The stranger's eyes snapped open, a scream tearing from his throat as he jolted awake. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like a shroud, the vivid images of the demon's awakening still burning in his mind. His heart raced, pounding against his ribcage as if trying to escape the horrors he had witnessed in his dreams.
A foul, rotting taste filled his mouth, and he rolled over, retching violently. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up—he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. The acidic burn of bile lingered, twisting his already hollow stomach. Slowly, as the panic subsided, he became aware of his surroundings. The nightmare had felt so real, as if he had lived through it himself, experiencing every terrifying moment firsthand. He forced himself to sit up, clutching his knees, trembling as he tried to piece himself together.
If I can’t even find comfort in sleep, what’s the point? Just kill me now.
The air felt unnaturally still as he surveyed the dark, cramped room. Faint alchemical lights cast a ghostly blue glow, barely illuminating the space. The temperature inside the cell was surprisingly comfortable, at odds to the cold, damp air he had expected. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized he was wearing a coarse tunic and boots, though he couldn't make out many details in the darkness. It was clean, a refreshing change from the filth he had endured before.
All this blue. It’s like I’m in a Cameron movie.
Despite the lingering fear from his nightmare, the stranger noticed something odd. The pain that had been his constant companion since he awakened in this godforsaken place was gone. No throbbing headache, no aching muscles, no stinging cuts or bruises. He hesitated, then reached toward the middle of his back, his fingers brushing the hard outline of the device still embedded there. The faint weight of the bracer-like item on his wrist confirmed its presence as well. Curious, he closed his eyes and focused inward, accessing his body with his spiritual sense.
His spiritual sense revealed a startling discovery—every injury had vanished without a trace. But that miracle paled compared to what he saw next. The device embedded in his back spread ethereal strings throughout his body like a parasitic web, each strand connecting to various nodes. Several of these strings plunged directly into his dantian, thrumming with otherworldly energy. The bracer on his wrist seemed almost benign in comparison, connected to just two nodes in his arm.
Then he felt it—a warmth radiating below his navel that made his breath catch. This could mean only one thing—his dantian had awakened, glowing with qi. In this place designed to suppress cultivation, somehow he had ignited his core. He tried to recall the details of his dreams, wondering if they held any clues to this sudden development.
"Zephyrion?" he whispered, seeking the familiar presence of the spirit. Silence answered him, and a wave of panic washed over him anew. Where was the acerbic voice that had been his only companion?
As his anxiety mounted, the lights in the room grew brighter. A disconcerting sensation rippled through his spirit, making him frown. With his spiritual sense already active, he witnessed the disturbance as it passed through him—bursts of energy emanating from the device to nodes in his head. The sensation, while not painful, reminded him of a mild electrical shock.
Looking more closely, he observed the device sending constant pulses to several dozen nodes throughout his body. The module functioned like some kind of ethereal wifi receiver, accepting signals from an unknown source and exerting invasive control over his body and spirit. The realization was deeply unsettling.
He couldn't help but marvel at the sophisticated technology, even as demoralization washed over him. This went far beyond physical restraints, reaching into the very essence of his being. His captors could not only contain his body but manipulate his spirit itself. Yet somehow, impossibly, he retained the ability to use his spiritual sense.
Shaking his head, he decided to take stock of his surroundings. The room contained little more than the sleeping mat he lay on and a small, crude area that appeared to serve as a rudimentary bathroom. It took him a few moments to figure out how to use the unfamiliar facilities, but as he examined the area more closely, he noticed faint formations etched into the surfaces. Understanding dawned on him as he deciphered their purpose, allowing him to activate the waste disposal system.
He also spotted a small wash basin nearby but noted the absence of a shower. The limited hygiene options were a disheartening reminder of his current circumstances. After cleaning up as best he could, he returned to the main area of the room which was all of two steps.
Beside his sleeping mat, he spotted a pile of familiar clothing—the same garments that had been cut from his body during processing. Miraculously, they appeared whole, with no sign of the rips, tears, or wear they had suffered. Though odd, the sight of his restored clothes provided a small measure of comfort in this alien environment. And, really, how can there be any civilization without boxer briefs?
Deciding that anything was better than the rough tunic he currently wore, the stranger quickly changed into his old clothes. The familiar fabric felt comforting against his skin, a small reminder of his life before this moment of captivity. As he finished dressing, the door to his cell slid open with a soft hiss.
A subtle, almost imperceptible pull emerged—similar to the spiritual sensation he had experienced earlier. Unlike before, this feeling was more focused, like an invisible thread gently drawing him forward. Without fully understanding why, he found himself compelled to follow, his body moving almost of its own accord.
He stepped out into a well-lit cave complex. The temperature remained surprisingly comfortable, matching the pleasant atmosphere of his cell. The tunnel before him was about twenty feet wide, with doors lining both sides. All the doors stood open, and other figures were emerging, moving in the same direction as him. Their movements seemed oddly mechanical, almost robotic in their precision.
The walls were smooth and polished, revealing the distinctive characteristics of limestone. Pale cream in color with occasional streaks of darker minerals, the limestone bore testament to the ancient marine life that had formed it eons ago. In some places, the rock face displayed subtle ripples and wave-like patterns, hinting at its sedimentary origins. The precision of the carving was remarkable, suggesting that while nature had formed the stone, skilled hands had shaped it into this expansive complex.
Alchemical lights cast a soft glow on the limestone surfaces, bringing out the subtle variations in color and texture. The rock seemed to absorb and reflect the light in equal measure, creating an atmosphere that was both natural and eerily artificial, as if rendered by some high-end gaming PC.
Like the garments he had shed earlier, they all wore identical brown tunics, belts, and boots. No one spoke as they walked, the silence broken only by the faint shuffle of boots on stone.
Their synchronized movements had to be the module's doing. Yet as he walked, he felt no compulsion, only the faint nudge that had plagued him since the door to his cell opened. Unlike the others, his mind was his own. Deciding it was safest to blend in, he mimicked their movements, keeping his face as blank and expressionless as possible. The whole thing felt surreal, and he had to suppress an inappropriate urge to start chanting "Imhotep" as they shuffled along.
The tunnel eventually opened into a vast cavern where multiple passages converged. More people streamed in from these side tunnels, all moving with the same eerie synchronicity. As they approached a large building at the center, the stranger estimated there were about fifty of them in total.
The structure was utilitarian, hewn from the same pale limestone as the surrounding cavern. Wide double doors yawned open like a maw, inviting them in. The stranger followed the flow, unease prickling at his spine.
Upon entering the building, he quickly deduced it was a cafeteria. Long tables stretched across the room, and lines of slaves formed before a serving area. For a disorienting moment, the scene before him blurred and shifted, overlapping with a memory that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. The institutional setup was eerily similar to his school cafeteria—was it from the 80s? Ghostly images flickered at the edges of his vision: friends laughing over rectangle pizza, milk cartons lined up like soldiers, the clatter of plastic trays echoing off cinderblock walls painted an institutional beige. He could almost smell the distinctive aroma of that pizza, could almost hear someone calling his name—but the name slipped away like smoke, and the memory dissolved as the sharp smell of gruel pulled him back to the present.
Reality crashed back harshly. Behind the counters, kitchen staff ladled food onto trays with mechanical precision. They filed through a line, each receiving a portion of unappetizing gruel from staff who appeared to be slaves themselves. Despite his situation, the stranger found himself analyzing the operation, wondering if these workers were permanently assigned to the cafeteria or if there was some rotation system in place.
He joined the line, receiving a portion of gruel and a ceramic cup of water. Though the gruel looked awful, it smelled rich and hearty. Carrying his tray, he scanned the room for an open seat, noting that others gravitated into clusters. As they sat, conversation began to bubble up, hushed at first but growing in volume. The mechanical behavior from earlier seemed to ease, replaced by a semblance of normalcy. It was as if the module's control weakened here. The familiar social dynamics made his chest ache with a strange longing.
The stranger found an empty spot at a table and sat down, observing the others around him. No one got up or moved around; they all remained seated as they ate. He poked at his gruel, his stomach turning at the sight of it. But hunger won out, and he forced himself to eat, knowing he would need his strength. It was surprisingly good. And there was a lot of it.
A man across the table leaned forward, his face gaunt but his dark eyes sharp, brown hair falling to his shoulders. "You're new," he said in a low voice, more statement than question.
The stranger noted the length of the man's hair, realizing it offered a rough gauge of time spent in captivity, since all new arrivals had their hair chopped off during processing.
The stranger hesitated before nodding, running his tongue over dry lips. He wasn't sure how much to say or if speaking would draw the wrong kind of attention. "I guess so."
The man snorted softly. “You guess? Either you’ve been here a day, or you’ve been here a year and lost track. What’s your name?”
“I…” The stranger hesitated, a pang of frustration welling up at the void in his memory. “I don’t know.”
The man's expression shifted, a flicker of sympathy crossing his weathered features. "Figures. That room scrambles more than just your nerves. I'm Shunmin." He gestured vaguely to the others nearby, who responded with quiet nods and murmured greetings. "We all get thrown in with no names, no pasts, and no futures. You'll fit right in."
The stranger nodded slowly. “What is this place, really?”
Shunmin’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping further. “Chi mine, death trap, call it whatever you want. The Huang clan owns it, but they don’t run it. Not directly. The overseers are mercenaries, cultivators for hire, mean as they come. They don’t care if we live or die, so long as the stones keep coming.”
The stranger's eyes widened as realization struck him. "A chi stone mine," he whispered, his voice barely audible. The implications of this discovery sent a chill down his spine. Fuck. My. Life.
Without closing his eyes he extended his spiritual senses outward. Yes, there it was—a nexus of ley lines, concentrated streams of power that crisscrossed the world. These nexuses were rare and incredibly valuable, often solidifying into chi mines of immense power. Though chi mines could form anywhere a ley line existed the most powerful stones would form here. That’s why the chi is so abundant. His eyes darted around the room as if he could see the concentrated chi filling the space.
The stranger's mind raced, doors of understanding flying open. Spatial and temporal aspects of cultivation flickered through his thoughts, hinting at the potential locked within a nexus. The sheer scale of power here was staggering. Do they know? Or are they just using it for the stones?
Before he could lose himself in these revelations, Shunmin's voice cut through his musings. "Yes, by your reaction, you know what that means," the older slave said grimly. "That's why they don't mind us dying. The secret dies with us." He paused, his eyes distant. "And from what I've seen, this mine is huge."
The stranger nodded slowly, the weight of their situation settling heavily upon him. A fortress built around a chi mine of this magnitude—no wonder escape seemed impossible. The mine's existence was a closely guarded secret, one their captors would protect at any cost.
After a time, everyone stood up in unison, forming another line and heading out a different door. The stranger followed, his heart rate increasing as they approached a large open gate in the cavern wall. Beyond it, he could see the glimmer of more alchemical lights, stretching off into the darkness.
At the gate, they were met by a group of thirteen individuals dressed in traditional cultivation robes. Though distance and then fear had previously kept him from observing details of their dress, he now took in every aspect of their attire. Each wore a light grey middle robe beneath an outer red coat trimmed in matching grey with delicate yellow piping. A stylized mountain emblem adorned both the front and back of their coats, marking them as members of the Huang clan. Their hair ranged from black to sandy brown, worn in elaborate styles—one even sporting striking black-red streaks. Each carried weapons at their sides: curved daos, straight jians, and other implements of war. An aura of power radiated from them, causing the suppressed cultivator slaves to shrink back instinctively.
Several wagons stood nearby, their bulky shapes partially hidden under heavy tarps. The stranger couldn't quite make out what lay beneath them, but something about their presence filled him with a deep sense of unease.
One of the robed figures stepped forward, his bearing marking him as someone of authority. "Listen up, you worthless shit pots," the man barked, his voice echoing in the cavern. "For you new ones, and I won't repeat this again, I'm Overseer Jihun, and my word is law. You'd do well to remember that if you want to survive here."
A chill ran down the stranger's spine as the overseer continued. "Welcome to the Huang Chi Mine. You're here to extract chi stones, and you'll work until you drop or I say otherwise. Most of you will be dead from chi poisoning in a year or two, so I suggest you make your peace with that now."
The stranger felt the hope from his ignited dantian fade as the overseer's words sank in. And as the overseer continued his speech, detailing the harsh realities of life in the Huang mine and the expectations placed upon the slaves, his attention suddenly shifted to movement near the cafeteria—a figure emerging with quiet urgency. A young woman, about 5'8" with long blue-black hair that shimmered faintly in the dim light, stepped out clutching a dented gruel pot. The plain brown tunic and scuffed boots she wore marked her as a slave, indistinguishable at first glance from the rest.
No one else seemed to notice her as she made her way towards the gate leading down into the mines. As she passed by, her eyes met the stranger's, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The girl, who appeared to be in her late teens, nearly dropped the pot she was carrying. She stopped in her tracks, staring at the stranger as if trying to convince herself that he wasn't really seeing her.
The stranger held her gaze, his eyes a storm of curiosity and confusion. For a heartbeat, neither moved, the air between them taut with unspoken questions. Then, almost instinctively, he offered her a small smile.
The girl’s sky-blue eyes widened, shimmering with a mix of surprise and something close to fear. She staggered back, her breath catching audibly in the stillness. Without a word, she spun on her heel and darted into the tunnel, her footsteps echoing in frantic rhythm. She glanced back over her shoulder again and again, her pale face flickering in and out of the shadows, until she vanished into the yawning darkness.
Puzzled by this encounter, the stranger looked around, studying the faces of those nearby. Not a single head had turned to follow her dramatic exit, not even those she'd brushed past in her hurry. The overseer continued his speech without pause, while the cultivators showed no reaction, their expressions alternating between boredom and sharp-eyed vigilance. The stranger's mind raced with questions about the mysterious girl and why he alone had seen her, but the overseer's sharp command snapped him back to reality.
"Now move out, you dogs!" the overseer shouted when he was done, and the group began to shuffle forward into the mines.
They pushed heavy wagons through narrow, winding tunnels, wheels catching on every bump and crevice in the rough stone floor. The temperature dropped noticeably outside the compound, the air growing damp enough to leave a fine sheen of moisture on their skin. Dust clogged their lungs and stung their eyes, while the oppressive darkness was broken only by the harsh glare of alchemical lights.
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As they progressed deeper, glowing chi stones began to appear in the walls. Pale mushrooms sprouted from cracks in the stone, their caps luminescent in the dim light, while patches of iridescent lichen painted the walls in subtle hues of blue and green. The stranger marveled that no one had harvested these specimens—even the most basic alchemist could use them to create potent concoctions. The chi stones, at first small and scattered, grew more numerous and vibrant as they approached their destination. Strange plants flourished in the chi-rich environment—crystalline flowers pulsing with inner light, vines with leaves that shimmered like polished jade, and delicate ferns sparkling with dew-like drops of pure energy. Each specimen, he realized, was worth a small fortune in the right hands.
The tunnel gradually brightened until a fully illuminated cavern appeared in the distance, its walls shimmering with the ethereal light of countless chi stones. From somewhere in the darkness, the soft fluttering of bat wings echoed, accompanied by high-pitched calls that reverberated through the tunnels. The sounds reminded the stranger that even here, life persisted—though perhaps changed by the presence of such concentrated chi.
When they reached the mining area, they entered a vast cavern that branched into numerous tunnels, each one glowing with deposits of chi stones. The tarps were pulled aside, revealing pickaxes, buckets, and what appeared to be barrels of water alongside other tools underneath. The slaves were divided into groups of five, two groups assigned to a wagon. The stranger watched as teams were dispatched to different tunnels, spreading out through the complex like ants in a colony.
As he began working, he noticed something peculiar about the stones they were extracting. They appeared in curiously uniform sizes, as if grown to specification rather than formed naturally. As he gazed at the pure white glow of these particular deposits, recognition flashed through his mind—unaspected mana stones. The most valuable and versatile of all chi stones, sought after by every sect, clan, and noble house. He couldn't help but marvel at the implications; this wasn't just a mine, it was a treasure vault.
The slaves were not provided with gloves, leaving their hands vulnerable to the harsh stone and sharp tools. While the veteran miners' hands were protected by thick calluses, the stranger's soft palms began forming blisters within hours. The work was brutal beyond anything he had imagined, with the constant swinging of pickaxes and hauling of heavy buckets filled with chi-infused rock. Sharp fragments of stone flew with each strike, leaving small cuts and gashes on exposed skin. Each strike had to be precise—too hard and the valuable stones might shatter, too soft and they wouldn't break free from the surrounding rock.
Every few hours, they were granted brief respites to drink from the water barrels. The stranger noticed that one of the wagons had been modified into a makeshift bathroom, complete with formations that annihilated any waste. As he studied the setup, he found it intriguing—rather than allowing the slaves to relieve themselves in the tunnels, their captors had engineered this solution. He suspected this wasn't out of concern for hygiene, but rather to avoid attracting whatever creatures might lurk in the depths of these caverns.
As they worked, the stranger could feel the chi permeating the air around them. It was intoxicating, almost overwhelming in its potency. He could see why chi poisoning was such a concern—even with his newly ignited dantian, he felt dizzy and disoriented from the exposure. Remembering a simple qi cycling technique, he decided to attempt it despite the module. To his surprise, he encountered only slight resistance as he began to cycle his qi. He snuck a careful glance at the cultivator guards, but they showed no sign of sensing his activity. It started to fill his dantian, and the exhaustion he had begun to feel from mining gradually dissipated.
He ran his qi through the central meridians first—the Governing Vessel along his spine and the Conception Vessel along his front. These primary channels connected all his dantians together and fed all other channels in the quasi-spiritual network that bridged both physical and spiritual realms. From there, his qi flowed through the six major meridians that branched outward, then through the twelve organ meridians, creating a basic circuit through the twenty primary channels.
He could sense hundreds of smaller meridians throughout his body, all mysteriously unblocked—something that should have been impossible without the lengthy, painful process of Foundation building. But for now, he stuck to this simple cycling technique through the main channels, not wanting to draw attention by utilizing the full extent of his unprecedented access to the meridian system. He kept his qi absorption minimal, knowing that drawing too much ambient chi could alert the cultivator guards. The technique was enough to process the ambient chi, converting it to usable qi that helped combat the poisonous effects of prolonged exposure.
As he worked, carefully maintaining his qi circulation while swinging his pickaxe, a voice broke through his concentration.
"You're new," an older man with weathered hands and sunken eyes stated. "I'm Wei. That's Ming-Yue." He nodded toward the woman with scarred arms.
The stranger nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "First day."
"You'll get used to the work," Ming-Yue said, though her tone held little comfort. "Most don't last long here though. Chi poisoning takes most within a year. Some even less."
Wei gestured to the glittering chi stones in their wagon. "They’re beautiful. And deadly."
Ming-Yue continued, her scars visible as she shifted her arms. "Ten months is average. Twenty if you're lucky. It depends on your cultivation level. The overseers don't care—there's always more slaves."
The stranger nodded, absorbing the grim news. After a moment, he spoke, voice low and cautious. "What if... what if we could cycle our qi? Wouldn't that help ward off the chi poisoning?"
Wei let out a bitter laugh. "Cycle our qi? You must be new indeed. The Leash they put on us isn't just for show, boy. It suppresses our ability to manipulate qi."
Ming-Yue nodded. "Even if we could, the overseers would never allow it. They say it makes us work slower, reduces our output. Which is just lies if you ask me. Cultivation would let us work faster, harder, longer. They just don't want us to compromise their stones. And better to work us to death quickly and replace us."
"Besides," another slave, who had introduced themselves as Renjin, whispered, "some of us had our cultivation shattered when they Leashed us. We couldn't cycle qi even if we wanted."
Frustration gnawed at the stranger. He knew, somehow, that proper qi cycling could indeed help mitigate the effects of chi poisoning. And for some reason he could. But for these people, such knowledge was useless.
"Leash?" he asked.
"Yeah," Ming-Yue replied, tone blunt. "It's the formation stone they implanted in your back."
"Keep your head down and your mouth shut," Wei cut in, voice low and tense. His eyes flicked nervously toward the approaching guards. "Dreams of cultivation will only bring you pain here. We're nothing but tools to them, to be used and discarded."
Wei cleared his throat and spoke louder. "So how's the food treating you? Better than what I got in my first week—they were running low on supplies then, nothing but watery gruel."
"It's... surprisingly good," the stranger admitted, following Wei's lead.
Ming-Yue snorted. "Wait until you've had it for a month straight. Even the best food gets old."
As they continued their mundane discussion about food and daily routines, the stranger's mind wandered. The rhythmic strike of picks against stone and rumble of buckets emptying into carts provided a backdrop to his thoughts. He pondered the cruel irony of their situation—surrounded by chi, yet unable to use it to save themselves. But maybe he could do something. That thought stopped him cold—what could he actually do?
The unfairness of it all hit him like a physical blow—three days ago he'd been... what? He couldn't remember, but he knew it hadn't been this. Not a slave in some underground chi mine that shouldn't even exist. The kind of place that had no paper trail, no oversight, no hope of rescue.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it—no elite tactical team was going to rappel down from the ceiling, no concerned family member had hired a private investigator, no Liam Neeson was coming with his particular set of skills. This wasn't a movie where the hero gets saved in the third act. In real life, people just disappeared. Modern conveniences, constitutional rights, basic human dignity—all stripped away in an instant. And the worst part? He couldn't even remember how it had happened.
He glanced around at his fellow slaves, wondering if any of them had similar stories, similar lives they'd been torn from. But there was no time for sharing life stories here. No time for anything except survival.
Eventually, even these thoughts faded as he fell into the rhythm of work and conversation around him. The slaves spoke in hushed tones about their lives before—Ming-Yue described tending her family's herb garden, while Wei reminisced about his days as a merchant guard. Simple memories of ordinary lives, now precious beyond measure. Each swing of the pickaxe required complete concentration, the brutal labor consuming all his mental and physical energy until there was room for nothing else.
Hours passed in a haze of backbreaking labor, the gentle stories giving way to grunts of effort and pain. The stranger's muscles screamed in protest, and his hands were raw and bleeding from handling the rough stone. Yet still, they were driven onward, the overseers shouting abuse and threats to keep them moving.
Suddenly, a commotion broke out nearby. One of the slaves, a gaunt man with wild eyes, had collapsed, refusing to get up. The overseer strode over, his face twisted in anger.
"Get up, you lazy scum!" the overseer snarled, kicking the fallen man.
When the slave still didn't move, the overseer's hand went to a device on his wrist. The stranger's blood ran cold as his spiritual sense recognized it—the same type of controller they had used during the implantation process.
With a cruel smile, the overseer activated the device. The effect was horrifying. The fallen slave's body went rigid, his back arching at an impossible angle. A scream tore from his throat, raw and agonized, echoing off the cavern walls. He thrashed on the ground, limbs flailing wildly as if trying to escape his own skin.
The stranger watched with eyes wide open, his own memories of that room—of that pain—flooding back. His fingers tightened into fists. The slave's screams grew hoarser, more desperate, until blood began to trickle from his mouth, his throat torn raw by the force of his cries.
Something inside the stranger screamed at him to move, to help, to do something—anything. His muscles tensed, ready to spring forward, but fear wrapped around him like chains. He could cycle qi. He had some power. Maybe he could... but the memory of that searing agony from the Leash paralyzed him. His heart thundered in his chest as he wrestled with his conscience. Every second of inaction felt like a betrayal of everything he believed himself to be, yet still he stood frozen, watching another human being suffer.
The other slaves stood equally motionless, terror etched on their faces as they witnessed the brutal display. The stranger felt bile rise in his throat, the taste of fear and shame bitter on his tongue. This was their reality now—a world of pain, suffering, and the constant threat of a torturous death. A world where good men stood by and did nothing because they were too afraid to act.
As the slave's screams finally subsided into weak, pitiful whimpers, the overseer turned to address the rest of them. "Let this be a lesson to you all," he growled. "Disobedience will not be tolerated. Now get back to work!"
The overseer then barked an order at a few nearby slaves. "You there! Pick him up and toss him in the back of that cart." He pointed to one of the wagons filled with mined stones. The slaves hesitated for a moment, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and reluctance, before complying. They gingerly lifted their injured comrade and placed him among the rough-hewn chi stones in the cart.
The stranger turned back to his work, his movements mechanical, but his mind was chaos. Around him, the other slaves resumed their tasks with shaking hands, some keeping their heads down, others casting furtive glances at the overseer. A few seemed to breathe sighs of relief that they weren't the target of such punishment. He had failed his first real test of character in this place. Logic told him that intervening would have only resulted in both of them being tortured, that he needed to stay alive and healthy if he ever hoped to find a way to help anyone. But such reasoning did little to ease the self-loathing that settled in his gut like lead.
After what felt like an eternity, the overseer ordered them to put all the tools and buckets back in the wagons. The slaves worked in silence, their movements sluggish with exhaustion, the weight of the day's trials hanging heavily over them as they covered everything with tarps. Once finished, they were herded back toward the compound.
As they approached the gate into the compound, the stranger was surprised that instead of turning in, they continued in the direction he assumed was where the overseers' group originated. They walked a short distance until they reached a raised stone platform that seemed to be anchored to a cavern wall. The surface of the platform was intricately carved with formations, and looking up, the stranger noticed a soft blue glow emanating from somewhere above.
The overseer raised a hand, his voice cutting through the silence. "You there," he barked, pointing to a group of slaves near the wagon with the incapacitated cultivator. "Get him on the lift and make sure he gets to the healer."
The slaves exchanged uneasy glances but moved quickly, lifting the cultivator with care despite their own exhaustion. His head lolled to the side, a faint groan escaping his cracked lips as they maneuvered him toward the lift. The stranger observed their careful handling of their fallen comrade, a poignant reminder of the cruelty that had left him in such a state.
Satisfied, the overseer signaled for the group to split in two. He, a group of the cultivators, and the wagons continued deeper into the tunnel, while the rest of the slaves shuffled onto the lift to join the four remaining cultivators. The stranger eyed the massive stone platform warily—a hexagonal slab about fifty feet across and half a foot thick, anchored to rails embedded in the cavern wall. The strange stone beneath his feet seemed to hum with barely perceptible energy. Without railings to prevent a fatal plunge, the slaves instinctively huddled toward the center, their faces tense.
One of the cultivators stepped forward, his hand glowing faintly as he activated the formation. The platform rose in eerie silence, guided by the qi-powered rails. The stranger marveled at the engineering—the whole mechanism moved without sound or vibration, a testament to whoever had crafted it.
As the platform rose, the dim lighting of the lower levels gave way to a brighter glow from above. A structure carved into the limestone rock emerged, its entrance framed by intricate stonework. The atmosphere shifted subtly; the stale air grew lighter, and the tension that gripped the slaves seemed to loosen. Whispers rippled through the group as the building drew closer—a place that, for some, symbolized fleeting relief.
The lift came to a stop and the four cultivators left with the group escorted them up polished stairs to a landing before the entrance. Two beautifully carved statues of cultivators stood to either side, almost lifelike. Their unseeing eyes gazed down at all who passed between them, as if judging whether each was worthy to enter this sanctuary of healing.
As they entered the building, the stranger quickly realized why the tension among the slaves had eased. Unlike the rough-hewn mine tunnels or utilitarian cafeteria, the healers' building radiated calm and order. Shelves lined the polished limestone walls, filled with neatly arranged herbs, tinctures, and bandages. The air carried the sharp, clean scent of medicinal herbs mixed with something sweeter—perhaps incense meant to soothe their spirits. Even the lighting seemed different here, softer and more natural, though it came from the same alchemical sources used throughout the complex.
The healers, wearing the same brown tunics as the slaves but marked with green stripes, moved through the group with practiced efficiency. They examined injuries quickly but thoroughly, directing slaves into different lines based on the severity of their wounds. Those with the worst injuries were guided to stone beds near the back, while others like the stranger, with minor cuts and bruises, formed shorter queues near the front. Despite the ever-present guards lining the walls, there was a different atmosphere here—one of quiet efficiency rather than menace.
A middle-aged woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun approached the stranger's line. Her movements were quick but gentle as she examined each slave. Unlike the overseers, she actually looked at their faces, her dark eyes sharp but not unkind.
When she reached the stranger, her touch was clinical but careful as she examined his raw, bleeding hands. "New to the mines," she murmured, more statement than question. She selected a jar from her cart, the contents smelling of mint and something earthier. "This will help with the pain. You'll be good as new by morning." She spread the cool salve across his palms, and he felt immediate relief as the ointment sank in.
"Are you slaves too?" he asked quietly, noting how her tunic matched his own save for the green stripes.
A commotion from the back drew his attention. The slave who had collapsed in the mine was being tended by three healers, their hands glowing faintly as they worked. One called for another healer, who rushed over with supplies. The stranger caught a glimpse of the man's face—still drawn with pain but no longer contorted in agony.
"Eyes forward," the healer treating him said quietly, her tone carrying a warning. She finished with his hands with quick, efficient movements. "Next time, ask the senior miners how to grip the pickaxe properly. It will save you some pain." With that, she moved on to the next slave, leaving the stranger to ponder this small act of kindness in such a cruel place.
The whole process took less than an hour, but by the time they were herded back to the platform, the stranger felt marginally better. His hands still ached, but the sharp sting had dulled to a manageable throb. Looking around, he noticed similar relief on the faces of his fellow slaves—a brief respite before they would be forced back to their brutal labor tomorrow.
The platform descended in silence, the same eerie smoothness as their ascent. Once they reached the bottom, they were escorted through the gate back into the main compound. The heavy gate slid shut behind them with a deep, resonant rumble, and the stranger felt the familiar nudge of the Leash guiding them toward the cafeteria.
From his vantage point near the cafeteria, the stranger could see how the compound had been carefully designed. The massive cavern stretched upward into darkness, its walls smoothed by expert stone-shapers. The imposing gate that led to the mines dominated one end, while the honeycomb of cell-tunnels spread across the opposite wall. The cafeteria stood at the heart of the space, flanked by several other structures whose purposes remained mysterious. The arrangement felt deliberate—keeping the slaves contained while maintaining efficient access to their labor.
By the time they arrived, the stranger was too mentally drained to muster the energy for conversation. He sank into a seat among the other slaves, their faces mirroring his own fatigue. Around him, the clatter of dishes and low hum of voices blurred into an indistinct murmur, drowned out by the weight of his thoughts.
Finally, he returned to his cell. Laying down on the thin mat, he stared up at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day in his mind. The mystery of his ignited dantian still puzzled him. His thoughts drifted to the strange girl he had seen earlier—her frightened eyes and fleeting presence haunted him. What had her life been like in this place? She seemed young to him. His fingers traced the smooth skin of his jaw thoughtfully. He felt far older somehow, yet everyone here called him kid.
The constant fear and anxiety gnawed at him worst of all. Every moment felt like walking on razors, never knowing when the next punishment might come. If this continued, he was certain he'd develop PTSD—assuming he survived long enough. How did the other slaves endure this endless psychological torment? The thought of spending years under such stress seemed impossible to bear.
He contemplated the inevitable death awaiting many of the slaves. Would he be among them? Zephyrion's fate weighed heavily on his mind. Where was the spirit that had been his constant companion? Had it abandoned him, or was it merely dormant? He longed for its acerbic commentary, a familiar presence in this unfamiliar world.
As exhaustion washed over him, he drifted into a restless sleep, burdened by questions and fears that lingered like shadows in his mind.