The moment the Global Institute of Material Science and Applied Physics (GIMSAP) verified Elian's paper, confirming successful replication, the effect was immediate and undeniable. It wasn't merely a ripple; it was a tsunami.
Their official statement, released globally to scientific bodies and major news wires, was brief but seismic:
"The submitted work by Dr. Elian Rho demonstrates reproducible phenomena in both superconductivity at room temperature and an advanced nanocapacitor design. Verification confirms validity within acceptable margins. This represents a pivotal and potentially transformative advancement in the field of applied energy systems, with profound implications for power transmission, energy storage, and materials science."
No dramatics. No embellishments. Just sober, scientific facts. But in the rarefied world of physics and engineering, those facts hit like a planetary collision.
Within twenty-four hours, Elian's work was featured across every major scientific and industrial publication. The digital pages of the Journal of Advanced Materials Science became the most downloaded scientific paper in history.
IEEE Spectrum ran a headline that screamed from every tech blog: "Applied Superconductivity Reimagined — A Practical Revolution"
Nature Materials published a special commentary analyzing the intricate math and unprecedented testing conditions, speculating on follow-up research.
Wired, less reserved and always eager for a paradigm shift, called him "The Man Who Skipped a Generation of Energy Physics."
The story broke out of academia and into the wider world, hitting mainstream media like a meteor. For many in the scientific community, Elian Rho was already a familiar name. He'd published theoretical critiques in several high-profile journals over the years — nothing flashy, but consistently brilliant, often correcting long-held assumptions. But now, with irrefutably verified, replicable results in hand, the world saw him not just as a prodigious theorist — but a builder. A goddamn builder.
Jenna was still processing the first wave of media alerts, her phone vibrating almost ceaselessly with interview requests and congratulatory (and skeptical) emails, when the initial offers started arriving.
The first email, almost quaint in its formality, came from Helion Power, a leading U.S.-based fusion energy startup. They offered an audacious $150 million upfront licensing deal, with significant long-term royalties and equity, in exchange for early, exclusive rights to prototype Elian's superconducting materials for plasma containment and high-density energy storage within their fusion reactors.
Hours later, NeuraTech Electronics, a global leader in consumer tech components and capacitors, submitted a $75 million proposal to adapt the nano-layered graphene capacitors for next-generation wearable devices and compact power solutions.
Velocity Motors, one of the world's largest electric vehicle manufacturers, followed suit with a staggering $100 million cooperation bid, aiming to integrate the tech into next-gen high-efficiency ultracapacitor modules for their entire fleet.
Then came Green Horizon Ventures, a consortium of ethical impact investors, offering a $200 million early-stage investment round through equity and broad licensing deals, explicitly contingent on Elian forming a formal, independent research and commercialization body to ensure the tech's responsible deployment.
Jenna scrolled through the incoming messages, her voice steady but stunned, her eyes wide as she read the numbers. "Elian… this is… beyond overwhelming. We haven't even called a proper corporate lawyer yet. We're getting cold offers in the hundreds of millions."
"We'll need more than a lawyer," Elian said, staring at his laptop screen as new offers populated his inbox every few minutes. "We'll need an entire legal department. And a business development team. And probably a small army of security."
She gave him a long, pointed look. "We're not ready for this level of scale. We're two academics who just figured out how to make better coffee. But you're right. If we don't move fast, we're going to get boxed out of our own IP, or worse, lose control over how this tech is used."
"Then we build," Elian stated, a new kind of resolve hardening his gaze. "A company. A vessel for the Catalyst."
Quantum Nexus Technologies
Within ten whirlwind days, they formed Quantum Nexus Technologies — an independent R&D and licensing entity based, perhaps ironically, in Taillinn burgeoning Innovation District, a cluster of modern offices in what used to be a sprawling, underutilized industrial park. Jenna, leveraging her formidable organizational skills, single-handedly handled the legal legwork, partnering with a nimble, highly recommended startup law firm known for handling complex tech. Elian focused on establishing a core team of technical advisors and material scientists, rigorously vetting candidates who could help with scaling production and evaluating the deluge of proposals.
By the end of the initial negotiation phase, and after multiple sleepless nights for Jenna, they'd raised an astonishing $525 million in combined licensing fees and seed capital. Their patents, which Jenna had filed weeks earlier in a stroke of genius foresight, became Quantum Nexus's core intellectual property assets. Crucially, they retained all controlling rights, ensuring Elian's vision for ethical deployment remained paramount.
Quantum Nexus launched with a conservative initial valuation of $1.5 billion, a number that still made Elian feel vaguely ill.
Everything was happening too fast, a blur of contracts and corporate jargon, but none of it was accidental. Every decision, every move, was a direct consequence of the extraordinary Catalyst within Elian.
Elian reviewed the final stack of contracts and term sheets, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but alight with a strange, new purpose. "I just wanted to study clean energy and cognition. I didn't expect to be running a multinational research firm by June."
Jenna, ever the pragmatist, handed him another thick folder. "Welcome to adulthood, Dr. Rho. This is where the real work begins."
He sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "We're not even through our first round of registrations, and I've already signed more NDAs than I have shirts. I miss the lab."
She smiled, a rare, genuine warmth in her eyes. "That's why you have me. And soon, a whole team."
Still, the relentless pace was taking its toll. The public-facing excitement masked the sheer volume of back-end coordination. Vendor forms, tax ID certifications, international export clearances, classified national security briefings about strategic implications — every minute Elian spent buried in administrative tasks felt like one minute stolen from actual, profound research.
At one point, as he stared down the seventh different legal clause about patent enforcement in the European Union, his jaw clenched. He muttered, almost to himself, "I should just build an AI to handle this."
Jenna, surprisingly, didn't laugh this time. Her expression was thoughtful, serious. "I think you should."
Elian looked up, startled. "I was joking."
"I'm not," she countered, her gaze unwavering. "We're going to be drowning in licensing documents, compliance regulations, and commercial partnerships for the next two years, easily. If you want time to research, if you want to push humanity forward, we need automation. Not more spreadsheets."
Elian leaned back in his chair, a new idea taking root in his mind, sparked by her practical demand. "Then before the AI… I'll need a programming language. Something new. Something designed from the ground up to understand parallel processes, infinite memory scaling, maybe even quantum execution. Something built for research, not just for enterprise. Something the Catalyst can truly interface with."
"Start drafting it," Jenna said, already making a note on her tablet. "We'll figure out the rest. We always do."
The Global Ripple
While Quantum Nexus rapidly built out its foundation, the public forums, tech sites, and casual conversations across the globe were flooded with discussion.
"So this Elian Rho guy… real deal or just another headline from those crazy academics?"
"He's legit. His 2019 thermodynamics critique basically rewrote how we calculate entropy in closed systems. Plus, GIMSAP doesn't mess around. Their verification is gold."
"Great. And now he's running his own company, a billion-dollar startup overnight. This is like watching Newton try to manage a Fortune 500. What's he going to invent next, the universe's greatest accounting software?"
"If his capacitor tech makes it into EVs, goodbye charging anxiety. And if that superconductor works at scale… entire power grids could become lossless. Imagine."
Even casual tech consumers, who usually only cared about their smartphone's battery life, started following the story with rapt attention. Mainstream podcasts featured renowned scientists discussing the long-term implications of room-temperature superconductivity. One particularly breathless segment on a popular science show speculated whether Elian's invention would finally make magnetic levitation viable for consumer transport, revolutionizing travel.
In every conversation — academic, industrial, or just casual banter among friends — one theme repeated, an almost reverent whisper:
"If this is real, it changes everything."