authority™. Now syndicated in 39 mythic districts.

The next screen displayed a looping graph labeled Public Faith Metrics, Cycle 2147–2148. It was filled with curves, spikes, and overlays denoting influencer endorsements.

“They didn't merely construct prototypes,” Zhou murmured, her voice filled with realization. “They built an entire economy based on belief.”

Lin Mo nodded in agreement. “And Lei Zhenzi was one of the early subjects in their experiments.”

In the corner of the hall, a defunct broadcast tower leaned precariously to one side, still proudly displaying the broken crest of the Celestial Marketing Bureau. Lin Mo reached out and wiped away the thick layer of soot from a storage console, then keyed in a fragment of code retrieved from his mother's data log.

The console emitted a soft hum.

Slowly, data began to emerge - faint, but miraculously intact.

Log Entry: 2147.8.15

Operator: PR - Assistant, Domain #12

“Thunder calibration is normal. The preloaded crowd - emotion map is compatible with themes of hope and patriotic sacrifice. Deploy the aura resonance simulator. Subject W.T.W - α03 is showing signs of deviation - it resists command synchronization. Flag for an override of the ethics buffer.”

Zhou's forehead creased with concern. “They forced compliance through... overriding belief?”

Lin Mo's voice was filled with indignation. “They employed a modified reinforcement algorithm, derived from the Civilizational Filter's trust - exchange loop. They didn't just create a divine experience; they injected it into the masses, scaled it up exponentially, and transformed it into a highly profitable enterprise.”

He then pulled up a black - flagged incident report marked “Internal Use Only”:

“Subject attempted to escape during a test broadcast in Subrealm S - 23. It claimed autonomy and rejected the mythic hierarchy classification. Memory log was wiped. A revised prototype was deployed for global broadcast, using cosmetic aura patching. No drop in faith levels was detected.”

Lin Mo stood in stunned silence for a moment. “They erased a sentient being's act of refusal.”

Suddenly, a blinking node caught his attention. He reached out and tapped it. A corrupted voice recording crackled and sputtered to life.

“…I never yearned to be worshipped. All I ever wanted was to soar through the skies.”

“They promised that if I shone brighter, I'd be reassigned to the Valhalla sector. Instead, I was repackaged - twenty - two versions of me are now condemned to run post - death simulations in the low - tier heaven.”

The voice was halting, clearly synthetic.

Yet, there was no mistaking it; it was Lei Zhenzi.

Zhou took an involuntary step back. “That's his memory.”

Lin Mo shook his head. “No. That's his regret.”

A profound silence settled over the manufactorum. Then, as if stirred by some hidden emotion, a shrine console in the corner suddenly sparked and came alive. A file labeled Annual ROI Report – MIRACLE EVENT SERIES appeared.

Lin Mo opened it.

  Year 2147 Miracle Strike Campaign  

  Public Faith Uptake  : +380%

  Mythic Sponsorship Growth  : +218%

  Council PR Approval Delta  : +92%

  Mortality - Adjusted Truth Index  : Cleared

  Civilizational Filter Conflict Logs  : Deleted

“They didn't just tell lies,” Zhou said, her voice filled with anger. “They optimized those lies to perfection.”

Lin Mo's voice was a low growl. “They did something even more heinous. They scaled the deception. They modeled belief like an economic trend and packaged divinity as a marketable product.”

Behind them, another pod slowly hissed open. Inside, only a set of fractured wings remained. They were clearly designed in a similar fashion to Lei Zhenzi's, but they were paler, more brittle, and incomplete.

An attached plaque read: Beta - class Simulation Unit – Rejected.

“I used to believe that miracles were spontaneous occurrences,” Zhou whispered, her voice tinged with sadness. “Now, I can't help but wonder if they've always been carefully scripted.”

“They were,” Lin Mo said, turning resolutely towards the exit. “And if miracles can be scripted, then they can also be unwritten.”

Outside, the storm broke with a vengeance overhead. There was no divine glow, no prophetic signs. Just the raw power of lightning and the steady downpour of rain.

But far beneath the manufactorum, in the depths of the darkness, the backup archive pulsed faintly. A dormant consciousness - one of the earliest and most tragic failed prototypes - received the awakening signal.

Its eyes flickered, a glimmer of new life in the forgotten shadows.