Chapter 9:
Three days had passed since we purged the parasites. Three days of watching, waiting, and feeling the earth's whispers grow louder.
The system hummed in my mind, its notifications a constant pulse:
(Earth Sense Level 8: Detected structural weakness in northern barracks wall.)
(Decay Veyra Level 5: Soul Rot stability at 92%.)
I sat cross-legged in the dirt of the training yard, fingers splayed against the ground as if listening to a heartbeat. Around me, disciples sparred with hollow-eyed fervor, their movements sharp but soulless—puppets dancing on the sect's strings.
Joren nudged my shoulder, his voice barely audible over the clang of practice swords. "Lishen. The instructor's watching."
I didn't need to look up. The branded man's gaze prickled against my neck like a knife point. But beneath us, the earth told a more important story:
(Vibration Analysis: 17 guards stationed around perimeter. 4 moving toward granary. 1... digging?)
That last one caught my attention.
"Something's happening near the eastern storehouse," I murmured. "They're hiding something."
Lina paled. "The punishment pit."
We found our chance at dusk.
The instructors herded us toward the mess hall, but I feigned dizziness, collapsing against the well at the courtyard's center. As the branded man cursed and dragged me upright, my fingers brushed the mossy stones.
(Earth Manipulation Level 5: Initiating controlled erosion.)
A tiny section of mortar crumbled near the base—no more than a pebble's worth, but enough to leave a weakness for later.
"Pathetic," the instructor spat, shoving me toward Joren. "Eat. Then report to the sparring rings. The Grand Elder wants a demonstration."
His words should have chilled me. Instead, they lit a fire.
The Grand Elder knew I was holding back.
They'd erected a wooden platform in the training yard, its planks still oozing sap. The Grand Elder sat atop a raised dias, his long fingers steepled. Below him, a cage held two emaciated men in tattered blue robes—cultivators from the rival Verdant Dawn sect.
"Today," the Grand Elder announced, "you will learn the price of defiance."
He gestured, and an instructor yanked the first prisoner forward. The man spat, his wrists bound by iron cuffs.
"Decay his legs," the Grand Elder ordered me.
A test. A trap wrapped in another trap.
I stepped forward, mind racing. My earth sense pulsed against the platform's supports, mapping every nail and knot.
I could rot the wood. Make it collapse.
But the Grand Elder's smile said he expected exactly that.
So I knelt instead, pressing my palm to the prisoner's calf—and poured Decay into him slowly, letting it burn through muscle fiber by fiber. The man screamed, but through the agony, his eyes locked onto mine.
(Soul Rot Activated: Scanning for corruption.)
The revelation hit like a landslide:
This man had a soul parasite. But it was different—smaller, weaker, like a clipped-winged bird. A failed experiment.
And it was dying.
(Decay Veyra Progress: 87% to Level 6.)
"Enough," the Grand Elder said as the prisoner collapsed. "Now the other."
The second cultivator lunged before they could drag him forward. His cuffs shattered—not from strength, but because the iron had already rusted at the seams.
(Earth Sense Retroactive Analysis: Metal corrosion patterns indicate prolonged moisture exposure. Sabotage?)
The prisoner's hand shot toward my throat—then froze. His whisper was barely audible:
"The roots remember."
A guard's spear took him through the back.
That night, I lay awake, replaying the dying man's words.
(Earth Sense Expansion: Maximum range engaged.)
The mountain itself seemed to breathe beneath me. Somewhere deep below, water seeped through forgotten tunnels. And there—a half-mile east—the faint *thud* of picks striking stone.
"They're digging," I told Joren and Lina when the snores around us grew steady. "But not just tunnels. Something bigger."
Lina chewed her lip. "We could run. Slip out during—"
"No." My fingers curled into the dirt. "We rot them from within first."
A plan took shape:
1. Sabotage the stores (Decay the grain silos quietly over three nights)
2. Map the tunnels (Earth Sense could trace the excavations)
3. Find their weakness (Every sect had one)
But first, we needed proof.
The eastern storehouse stank of moldy rice and rat droppings. Moonlight bled through cracked shutters as we slipped inside, Lina's wind muffling our footsteps.
(Earth Sense Active: Detecting hollow space 12 feet below.)
"There." I knelt, brushing aside rotted grain sacks to reveal a iron ring set into the floor. "A cellar?"
Joren's fire flickered over the rusted metal. "More like a prison."
The lock crumbled at my touch, Decay eating through it like acid. The trapdoor creaked open, revealing a ladder descending into blackness.
The air that wafted up reeked of bile and rotting flesh.
(Warning: High concentration of corruptive energy detected.)
We climbed down.
The chamber stretched further than Joren's light could reach, its walls lined with iron cages. Inside each one—
"Gods," Lina gagged.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Some fresh, some skeletal, all with their chests burst open from the inside.
(Soul Rot Analysis:
Parasite incubation chamber. Mature specimens extracted via...)
My foot kicked something glass. A vial, half-crushed, with a faded label:
Project Eclipse - Batch 9
Joren's flame trembled. "They're growing the parasites."
Then the earth screamed a warning.
(Vibration Alert: Boots on stone. 30 seconds until arrival.)
We lunged for the ladder—too late.
Torchlight flooded the chamber as the branded man's laugh echoed from above:
"Grand Elder will be *so* pleased you found his garden."