From Idler to Tech Tycoon: Earth

Richard gestured vaguely towards a nearby metal crate. With a soft hum, it hovered into the air, then drifted silently to land behind him, as if guided by an unseen hand. Nicolau’s eyes tracked its movement, his jaw dropping slightly. He can control objects? With his mind? Just like the old stories of the shamans, but real! The thought screamed in his head.

Richard’s voice echoed directly in Nicolau’s head, clear as if he’d spoken aloud, a playful lilt to the mental tone. I can talk with minds too, Mr. Nicolau. Not just move objects. Richard smiled, a knowing, almost mischievous glint in his eye, a hint of ancient power simmering beneath the surface.

Nicolau gasped, pushing back in his chair, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of terror and astonishment that bordered on exhilaration. He scrambled to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at Richard’s head. "Is that one of those too?!" he stammered, his voice choked. "Those... those symbol powers? Black magic from the jungle, but somehow... perfected?"

"It is an energy study which needs no symbols to initiate the power itself," Richard clarified aloud, his smile still present. "More complex, yes, but also a part of what we’re revealing here. A pure manifestation of will, Nicolau. Something inherent."

Nicolau took a deep, shaky breath, slowly calming himself, though his heart still hammered against his ribs. He carefully sat back down, removing his shirt completely. His back, a canvas of old scars from countless skirmishes and betrayals, was now exposed, ready.

Lina, with a subtle gesture of her hand, controlled a small, nimble fabrication drone. It descended with silent precision, its fine point hovering over Nicolau’s skin. Before he could react to the anticipated, agonizing pain of a traditional tattoo, a sharp, momentary sting flared across his back, intense and sudden, like a thousand needles pricking him at once, and then it was gone.

The drone retracted, vanishing back into its station. Nicolau touched his back, bewildered. The pain of atomically rearranging his skin in real-time was unimaginable, fleeting, but it was done. He was in awe by how fast that was. He had expected it would take hours, a grueling ordeal.

Richard then projected a shimmering image into the air above his desk: a perfectly symmetrical Metatron’s Cube, its interconnected circles and lines glowing with internal light, each line seemingly vibrating with unseen energy. "This is what I put on your back, Mr. Nicolau," he explained. Nicolau stared at the projection, transfixed. Even as a simple tattoo, the symbol was just beautiful, mesmerizing in its complexity and sacred geometry.

"Now, Mr. Nicolau," Richard said, his tone gentle, "do you need a private room to pray? For this... ritual."

Nicolau, his eyes still fixed on the glowing symbol in the air, shook his head, his voice resolved, gaining strength. "No. How can I be a man of faith if I’m embarrassed of others seeing me how I pray to my God?" He knelt right there on the pristine floor of the command center, ignoring the high-tech surroundings, bowing his head. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands, and began praying in rapid, fervent Brazilian Portuguese, the words tumbling out in a torrent of devotion. The shift from his fluent English back to his native tongue, a language of deep faith, was profound.

Ten minutes into his prayer, a soft, golden glow emanated from the mark on his back, pulsing with his every murmured word, growing brighter with each syllable of conviction. Richard subtly gestured to Ciano, who had started to lean forward in surprise, his eyes wide at the display of raw faith.