At night in the dormitory, Aris sat atop the wooden bed, his figure concealed beneath an old grey blanket. The dim glow from the candle failed to reach his side of the bed making him cloaked in the shadows, just the way he needed it.
The silence around him was broken only by the snores and the shifting bodies of exhausted squires. It was the perfect chance to perform the merger.
"What meridian pathways do Dylan and his two fellow top-ranking focus on?" Aris asked Zona inwardly.
[Records show that Dylan's breathing technique focuses on the hip meridian and places slight emphasis on the leg and arm meridians.]
[Rezi's breathing technique focuses on the arm meridian and neck meridian, while Kiro's concentrates on the leg meridian and foot meridian respectively.]
"Okay merge them" Aris ordered without hesitation.
[Merging process initiated…
Primary base: Leg Meridian.
Overlaying sequences: Arm, Hip, Neck, and Foot Meridians.
Optimized combination selected: Leg, Arm, and Neck Meridians.
Reason: Balanced boost to stamina, striking power, and reflex speed with minimal overload risk.
Merging… 17%… 41%… stabilizing… 76%… complete.]
[New technique created.
Effect of the technique: Boosts lower-body endurance, upper-body strength, and reaction speed via spinal nerve flow.
Energy cost: +47%. Requires more nutrition and rest.
Synchronization: 81%. Further training will improve control.]
Aris felt the change instantly, energy moved through his legs like before, but now it also surged up his spine and into his arms. Each breath carried more weight. More force. More control.
His breathing adjusted naturally to the new rhythm like his body had been waiting for this.
Aris then exhaled slowly and lay on the bed in silence for several minutes his head looking at the ceiling the old wood beams barely visible he was contemplating the pros and cons of the technique he'd just created.
"First… I don't have time. Only three months before I'm thrown onto a battlefield," he thought. "Second, the food and the unknown energy in the meat—they're not enough to sustain a three-meridian breathing technique in the time I have. Third, I don't even know if my body can support it. What if I push too far and everything collapses?"
He ran the calculations again and again in his head, but the answer never changed.
He had the ability to create something rare. A breathing technique so valuable that even Fred, cautious and calculating as he was, would've fought to get his hands on it. But that meant nothing to Aris, he was limited by things outside his control.
If he were a free-born commoner, he could've spent years perfecting it. But he wasn't.
He was a slave. And that status followed him like a chain—tightening around his limbs every time he tried to stretch beyond his limits. Every time he thought he saw a way forward, those chains pulled him back down.
In this world, escaping the status of a slave wasn't just difficult but impossible.
...….
Elsewhere deep within the forest of pale maw, hidden among towering, bone-white trees, sat a lonely wooden cabin. From the outside, it appeared ordinary, with aged timber walls, a quiet roof, and smoke long gone from its chimney.
But beneath it, in a cold, dirt-walled basement, something far from natural was unfolding.
The basement was dim. A few candles flickered on rusted sconces, their light too faint to push back the shadows that clung to the walls. The air was; thick, damp, and metallic, laced with the stench of rotting blood and old sweat.
In the center of the basement stood a table, worn smooth by use. Strapped tightly to it was a young man, no older than seventeen. His body was ruined; scarred from neck to toe, his right eye missing, one ear gone. Skin peeled and mottled with burns. He didn't move, but he breathed, although barely.
A man sat nearby, hunched over a desk littered with scalpels, empty vials, and glass jars containing strange, floating organs.
He looked ordinary, middle-aged, and easily forgettable. But in his calm movements and steady hands was something more terrifying than madness—routine.
He dipped his quill in ink, the scratching of pen against paper the only sound in the room.
Experiment '756.' is unable to produce sufficient levels of negative energy. Conclusion: Pain threshold too high. Applied Compound D-3 to heighten nerve response. Increased scream output by 42%."
He paused and brushed his face, frowning at the wrinkles forming on his skin.
"The anti-aging potion is losing effectiveness." he thought.
He then set the pen down, and with a sigh, stood. He walked to the bound boy and looked down with the curiosity of a man examining a cracked vase
"You held out longer than most," he murmured. "That was impressive. But you're breaking now, aren't you? Nothing left in you to feed the ritual."
The boy twitched although barely a reaction, but it was enough to show that he was still alive.
The man smiled not cruelly, just… absently.
He reached for a small vial, a thin glass tube filled with a black-green fluid that looked like oil. He uncorked it, and the liquid inside hissed softly, almost like it was breathing
"Let's not waste your body," he said. Then poured the liquid slowly over the boy's chest.
Where the liquid touched flesh, the skin hissed and bubbled. The boy's body arched for a second—then began to melt. Not like fire would melt flesh—but like the body itself was taking apart. Muscles softened. Bones crumbled inward. A wet, slopping sound filled the room as the boy's body sloughed into a black sludge.
Within seconds, he was gone, nothing remained of him except a steaming smear on the table.
The man exhaled slowly and turned away from the melted corpse. He reached toward a section of the floor and pressed a hidden mechanism.
A soft click echoed in the quiet basement, and a rectangular section of the ground on the far left corner slid open, revealing a dark staircase leading further underground.
He descended slowly, one step at a time, the stone stairs rough beneath his leather shoes. As he reached the lower level, the air changed.
The sound hit him first; wailing, shrieking, a cacophony of tortured souls crying endlessly. The kind of sound that could drive anyone without mental or magical fortitude insane.
The chamber he entered was wide and circular, carved entirely from stone. At the center was a large, intricate magic formation etched into the floor like it had been drawn with chalk. Strange materials—bones, dark crystals, and live organs in a glass jar, were positioned at precise points around and inside the circle.
The man took a few steps forward, eyes scanning the formation. He examined each material carefully, then removed his tattered robe and stepped naked into the center of the formation.
He began to chant.
The words were in an ancient tongue, harsh and guttural. Each syllable drained his strength, but he continued, sweat dripping down his back.
The magic circle began to glow—first faintly, then with growing intensity. The surrounding materials trembled, then rose into the air, suspended by unseen force.
They hovered for a moment before violently shriveling, as if their energy was being sucked out all at once. Some cracked and crumbled to dust. Others burst into ash mid-air, falling like dark snow.
After three long minutes, the ritual ended.
The man collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His face looked younger now—less sunken, fewer wrinkles. His hands no longer trembled. Still, he scowled.
"It's getting harder… each time, the cost is steeper."
He stood slowly, brushing ash from his shoulder.
"I need more fresh ingredients. Those fools are starting to get suspicious. If I want them to keep cooperating, I'll have to give them more scraps."
He narrowed his eyes, thinking.
"Maybe I should reach out to him… That bastard has more connections than I do—especially in these mortal kingdoms"
He dressed himself and moved toward the left side of the chamber, where a narrow door was built into the wall. He stepped through it and turned his gaze to the left.
"Ignite," he muttered, flicking his fingers toward the wall-mounted candles.
The candles flared to life, casting a flickering glow across the room. As the light spread, the space became clearer—a small, cramped study with stone walls.
At the back was a sturdy wooden table with a single chair tucked underneath. Scattered across the table were several old, worn books, their covers cracked and faded. To the left stood a narrow shelf, lined with dozens more tomes stacked in uneven rows.
To the man, these books were worth more than gold, there were his priceless treasures.
He stepped to the shelf, selected a single volume with care, then reached under the table and retrieved a weathered leather bag. He slid the book inside, securing it with practiced ease.
He climbed back up to the basement. Once there, he turned to the wooden rack lined with thin test tubes filled with liquids of different colors. He picked out a few, checking them briefly before placing them into his bag.
Without delay, he went up the stairs again and stepped into the old cabin. The wooden floor creaked as he walked across the dim room.
Before leaving, the man walked calmly around the cabin, checking everything one last time. He stopped near the door, raised his hand, and whispered a short incantation.
A faint glow appeared across the walls, floor, and doorway, there were magical traps. They disappeared a second later, hidden from sight.
"Let's see one of those arrogant bastards try and snoop around," he muttered to himself.
These traps were not meant for common intruders; no ordinary thief or curious villager would ever find this place. It was far too deep in the forest, and most ordinary people wouldn't survive the terrain.
But just in case… he made sure the basement's entrance was sealed under a Tier 0 concealment spell—the simplest magic, yet the most deceptive.
Anyone without magical sensitivity would pass right over it without even realizing it. And for those with magic… well, they'd have to be better than him to see through it, or specialize in detection magic.
He turned to the basement door and whispered another spell. A shimmer passed over the floor where the secret hatch had been, sealing it with the spell.
Now it was hidden.
Satisfied, he picked up his cloak and slung the small satchel over his shoulder, now filled with the book and potions he had gathered.
With one last glance at the cabin, he stepped outside. Moonlight bathed the clearing around the cabin in a pale light, but the forest beyond was thick with shadow, its trees dense enough to swallow the light.
Without another word, he slipped into the woods, vanishing into the darkness as if the night itself had consumed him.