The stranger awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering like a jackhammer. His breathing came in shallow gasps as his mind clawed its way out of the lingering fog of the dream. No, not a dream—a memory. The phantom agony of the Leash's implantation burned fresh in his thoughts.
The processing room twisted in his recollection, but the pain remained vivid, fire searing through his soul. He closed his eyes, trying to banish the images—the cold metallic table, the faceless figures leaning over him, the unholy sensation of the Leash binding itself to his spirit.
And then… nothing. No memory of what came next, just the yawning void of unconsciousness.
This was not the first time the dream had haunted him. Each time, it returned with the same merciless precision. Yet, even this nightmare paled against his first night here eight days ago, when the demon dream had gripped him with claws of fire and darkness. He shuddered at the memory.
His breathing steadied as he pushed himself to his feet. The room lay dim around him, lit only by the azure glow of alchemical lights in the walls. He splashed cold water onto his face from the corner formation, the chill biting away the last remnants of sleep. His fingers traced his features—another futile attempt to recall his forgotten identity. The metal band around his forearm caught the light, numbers 53847 mocking him with their impersonal finality.
The nightmare still clung to him like a cold sweat. He settled cross-legged on the stone floor and closed his eyes, seeking calm. But the more he tried to empty his thoughts, the more they filled with questions and possibilities, his mind racing through them like a trapped animal testing cage bars. A bead of water traced his temple, its cool path contrasting his fevered thoughts.
Understanding the door's formation had felt like progress, but now the victory rang hollow. What good was access to maintenance tunnels in this labyrinth of death? Cultivator patrols, formation arrays, and those things in the deep passages—the mere thought sent ice through his veins. His hands trembled before flexing them into fists, rough new calluses catching against his palms.
Fear had become a constant companion, tightening his chest and shortening his breath. He buried it beneath physical labor and mental challenges—sometimes so well he forgot it existed. Perhaps that was the secret: staying present. The door formation's complexity had demanded such focus. Yet now, in his cell's suffocating darkness, fear crept back like rising floodwaters.
What happens when I run out of puzzles to solve?
He shifted his focus to his dantian, where energy swirled in patterns that still felt both alien and familiar. He pressed a hand against his lower abdomen, he could almost feel the warmth of qi pulsing beneath his skin. The cultivation techniques helped, but they were just another form of distraction. Another way to avoid facing the truth—he was trapped. Trapped and terrified.
His fingers brushed against the rough stone wall. Somewhere beyond it, Yuechuang moved freely through these tunnels. She'd survived three years here somehow. But even if she knew a way out, could he trust her? Could he trust anyone in this place? The thought of reaching out, of making himself vulnerable, made his throat close up.
The stranger forced himself to examine the fear directly, like pressing on a bruise to test its boundaries. It wasn't just fear of death, though that was there too. It was the helplessness. The loss of control. He clenched his fists. The knowledge that at any moment, pain could come without warning or reason. His body and mind carried the scars of that trauma, etched deep into his soul.
He needed to find a way to live with this weight, or it would crush him. He shook his head, wrestling with the impossible question: how does one accept the unacceptable? How does one find peace in a cage?
The cultivation manuals Wei had mentioned spoke of transcending mortal concerns, of reaching states beyond fear. But that felt like running away. There had to be a middle path—some way to acknowledge the fear without being consumed by it.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. One step at a time, he told himself. First, he needed more information. Yuechuang clearly knew things about the compound's security he didn't. Even if she couldn't or wouldn't help him escape, any knowledge could be valuable. And maybe...maybe having someone to talk to who understood would help with the weight.
He opened his eyes, resolve snapping into focus. Tonight he would meet with Yuechuang and see what answers she held. For now, he settled into a proper cultivation stance. The fear wouldn't vanish overnight, but he could learn to carry it better. And someday—his jaw clenching—someday he would find a way to set it down completely.
Through his spiritual sense, he could now detect every prisoner on his block simultaneously—a clear sign of his recent breakthrough. Where before his sphere of complete awareness only extended to fifteen or twenty feet, now it reached a radius of a hundred or more feet. The sheer volume of information was almost dizzying at first—dozens of individual qi signatures pulsing with their own unique rhythms, the complex web of spiritual energies weaving through the walls and floors, even the faint echoes of formation arrays humming in the distance. Yet he found he didn't need to focus on everything at once; he could let the information flow around him like a river, only reaching out to examine specific details when needed.
Each prisoner lay dormant, their qi patterns showing the unmistakable rhythm of Leash-induced sleep. He exhaled slowly, tension seeping out of his shoulders as he adjusted to this new level of perception.
He'd woken before the scheduled time again—a pattern he'd noticed days ago. While others remained locked in artificial slumber until the Leash's wake-up call, he kept waking early. The fact that he could track their enforced rest with such precision was telling enough—this level of spiritual perception was beyond what a foundation cultivator should possess, let alone a condensation cultivator. Both abilities were concerning signs of his difference, though whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
But he wasn't alone in this darkness. Somehow, that thought helped more than all his careful rationalization.
His mind finally settled, the stranger began cycling qi through his meridians, letting the familiar patterns soothe his thoughts. One day at a time. One breath at a time. Just keep swimming. It wasn't a solution, but for now, it would have to be enough.
The golden thread pulsed faintly in his mind—a constant reminder of something distant yet significant. But today, his focus lay elsewhere. His goal was closer, more immediate—the next step in his cultivation regimen.
The qi flowing through his stomach moved in precise, potent streams. He analyzed each current methodically as he continued the strengthening process. His spiritual sense tracked the changes with remarkable clarity, watching as his stomach transformed under the influence of the pure energy. The organ's very essence seemed to shift, becoming more receptive to qi with each passing moment.
A part of him marveled at the irony. In his fragmented memories, he recalled turning away from biology textbooks, squeamish at mere illustrations. Yet here he was, examining his own body with fascination, his spiritual sense rendering everything in precise detail like some advanced medical imaging system. He made a mental note to thoroughly map his entire body later—perhaps his unique perception could reveal opportunities for enhancement beyond traditional cultivation techniques. The thought of designing his own improvements sent a thrill of excitement through him, though he quickly reined in his enthusiasm to focus on the task at hand.
This level of perception troubled him. He shouldn't be able to sense such minute changes, shouldn't be able to direct qi with such precision. Yet his body moved with an unsettling familiarity, as though these complex manipulations were merely echoes of forgotten mastery.
When the final traces of impurities bled away from his stomach, he felt the completion settle into place. Another milestone reached with suspicious ease. He began directing the qi toward his intestines, maintaining the same methodical approach as the energy began its work of enhancement.
But his thoughts kept drifting to the previous night's encounter with the Deep Delver. There had been something distinct about how he'd defended himself—something that didn't quite align with normal qi manipulation. The nagging sensation pulled at his focus, demanding attention.
With careful precision, he began winding down his cultivation session. The intestinal strengthening could wait—some mysteries demanded immediate examination. He needed to understand exactly what had happened during that fight, when power had flowed so differently through him.
He closed his eyes, returning to the memory of his confrontation with the Deep Delver. Not his own qi—no, something else. There had been a moment, a flicker of power. Not just instinctive manipulation of external qi, but something far more structured. It hadn't been a cultivation technique.
No, it had been magic. Actual, structured magic.
The realization sent a ripple of excitement through him, tempered by the frustration of not fully understanding it. The pattern had woven itself directly from his thoughts, as natural as breathing. Some part of him seemed to understand what had happened, as if his subconscious was trying to reveal a crucial insight to his conscious mind. But his waking thoughts fumbled with the concept, unable to grasp its full implications. He was a novice trying to decipher the expertise hidden within his own psyche. A real newb.
Too many things had been like that lately. Techniques and movements he didn't remember learning but could execute flawlessly. Insights into formations and spiritual networks that came unbidden, as if dredged up from a well of forgotten experience. Even the random thoughts that flitted through his mind seemed to spark fragments of knowledge, illuminating truths he hadn't realized he knew.
And yet, nothing about himself. No name, no face, no memories of who he had been. Only the vaguest impressions and instincts.
Still, something had shifted. Since his arrival in this place, the fog around his mind had begun to lift, piece by piece. Each random thought seemed to pry open a door, revealing some new corner of understanding—about this world, about cultivation, about magic, and about the pinnacle of human civilization: 80's hair bands.
He just wished it would reveal something about him.
Rising to his feet, he shook off the lingering melancholy and turned his thoughts to the present. If magic was something he could wield—something different from cultivation—then it could become a powerful tool. It might even be the key to his survival. He needed to explore it, to understand it, just as he had with his cultivation.
The dreams tugged at his consciousness—fragments of other worlds, other lives. They felt too real to be imagination, too detailed to be his mind's attempt to explain his abilities. In those fleeting visions, magic had been different on each world—unique systems bound by rigid laws and explicit patterns. These structures demanded precise combinations of material components, verbal incantations, physical movements, and specific mental states—the slightest deviation could shatter a mage's mind.
Cultivation, by contrast, remained oddly constant across his dream-memories. The circulation of qi, the formation of meridians, the opening of dantians—these fundamentals never changed, even if breathing techniques and specific practices varied. It was like a universal language, infinitely flexible yet grounded in unchanging principles.
But where to begin? The act last night had been instinctive, like a reflex. Replicating it would require focus and intention. If this was structured magic, then every element needed to be perfect—there would be no room for improvisation or error. Unlike the forgiving nature of qi manipulation, magic demanded absolute precision. One misplaced thought could mean disaster.
He settled back into his meditative stance, drawing a deep breath. This time, instead of focusing on his dantian or the flow of qi through his meridians, he extended his senses outward, into the space around him. The room was thick with ambient qi, tainted slightly by the oppressive energy of the dampening formations, but still present. He imagined reaching out to it, touching it not with his spirit but with his intent or will, as he had the night before.
At first, nothing happened. The energy remained inert, unmoving, like a pool of still water. He furrowed his brow, focusing harder, trying to recall the exact feeling from the confrontation. It wasn't about force or control, he realized, but about alignment—like tuning an instrument or finding the rhythm of a dance. The memory of that structured flow surfaced again, and he mimicked it in his mind, visualizing threads of energy weaving together into a pattern.
This time, the ambient chi—or should he think of it as mana—responded. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it began to stir, swirling faintly in response to his thoughts. The sensation was exhilarating, like discovering a new limb he hadn't known he possessed. He continued weaving the pattern, careful not to push too hard or break the fragile connection. The threads of energy coalesced into a faint, glowing sigil in the air before him—simple and incomplete, but undeniably real.
The moment of triumph was brief. The sigil flickered and collapsed, scattering like embers in the wind. But in that fleeting instant before it dissipated, recognition struck him—it was light, not just simple illumination but the very concept of light's purifying power, a symbol he somehow knew could cleanse corruption and drive back darkness. The effort left him gasping, mental reserves depleted, but the spark of discovery burned brightly in his mind. A sharp pain knifed through his consciousness, sudden and brutal.
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He blinked slowly. It wasn't just a minor cantrip or simple spell—this was rune magic, primordial and raw. Each symbol was reality distilled into pure concept, a fundamental building block of existence itself. The raw potential staggered him. If he could master this alongside his cultivation...
His mind flashed to The Lord of the Rings, The Belgariad, and The Riftwar Saga. He had always dreamed of being a mighty mage from some high fantasy world. Yet here he was, sitting in an itty bitty living space, wielding cosmic power like some kind of Genie—minus the singing, he hoped. He chuckled softly to himself but paused, the thought creeping in: did power like this come with a price?
His head was throbbing again, pulling him back from his musings. His spiritual sense revealed something unexpected—his upper dantian practically overflowed with energy. Unlike the warm golden qi he'd grown accustomed to, this energy pulsed with a cold, whitish-blue radiance. Each pulse sent waves of pain radiating through his skull, like ripples in a frozen pond.
The discovery should have alarmed him. The upper dantian, tied to consciousness and mental refinement, was typically left untouched until core cultivation—the risks of storing energy so close to the brain were too great. Even then, few cultivators dared pursue pure mental cultivation. Yet here was his upper dantian, swollen with this alien energy.
The rhythmic pulsing captivated him—expand, contract, expand, contract—each cycle perfectly timed with his headaches. Such pain was practically unheard of among cultivators, unless they'd suffered some grievous injury. The pulsing pattern tickled at his memory, reminding him of something just beyond his grasp...
Without conscious thought, as if guided by some unknown hand, he reached out with his spiritual sense and compressed the roiling sphere of energy. The world went dark.
* * *
Reality shattered into razor-sharp fragments. Every color pierced his consciousness, each sound crashed through him like breaking waves. His heartbeat thundered through his skull with the force of an avalanche, while the Leash's wake-up call—usually a mere annoyance—now coursed through his spine like liquid lightning, scattering his thoughts.
He curled into himself on the floor, pressing his forehead against his knees. The gentle azure glow of the alchemical lights burned through his closed eyelids like miniature suns. Sounds assaulted him from impossible distances—formations humming their crystalline songs in the walls, air whispering secrets through distant tunnels, the rhythmic pulse of sleeping prisoners' qi flowing like underground rivers. Each grain of stone beneath him carved its own story into his flesh.
"Make it stop," he whispered, his own voice thundering in his skull. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, and he could smell every particle of dust, every trace of sweat and fear that permeated the stone around him.
He knew he had to get up or all would be lost. He forced himself to his hands and knees, fighting waves of nausea as the room spun around him. The simple act of opening his eyes carved fresh spikes of agony through his brain.
Focus fractured and reformed like ice on a pond. His mind grasped at the mental discipline techniques he'd been developing, weaving them into barriers against the sensory onslaught. These makeshift walls offered brief moments of clarity amidst the chaos.
Standing took three attempts. His legs shook as he made his way to the water formation in the corner. The sound of liquid hitting the basin thundered like artillery fire, but he forced himself to splash water on his face. Each droplet felt like glass shards against his skin.
The corridor beyond brought fresh torment. Each prisoner blazed like a small sun, their qi signatures burning through his defenses. Through them all pulsed the Leash's control modules, a constellation of dark stars beating in perfect sync.
He staggered forward, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The stone's texture whispered ancient secrets through his fingertips—age, composition, the ghostly touch of countless hands before his. Too much. Too much information.
By the time he reached the main tunnel junction, the chaos had dulled to a thunderous roar. Each step still sent tremors through him, but at least he could walk without stumbling.
The path to the cafeteria stretched before him like an obstacle course of sensations. Footsteps from three corridors away merged with breathing and the swishing of fabric. He could hear blood circulating and sounds of digestion. The scent of gruel and sweat rolled down the tunnel like a physical wave, carrying stories of hopeless days and desperate dreams.
Pausing outside the massive doors, he forced himself to breathe. His crude mental barriers trembled under the assault of a multitude of qi signatures just beyond. The meditation had cracked open a dam of perception, and now he was drowning in the flood.
The cafeteria hit him with another tidal wave as he walked in. Dozens of conversations crashed over him at once—whispered plots three tables away, the shuffle of feet against stone, even the quiet scrape of spoons that seemed to echo like thunder. The gruel's aroma unfolded like a chemical equation in his mind: earth and spice, meat and qi. He could taste each ingredient on his tongue before the first bite touched his lips.
Each breath threatened to drown him in sensory detail, yet like a man learning to swim, he found himself instinctively treading water in the chaos, struggling to find patterns. Metal scraped against stone, transforming into a living map of movement. Mingled scents traced ghost-paths of slaves who'd passed through minutes before.
The stranger sat at the far end of a communal table, clinging to the fragile barriers around his heightened senses. He ate slowly, each spoonful a careful exercise in control as he tried to filter out the crushing wave of sensory information—each clink, scrape, and murmur demanding attention.
"—heard there was another surge coming up from the forbidden zone," a thin man, Jian, whispered two seats down. "Zhang was telling me the formations in the lower tunnels have been flickering."
"The transfer, Yun, said he worked those deep shafts before..." an older prisoner paused, stirring his gruel. "Said there's a massive chasm down there. Goes deeper than any of the Huang's cultivators ever mapped. That's where the spirit beasts come from."
"They say none of the exploration teams ever came back," another added. "Not even the core formation cultivators they sent down."
Jian nodded. "At least they've got the warning and defense formations in place now. Better than in the early days, I’ve been told. Lost whole crews before they figured out how to get everyone back to the compound fast enough."
"Formations only work if you can reach them in time," the older prisoner muttered. "And if the cultivators can hold the defensive arrays long enough for everyone to get through."
He was so focused on maintaining his mental walls that he missed the quiet conversation around him, barely noticing the heavy footfalls approaching until a shadow fell across the table. The sudden darkness was almost a relief. But with it came something else—Cang's qi signature materialized in his awareness—a frozen coil of malice waiting to unfurl, oozing calculated intent through the cracks of his carefully maintained facade.
"Move," said a voice, calm yet laced with an undercurrent of authority.
A wiry man seated across from the stranger hesitated a moment too long, his narrow face twisting with indecision. He barely had time to grab his tray before Cang shoved him aside, sending him sprawling onto the cold stone floor. The slave's scream pierced the air as the leash punished his unauthorized movement—he scrambled to his feet and slid onto a nearby bench where others wordlessly made space.
The violence snapped something into focus in the stranger's mind. His heightened senses, which had been overwhelming him with chaos, suddenly sharpened with razor clarity. The cafeteria's cacophony fell away as his attention locked onto Cang, who sat heavily across from him. The scrape of Cang's tray against the table no longer felt like sensory assault—it was tactical information, a precise measurement of distance and intent.
Cang was tall and broad-shouldered with a predatory air. His shoulders carried subtle tension, each breath measured and deliberate, his smile masking something cold and dangerous. He moved with a controlled grace that spoke of extensive combat training. The micro-expressions that flashed across his face revealed fleeting moments of cruel anticipation beneath that perpetual smile. Those dead, watchful eyes fixed on the stranger with unsettling intensity.
Silence stretched between them as the cafeteria's din faded to whispers. Heartbeats faltered and breaths caught in throats across the room. He caught the stutter in half a dozen heartbeats, the sharp intake of breath from three tables away. Weaker prisoners angled away from the brewing storm while stronger cultivators leaned in, their qi signatures blazing with anticipation—moths to a deadly flame. Each subtle shift in posture painted the room's divide between terror and fascination.
“Well,” Cang said, his voice smooth and confident, as though the stranger’s silence was acquiescence. “You’ve certainly stirred up the place. Mind if I join you?”
“It’s a free table,” the stranger replied evenly.
Cang chuckled, his grin widening. “Free, huh? I suppose it is.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studied the stranger like an unusual zoo animal. “I’ve been hearing things about you. Curious things.”
The stranger set his spoon down carefully, meeting Cang’s gaze with a measured calm. “I wasn’t aware I was worth talking about.”
“Oh, but you are,” Cang said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “A man with no past, no name, walking out of processing like an avenging demon. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the stranger said.
Around the table, those who had worked alongside him in the mines exchanged subtle glances. They knew him only as the quiet one who kept to himself, unfailingly polite but distant. This new demeanor—this casual dismissal of Cang's threat as if it were beneath his notice—revealed something else entirely. Their cautious acceptance of the polite newcomer began shifting toward something deeper, tinged with unease at what kind of man could face down such a dangerous presence with such detached composure.
The reactions to the calm responses of the stranger to Cang spread through the cafeteria like wildfire. A shift in posture here, an altered breath there. He could close his eyes and point out those who were apprehensive, or curious, or fearful, or cautious. And interestingly enough, each emotion seemed to have a taste. Fear was metallic like blood, sharp and tangy on his tongue. Curiosity sparkled like citrus, zesty and bright, making his mouth water. Apprehension had a bitter edge, reminiscent of dark chocolate with a hint of coffee. Caution was subtle, a faint whisper of mint, cool and refreshing. The mix of emotions painted the room in flavors that only he could savor, a spectrum of tastes that told their own story.
“Hmm.” Cang tapped a finger against his tray, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second. “Word is, you’ve got no memory of who you are. No past, no ties, nothing to your name. Is that true?”
"It is," the stranger said simply, fighting back the urge to smile at having cracked the man's careful facade.
The surrounding conversation grew even quieter, tension creeping into the air. A couple of seats down, Xiu, a younger captive with a wiry frame and nervous energy, gripped the edge of the table. "Cang," he said, his voice steady despite his trembling hands, "maybe you should leave him be. He hasn't done anything to you."
Cang didn't even glance in Xiu's direction. "Mind your own business," he said, his tone carrying a weight that silenced further protests.
Xiu's shoulders slumped, his face pale as he stared down at his bowl.
Cang's grin returned with a sharper edge. He ran a thumb over his canine. "See, the thing is, stranger, there's a lot of ways someone like you ends up here. Maybe you really don't remember anything, or maybe you're just playing a part."
"I have no reason to lie," the stranger said, his voice firm.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Cang replied, leaning back in his seat. The stranger caught the shift beneath the casual pose—a hunter's focus beneath feigned relaxation. "Everyone here's got their secrets. But you... you're different. Something about you makes people talk."
The stranger could feel the ripple effect of Cang's words through the room—dozens of qi signatures flickering with fear and recognition, creating patterns that revealed hidden allegiances and power structures. Some drew closer to Cang's presence, while others shrank away, mapping the prison's hierarchy in spiritual energy.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” the stranger said, “but I’m just trying to survive like everyone else.”
“Survive, huh?” Cang’s grin faded slightly, his gaze sharpening. “That’s a fine answer. Safe. Neutral. But it doesn’t explain what happened in processing.”
The stranger stiffened, though his expression remained composed. “What about processing?”
"Oh, don't play dumb with me," Cang said with a ravenous smile, his voice dropping low. "Something happened in there. Everyone knows it. Most people come out of processing half-broken, no stories trailing behind them. But you? You walked out after defying the Leash, leaving blood in your wake. How is that?"
"They're even calling you Xíngzhe now," Cang continued, is gaze fixed on the stranger’s face. "The Walker. Because you just walked out of there like it was nothing."
"I never asked for that name." The stranger's voice remained steady. The stranger hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say. It hurt, it was hard, but I walked out alive like everyone else. Nothing more to it than that.”
Cang leaned forward, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. "Everyone else gets carted out. But you? You walked. Either fortune favors fools, or you're hiding something interesting."
The stranger met his gaze without flinching. "Think what you want. You will regardless of what I say."
The cafeteria fell silent, a void of held breaths and averted gazes as the two men locked eyes.
Cang's smile vanished, replaced by something cold and sharp as winter steel. The stranger caught the sudden spike in killing intent that leaked through Cang's carefully maintained control. "Let me give you some advice, Xíngzhe. Watch yourself in the mines. Accidents happen all the time down there. It'd be a shame if one of them found you."
Qi leaked from Cang like black ice, sluggish and probing, testing for weakness. Microtears appeared in his spiritual pathways as he fought against the Leash's constraints, the strain visible in the tightness around his eyes.
He stood abruptly, his tray forgotten, and stalked away, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the crowded hall.
The stranger exhaled slowly, his body relaxing as the tension dissipated. Around him, the hum of conversation cautiously resumed.
Wei leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “You shouldn’t have answered him like that. Cang doesn’t like being challenged.”
“I wasn’t challenging him,” the stranger said, his tone thoughtful. “I was just being honest.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Shunmin muttered, shaking his head. “He’ll make you pay for it. You should be careful.”
Old Chen cut in, "He walked away."
The stranger nodded, his expression unreadable. As conversation slowly resumed, those who had heard Chen's words remained tellingly silent. In the wider room, prisoners carefully avoided looking in Cang's direction, his threatening presence lingering like a shadow stretching across the room.
The headache still pounded behind his eyes, but now it felt almost useful. The cafeteria revealed itself as an intricate web of power and fear. Even at a distance, Cang's qi coiled like a spring of barely contained violence.
The stranger returned to his meal, each movement measured and deliberate. He had survived processing, survived the Deep Delver, and now he had drawn the attention of another predator in this cage. He would survive Cang as well—or so he hoped.