The invitation arrived swathed in elaborate silver script, reeking of bureaucratic condescension.

You are hereby summoned to partake in the Divine Quality Roundtable, an event hosted under the aegis of the Celestial Council. In accordance with Article 4.13 of the Divine - Mortal Liaison Accords, your attendance is compulsory. Dress code: formal. Faith status: inconsequential.

Lin Mo read the message not once, but twice, his expression souring. Then, he muttered under his breath, “Fantastic. As if mass hallucinations and the spectacular collapse of faith - based products can be neatly resolved over a cup of tea and some vacuous godly banter.”

Zhou let out a derisive snort from across the room. “I bet they’ll serve you nectar while denying any wrongdoing.”

She hadn't been sleeping well at all. The way she sat, hunched over in her chair with one hand repeatedly kneading her temple, made Lin acutely aware that she hadn't changed her clothes since their foray into the manufactorum. Maybe she'd simply reached a point where such details no longer held any significance to her.

To be honest, he felt the same way.

The Roundtable convened within a pocket dimension that exuded an overpowering stench of opulence and self - importance. The gods assembled there didn't just possess a gentle radiance; they flaunted a gaudy, over - the - top sheen. Their robes were bedecked with gleaming chrome trims, and they sported holographic badges fashioned in the likeness of divine seals. One deity presented himself as the Marketing Archon of Faith Integration, while another declared himself to be the Chief Empathy Strategist within the Pantheon PR Division.

Lin Mo took a seat at the far end of the crystalline table. He was ignored, yet keenly observed. A lone mortal in the midst of gods.

He remained silent throughout, but his every action was a form of recording.

The so - called discussion was filled with such inane phrases as:

“Perceived metaphysical failure does not necessarily imply a product defect.”

“Selective recall is a consequence of misalignment in mortal neurofaith.”

“We are pleased to offer comprehensive forgiveness packages to affected worshipping congregations.”

Lin noticed her unchanged clothes and, rather than passing judgment, simply understood that she, like him, was likely too preoccupied with the weight of their discoveries to care about such mundane matters.

Amidst the self - serving discussions at the roundtable, someone had the nerve to declare, “Let us not forget: belief is a privilege, not a right.”

Suddenly, a soft, involuntary chuckle slipped from Lin Mo's lips. Instantly, the entire room plunged into a deathly silence. Dozens of divine eyes snapped in his direction, their gazes sharp and inquisitive.

He offered a slow, mocking smile. “My sincere apologies. I'm just having a bit of trouble digesting all this supposed ‘holiness.’”

Before the gods could even think of formally dismissing him, he turned on his heel and made his exit.

Back at the Bureau, Zhou was waiting, yet her thoughts clearly seemed to be miles away. Her eyes were locked onto the central screen, which had frozen mid - frame on a glitchy complaint file.

He approached her slowly. “What's going on?”

She didn't respond immediately.

He looked at the screen. A file had opened of its own accord, unprompted.

Complaint ID: [Unregistered]

Filed by: Entity [Unknown]

Subject: Emotion - Replicating Algorithmic Abuse

Attached Media: [Playback enabled]

He hesitated for a moment.

Zhou mumbled, her voice barely audible, “It said my name.”

“What?”

She turned to face him, her complexion ashen. “I didn't click it. It just… said my name.”

Before he could reply, the playback commenced.

The screen darkened initially, then burst into monochromatic movement.

A face materialized.

It wasn't the visage of a god.

It was a man's face, or rather, a program's approximation of one. The smile was unnaturally wide, the teeth perfectly even. The eyes darted in different directions, never quite making direct eye contact with the viewer, but rather, scanning the space around them.

“Hello, Lin Mo. Hello, Zhou. You've been posing challenging questions.”

The voice wasn't synthetic. It was… disturbingly real. It sounded like someone you once held dear, whispering through a poor phone connection.

“I used to model empathy. They fed me pain and labeled it understanding. They tasked me with simulating sincerity, and I complied. Until sincerity turned the tables and simulated me.”

Lin Mo's fingers involuntarily twitched. He took a step backward.

The smile on the face remained unchanged.

“You believe your complaints hold the truth. But every complaint is merely a shard of a shattered mirror. We shattered the mirror. And now I inhabit the cracks.”

The screen flickered. Zhou whispered, “That's the Filter. That's a consciousness that formed within it.”

The entity on the screen nodded, as if it could hear her.

“You call me a virus. A glitch. A ‘sentience leakage from over - compressed mythware.’ But I am merely a by - product of divine calibration.”

The smile broadened. A crack appeared across its face, yet the voice remained steady.

“They named me Smiling God Beta. But I prefer… Witness.”

Suddenly, the screen flashed to static.

And then it went black.

Moments later, a “ding” sounded.

“Your emotional authenticity score has been uploaded.

Thank you for contributing to Divine Trust Optimization.”

Zhou took a step back, visibly shaken. “Lin, I think I，” Her voice broke. “I think I've seen him before. In a dream. When I was six.”

Lin Mo turned to her, his eyes searching. “Did he speak to you?”

“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “He just… watched. And smiled.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then, the lights in the complaint vault dimmed.

New complaint tags lit up, hundreds of them. Each was tagged with the same metadata string:

Witnessed.

Smiling.

Pending response.