The tunnel widened abruptly. The stranger's breath caught as a monolithic wall loomed into view, severing the cavern like the blade of a guillotine. It was enormous—spanning what his muddled thoughts estimated to be a football field in width and rising nearly half that in height.
Football field? The term surfaced unbidden, another reminder of a world that might have been his true home. A fleeting image of green grass and cheering crowds flashed through his mind, gone as quickly as it came.
The wall stood as an unyielding barrier of dark stone, its surface reinforced with jagged slabs that devoured the faint light around it. As they drew closer, the stranger's attention was drawn to a greenish glow that suffused the air near the wall, radiating outward about fifty feet. It was as if the atmosphere itself had been saturated with an unnatural luminescence, a sickly pall that clung to everything it touched.
The eerie light accentuated every jagged edge and crack in the stone, shifting subtly as if alive, casting faint, undulating shadows that seemed to pulse with malevolence. An icy dread settled in the stranger's soul though the air grew increasingly warm and stagnant the nearer they came. The oppressive energy emanating from the wall was suffocating, as though it drained hope itself, leaving only despair in its wake. Wrinkling his nose against the thick, cloying air, the stranger found it increasingly hard to breathe.
Narrow slitted windows punctured the upper reaches, too high to see clearly, but faint movements betrayed the presence of silent watchers hidden within. Any lingering weariness evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp surge of adrenaline. The stranger's heart raced, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through him as they approached this formidable barrier.
The wagons jerked to a halt, forming a crescent across the cavern floor. The constant rumble of wheels and the rhythmic clomping of oxen hooves that had dominated their journey suddenly ceased, replaced by a cacophony of new sounds. Guards on horseback rode alongside, their sharp commands piercing the air. The echoes of boots on stone grew louder as soldiers on foot swarmed the wagons, their faces grotesque under the eerie green glow. Chains rattled, cell doors groaned, and protests erupted from the captives, punctuated by gasps of pain. Rough hands dragged prisoners to their feet, shoving them unceremoniously onto the cold, unforgiving stone ground.
A delegation awaited the caravan's arrival, stepping forward to meet the lead wagon as it came to a stop. The stranger pressed his face against the iron bars, straining for a clearer view. Several luminous orbs hovered around the group, bathing them in what appeared to be genuine daylight. Though their faces were hard to discern, their attire was unmistakable—luxurious cultivator robes, light red with gray trim, embroidered with intricate patterns of celestial bodies and mystical beasts.
The cultivators were adorned with an array of spiritual weapons: gleaming swords strapped securely to their backs, ornate fans tucked into their sashes, and jade pendants hanging from their belts, each artifact pulsing with a faint, otherworldly energy. Their hair was meticulously styled, some with intricate topknots held in place by golden hairpins, while others wore their locks long and flowing, with strands of spiritual beads that glimmered faintly in the light. Delicate circlets of precious metals rested on a few brows, inlaid with glowing gemstones.
The stranger let out a low whistle, unable to suppress his amazement. "Will you look at that," he murmured, his eyes widening at the staggering display of power and wealth before him.
Yes, the spirit replied, its tone grave. They are core level cultivators, each possessing power beyond your current comprehension. A chill ran down the stranger's spine as Zephyrion continued, In your current state, they pose a grave threat. It would be wise to avoid drawing their attention, lest we jeopardize our chance to unravel the mystery of our shared existence. The spirit paused briefly before adding, Though, I am surprised you can see the power emanating from their items.
A man dressed in simpler yellow and green robes stepped down from the lead wagon, his bearing less commanding than the cultivators' yet still marked with authority. Though his attire was of fine quality, it lacked the ornate embellishments and jewelry that adorned the others, emphasizing his lesser status. He approached the delegation, his lips moving as he began to speak, yet not a single whisper of the conversation reached the stranger's ears.
"Out, trash!" bellowed one of the guards, his voice laced with contempt.
The stranger stumbled to his feet, his movements sluggish after days of confinement. He was the first to be hauled from the wagon. A rough hand clamped around his arm, yanking him forward with a force that nearly sent him sprawling. The guard's scowl deepened as he shoved the stranger toward the front, his grip unrelenting.
"Form lines, you filthy wretches!" a voice thundered from the front, its echoes ricocheting off the stone walls. "Now!"
The stranger shuffled into place, his shoes scraping against the rough ground. The press of bodies hemmed him in as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the others, shivering beneath the wall's suffocating shadow. Above them, the slitted windows seemed to glower like sightless eyes, heavy with judgment. The green glow cast a sickly pallor over the assembled prisoners, making their gaunt faces appear even more haggard and desperate, as if they stood at the threshold of one of Dante's infernal circles, awaiting judgment from unseen forces.
While the delegation had captured most of his attention, the stranger also noticed groups of soldiers and cultivators standing about a dozen paces from each of the wagons as they came to a halt. Both groups moved with a practiced efficiency that spoke of long-established routine. The disciplined demeanor of these new figures contrasted sharply with the caravan guards. Their uniforms mirrored the colors of the delegation—reds trimmed in gray—but their equipment and posture exuded an air of authority, a clear step above those tasked with guarding the caravan. Those accompanying the delegation carried themselves with the bearing of individuals accustomed to serving noble houses.
The stranger couldn't explain how he knew, but the certainty settled over him like an undeniable truth. As the caravan guards began transferring the captives to the soldiers, the lines of prisoners shuffled reluctantly toward the gate. The stranger's gaze flicked back to the wagons, expecting the guards to return to their posts once the task was complete. Instead, he viewed in horror the scene unfolding before him.
From the shadows near the wagons, the guards were retrieving what could only be body bags. Their forms slack and unmistakable as they were methodically hefted onto the now-empty vehicles. The sheer casualness of their movements, the efficiency with which they loaded their grim cargo, sent a wave of nausea rolling through the stranger. His heart pounded as the grim realization took hold: this was evidence of the fate awaiting them beyond these walls. Fear clawed at him as he contemplated the horror ahead, his mind reeling from the silent testimony of those anonymous corpses.
We will ensure that fate doesn't await you, the spirit's voice resonated within him, yes?
The stranger readily agreed, grasping at the reassurance. Yet his focus shifted again to the insistent pull of the golden thread. Grateful for the distraction, he noticed it had followed the delegation, slipping through the massive gate and vanishing behind a separate door—far removed from the grim path the captives were being funneled toward. As the delegation disappeared, their luminous orbs went with them, their light retreating like a fleeting promise of salvation. In its absence, the eerie green glow crept back, saturating the air with its oppressive weight, as if sealing them in some pit of sin and despair.
As his group crossed into the radius of the sickly green glow, a startling clarity overtook him. The pounding in his chest eased, his breath steadying as his heightened senses honed in on his surroundings. The intricacy of the area unfolded before him: the walls and ground were alive with an elaborate network of formations, their purposes starkly evident to his perception. Support formations thrummed with latent energy, while anti-divination arrays shimmered like delicate, shifting veils. He identified sigils meant to weaken techniques originating from beyond the gate while amplifying those cast within. Beneath their feet, movement-restricting arrays formed an intricate lattice, poised to entangle any attempt at escape. Spatial formations dotted the network as well, though their immediate function eluded him.
As he observed the formations with his spiritual senses, he noted absently that, while relatively basic in design, they were brutally effective within the confines of this environment.
This was no mere wall—it was a fortress, a living construct of subjugation and control.
At this proximity, the gate loomed impossibly large, its immense structure a testament to both craftsmanship and intimidation. Its mechanism remained obscured, yet the stranger noted several smaller doors cleverly integrated into the gate’s massive frame, including the one toward which the captives were being herded and the separate entrance the delegation had passed through moments earlier. Their current destination was set closest to the towering walls to his right and seemed almost insignificant against the gate's overwhelming scale. Even as he absorbed these details, the stranger’s gaze lingered on the intricate arrays woven into the walls and floor, frantically attempting to unravel their purpose and piece together insights from his mind.
Reluctantly, the stranger passed through the gate, leaving the intricate inscriptions behind. Initially, he had assumed the gate was made of stone, but now he marveled at its immense scale—not just in height and length, but in its six-foot thickness. The smooth, almost black metal defied easy identification, its construction beyond anything he could have fathomed from his old world.
On the other side, the captives made an immediate right turn into a corridor running parallel to the massive barrier. The stranger noted the passageway’s clever design, seemingly able to retract from the building it was attached to—an obvious defensive feature. This side of the gate bore different inscriptions, focused on strength and fortification.
As they were herded into the confined corridor, the stranger was immediately assaulted by the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and other odors he refused to identify. The smell, far worse than in the wagon due to the close quarters, made him recoil involuntarily. His mind drifted to memories of soap, cologne, and the simple luxury of daily showers. The contrast between these fleeting recollections of cleanliness and their current state of filth was jarring. He found himself longing for the fresh scent of laundry detergent or the crisp aroma of deodorant. The stranger couldn’t help but realize how quickly one could be reduced to such a state, stripped of even the most basic elements of hygiene and civilization.
The captives shuffled forward, their movements sluggish and weary, and barred windows vented to the outside, allowing what appeared to be sunlight to filter in. Through the gaps in the metal, he glimpsed a surprisingly pleasant scene beyond, clashing against the stifling stench within. The only sounds that broke the silence were the shuffling movements and hushed breathing of his fellow prisoners, punctuated by the occasional guard barking orders to move along. While the oppressive atmosphere from the other side of the gate had largely dissipated, the looming reality of impending slavery still weighed on the stranger’s mind.
Through the bars, his gaze lingered on what appeared to be a normal town. The cavern above seemed to mimic daylight, bathing clean streets and well-maintained buildings in its soft glow. Pipes snaked up into the ceiling, their purpose unclear, while guards, civilians, and even cultivators roamed freely. The sight was a cruel reminder of normal life just beyond their reach, making their captivity all the more palpable.
The stranger and his fellow captives arrived at a nondescript building, entering a spacious room dominated by a guard station to the left. As they filed in, a guard addressed them with a chilling mix of boredom and menace. “Time for processing,” he drawled, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Keep quiet, keep moving. We don’t need broken tools.” The stranger’s muscles tensed involuntarily at the implication. Another guard snorted and added with a cruel chuckle, “Don’t worry. We’ll patch you up if we have to—just to work you harder.”
The casual cruelty in their words left the captives in uneasy silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the clanking of chains. The guards who had escorted them slipped away into the guard station, disappearing through a door in the back. Meanwhile, the line of captives snaked forward, flanked by more guards standing like silent sentinels along the walls.
As the group neared a smaller checkpoint, the line split into two. The stranger quickly realized they were being separated—mortals directed to one side, cultivators to the other. Questions churned in his mind: What did “processing” truly mean, and why were cultivators treated differently from mortals?
The stench intensified as he stepped inside—a rancid mix of bloated bodies and rotting refuse that churned the stranger's stomach. He was directed toward one of several elevators on the cultivator side of the room, a rickety contraption more akin to a construction lift than the enclosed elevators he vaguely remembered.
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The top half of the compartment was open, offering a view of the descending tunnel below, while alchemical lights affixed to its frame bathed the space in a blue glow. On the other side of the elevator, separated by a thin barrier, sat three soldiers. They lounged carelessly, chatting among themselves and paying little attention to the prisoners.
Once the captives were secured inside, the elevator lurched into motion. Chains rattled and gears groaned as it descended into the depths, the air growing noticeably cooler and damper. The constant mechanical noise filled the confined space, a reminder of their unsettling journey into the unknown. As they descended, the overpowering stench from earlier began to dissipate, replaced by the less offensive but still pungent odor of unwashed bodies. The stranger gripped the railing as the lift shuddered and finally came to a jarring halt with a metallic thud. When the doors creaked open, the stranger was met with a cavernous expanse, its walls illuminated by more of the blue lights.
The vast chamber, carved from stone, accommodated a winding line of captives reminiscent of an amusement park queue. The comparison struck the stranger as grimly ironic, given their dire circumstances. The line snaked toward a doorway at the back, resembling an airport body scanner—another fragment of memory that surfaced unbidden. On either side of the doorway stood rooms separated by transparent barriers, within which cultivators focused intently on controlling intricate arrays.
Guards ringed the outer wall. As the stranger inched forward in line, a creeping sense of foreboding tightened in his chest. Fear and anxiety, momentarily forgotten in the face of new surroundings, slowly returned, flooding him with a renewed intensity.
Your knowledge of formations is... remarkable, Zephyrion's voice echoed in the stranger's mind, tinged with surprise and curiosity. How did you come by such intricate understanding?
The stranger furrowed his brow, equally perplexed. I... I don't know, he thought back. When I looked at them with my spiritual sense, it was as if the knowledge just exploded inside my mind. Like I've always known it, but only now remembered.
Fascinating, Zephyrion mused. This suggests a depth of cultivation experience far beyond what your current state would indicate. We must explore this further when we have the chance.
The stranger nodded imperceptibly. Before he could ponder further, the line shuffled forward, bringing him closer to the mysterious scanner.
He watched as each captive stepped through the scanner-like doorway, emerging on the other side to have a band secured around their left forearm by a waiting soldier. The bands, embedded with complex formations, bore unique numbers. The stranger's mind raced, wondering about the purpose of these bands and the implications of the scanning process.
When it was finally his turn, he hesitated, his heart pounding. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, he stepped through. An inexplicable sensation washed over him, as though unseen forces were probing every inch of his being, analyzing him in ways he couldn't comprehend. It left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
On the other side, a guard with cold, steely eyes grabbed his arm roughly, securing a band around his forearm. The stranger glanced down, noting the number "53847" etched into the cold metal. It felt like a brand, a reminder of his lost freedom, its weight far heavier than its physical presence suggested.
"That's your new name," the guard said with a smirk, revealing yellowed teeth. "Get used to it."
While the stranger couldn't recall his name, the casual dismissal of his very existence hit him like a physical blow. Though the specifics of his past eluded him, a profound sense of loss overwhelmed him—a certainty that he had been a person, with hopes, dreams, and a life beyond this moment. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it, remembering Zephyrion's warning about drawing attention. Instead, he clenched his jaw, his mind whirling with questions about what lay ahead and how he might navigate this treacherous new world, all while grappling with the hollow ache of an identity just out of reach.
The band pulsed faintly with power, cold and alien against his skin. With each throb, the stranger felt his hope erode, replaced by a growing sense of despair. Though the golden thread still lingered in his mind, its pull grew fainter as they moved deeper into the facility, like a lifeline slowly slipping from his grasp.
Ushered away from the scanner area, the stranger shuffled into another line, moving like an automaton. His mind drifted through a haze of melancholy and fear, each step forward heavy with resignation. The next room revealed a series of stations, each designed to strip away yet another layer of individuality.
At the first station, guards armed with sharp shears attacked the prisoners’ hair with ruthless efficiency. The stranger observed with unease as the long locks of men and women alike fell to the floor in uneven heaps. Unlike the others, his hair was already cropped short—a small anomaly that, for now, spared him the indignity of their rough handling. Still, he could feel the tension in the air, as if the shearing blades severed more than hair.
Anguished cries punctuated the room as captives watched their tresses fall. For many, it was a shattering loss—one that tore at their sense of identity, culture, and dignity. Some sobbed openly, clutching their discarded hair as though clinging to a piece of themselves. Others stood in stunned silence, their hollow eyes reflecting humiliation and despair. The stranger's heart ached for them, yet he kept his face impassive, fearing that even a flicker of emotion would draw unwanted attention.
When his turn came, the guards hesitated for a moment before shoving him past with a sneer, sparing him only because there was no hair to cut. He couldn't shake the bitter irony—his status as an mysterious outsider had inadvertently shielded him, but only for now. He could feel the sharp gazes of the guards lingering on him as if deciding how to make up for the missed opportunity.
The next station was even more dehumanizing. A gruff voice barked, "Strip! Everything off!" The command ricocheted through the room, shattering the uneasy silence. Hesitation rippled through the prisoners before trembling hands began obeying. One by one, they shed their clothes, the last fragments of modesty falling in crumpled heaps to the ground.
For some, this act of compliance came with trembling hands and tear-streaked faces. For others, resistance led to swift and brutal intervention. Guards wielding blades slashed through garments with unfeeling precision, ignoring cries of pain as fabric and flesh were sometimes cut in tandem. The shredded remnants were tossed unceremoniously down gaping chutes, swallowed into the bowels of the facility like garbage.
The stranger's eyes darted around, taking in the tableau of collective humiliation. An elderly man struggled to unbutton his shirt, his hands trembling so violently that it took several tries. A young woman attempted in vain to shield herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. The guards' eyes held no pity, only impatience and a cruel glint of satisfaction.
When the demand came his way, the stranger hesitated. These clothes were his last tangible connection to a life he barely remembered. His grip tightened reflexively, but his defiance lasted only a moment. A sharp jab to his ribs from a guard’s weapon forced the air from his lungs, and rough hands quickly restrained his arms. A third guard crouched, yanking away his shoes before drawing a blade. The stranger braced himself as the cold steel pressed against his skin, slicing through fabric with unnerving closeness. Though his jaw clenched and his chest tightened with humiliation, he tried to remain expressionless.
All around him, sobbing figures and silent victims stood bare and exposed, their humanity laid painfully bare. The chill in the air bit at his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms, while the cold stone floor beneath his feet was a stark reminder of his vulnerability. Yet, even as shame coursed through him, a voice within whispered: You are more than this. You will endure.
Steeling himself, the stranger lifted his chin. They had taken his clothes, his dignity, but they would not touch his spirit. His fists clenched as they were herded forward to the next stage of processing. The cold stone hallway echoed with shuffling footsteps and muffled sobs, but his resolve remained firm. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it unbroken.
The next station was a stark contrast to the previous ones, as the prisoners were herded toward an imposing structure resembling a large, metallic group of showers. Pressurized formations activated, unleashing torrents of water that cascaded down upon them like a relentless deluge. The guards stood nearby, laughing and joking among themselves, their cruel humor echoing off the cold walls. “Enjoy it while you can!” one of them shouted, a smirk plastered across his face. “This might be the last time you’re ever clean again!”
As the water blasted against their skin, the stranger felt an unexpected sensation; it was not just the force of the spray but something else in the water that seemed to penetrate deeply, effectively stripping away the layers of dirt and grime that clung to them. The cleansing effect was almost invigorating, but for the bleakness of his current circumstances.
Despite the guards' mocking words, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of relief as the filth washed away, if only for a moment. The water cascaded over him, swirling with remnants of the last couple of days—the sweat, fear, and despair that had accumulated during his captivity. The stranger recalled his earlier musings about hygiene and felt a wave of shame wash over him. This was no act of cleanliness—it was a cruel mockery, a stark reminder of their powerlessness.
The prisoners shuffled forward, their bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor as they approached a massive door at the end of the room. This imposing barrier stood like a sentinel, its surface marred by countless scratches and dents—silent testimony to the countless souls who had passed through before. Periodically, the door would groan open with a bone-chilling screech, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond. Guards barked orders, roughly shoving groups of prisoners through the opening before it slammed shut once more, cutting off any glimpse of what lay ahead.
The stranger strained his eyes, trying to peer into the shadows beyond. All he could make out was another doorway at the far end of the corridor, its purpose and destination unknown. The air grew thick with tension and fear as each group disappeared into that ominous passageway, leaving those still in line to wonder what horrors awaited them.
As they inched closer to the door, the stranger's heightened senses picked up on a disturbing pattern. Some prisoners were being singled out—men and women alike—and led away by guards through inconspicuous side doors. At first, he thought little of it, but as those same prisoners returned, the horrifying truth became apparent.
They stumbled back into line, broken and diminished; they moved like shadows of their former selves, the weight of unspeakable violations etched into every trembling muscle and downcast gaze. Fluids and blood trickled down their inner thighs, leaving dark trails on their skin. Some wept silently, their eyes hollow and vacant, while others wailed in anguish, their cries echoing off the unforgiving walls. The stranger's stomach churned as he witnessed their suffering, a mixture of revulsion and guilty relief washing over him.
He couldn't help but imagine himself in their place, subjected to such brutal degradation. He had tried to stay strong, but the thought alone was almost enough to break his resolve. He realized with a sickening clarity that had he been one of those unfortunate souls, it might have shattered him completely. The stranger said a silent prayer for being spared this particular horror, even as shame threatened to overwhelm him.
As the group was herded into the hallway, the stranger's eyes blazed with quiet fury. He made a silent vow, his jaw clenching tight: This facility will burn to the ground. At the opposite end of the corridor, another door creaked open. As they shuffled forward, the stranger's heightened senses picked up on a faint, unsettling sound. He strained to hear, but couldn't quite make it out. The group moved into the next hallway, identical to the first, as the door closed behind them.
After a time, the doors ahead swung wide, and a torrent of agonized screams assaulted their ears. These weren't ordinary cries of pain—they were soul-rending wails that seemed to emanate from a spiritual agony. The stranger's blood ran cold as he realized this was the sound he had been hearing all along.
Beyond the threshold lay a nightmarish chamber. Rows of tables, eerily similar to massage beds, stretched across the room. About half were already occupied, the prisoners on them writhing in unbearable agony. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood, fresh crimson splatters merging with dark, dried stains that testified to the horrors endured by those who had come before.
Cultivators moved among the tables, their expressions cold and clinical as they affixed strange devices to the prisoners' backs. Whatever this process was, it was the source of those blood-curdling screams.
With mounting dread, the stranger was led to an empty table. The manacles that had bound his wrists and ankles for what felt like an eternity were finally removed, but any fleeting sense of relief was swiftly extinguished. Rough hands shoved him down onto the cold surface and new restraints snapped into place, binding him as securely as the ones before. His heart thundered in his chest as he lay there, helpless, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of fear. What fresh hell awaited him here?
The cultivator loomed over the stranger, his voice detached as he explained the device's purpose. "This will function like your shackles, allowing us to control your cultivation,” he said in clipped precise tones. “It will make you a slave in every sense of the word. With this, we can make you do anything. Refuse a command, and the pain it inflicts will make your soul beg for release. Resist long enough and it can even break your cultivation."
As the cultivator pressed the device against his back, the stranger felt it—a cold, invasive presence worming its way into his essence, like shadowy tendrils reaching for his soul. He recognized its purpose immediately: a tool to dominate, to thread puppet strings into his very being.
Then, clarity struck like lightning in a storm: he had a choice. He could accept this violation, or... he could reject it. The thought was startling, but undeniable. Was this possibility born of his own will—or was it Zephyrion’s presence, lurking within him like a guardian flame, that made this choice even possible?
Hope swelled within him, tentative but fierce, like the first light of dawn breaking through endless night. He didn’t know why or how, but he felt something stirring, a chance to reclaim his freedom.
But before he could act, something deep within—something ancient and dark—stirred. Without warning, it reached out, not to fight but to accept the intrusion.
Shock rippled through the stranger, a tidal wave of disbelief as his autonomy slipped away. He felt his mind faltering, his very soul bending beneath the weight of the device’s influence. A surge of fury erupted from within him, defiance like a spark in the darkness. His lips moved almost of their own accord, his voice raw and unfamiliar, cutting through the chaos. "You dare..."
The words barely escaped before the void closed in. Darkness descended like a crushing tide, as his consciousness unraveled into the abyss.