Cairen took a deep breath. Six prisoners. Six absorptions. The fallen energy filled his dantian, spinning in a dense spiral.
He felt the internal pressure increase, but not enough to break through to the next stage. It was still lacking. A lot.
But the mories he received... the mories were the true treasure.
He also realized sothing crucial. There was no way to choose what to steal from the mories. It was random. It depended on luck, on the soul he consud.
Three of the mories had been of little use or diocre for combat. The other three had elevated him directly in technique.
Dagger, bow, and longsword. Cairen now possessed skill with a small arsenal he had not had before.
Cairen looked down the dark corridor. There were still more cells on this level. And below, four entire levels. Stronger prisoners, with more Qi remaining in their bodies. Souls likely denser and mories more valuable.
He took a step forward. The chains erged around him, dancing like living shadows. The first floor still had more souls to offer. And Cairen intended to collect them all.
The corridor stretched like a shadowy labyrinth, cells lined on both sides, each one a hole carved into the cold rock.
Cairen counted ntally. Fifty cells in total, not all of them occupied. His spiritual sense swept the floor, detecting weak presences in about forty of them.
Souls already broken and nearly lifeless, bodies weakened by tornt. The energy was low, but enough to accumulate. And the mories... those were the unpredictable prize.
He began by going to the seventh cell. An elderly man, hunched against the wall, milky eyes fixed on nothing.
The chains slithered through the bars, looping around the neck with a tallic click.
"Judgnt."
The body withered, dissolving into gray essence that rose through the chains to Cairen.
The fallen energy integrated into his dantian, one more thread in the dense spiral.
And then, once again, the mory ca.
Cairen saw himself in a dark workshop, calloused hands shaping clay on a spinning kiln.
The sll of damp earth, the rhythmic sound of the pedal. He felt the balance, the exact pressure to shape the vessel, and the tricks to prevent cracks.
Hours of practice flooded Cairen’s mind. Creating pots, jars, and even simple sculptures.
It was useless for combat, but he kept it anyway. Beginning to like every new kind of knowledge, no matter how banal he considered it.
He continued.
Eighth cell. A thin woman, almost without fat, was murmuring indecipherable words.
The absorption was quick. The mory that erged was of sewing in a poor hut, needle dancing through fabric, patching old clothes.
Useless again.
Ninth person. He was a robust man, but also weakened, who tried to resist feebly.
His mories. First ca the heat, it was an iron forge, hamring hot tal, shaping horseshoes and simple tools.
Another manual skill, without imdiate value. But a bit better than the others. Cairen knew that being a blacksmith in a world where everyone needed weapons was a well-regarded profession.
The tenth cell brought sothing different. A young man with wild eyes, who snarled when he saw him. But the chains restrained him in an instant.
The mory erged. Cairen saw himself in an improvised arena, spear in hand, the weight balanced on his shoulder.
The opponent was a man ard with a sword, advancing toward him.
He felt the rotation of the body, the precise thrusts to maintain distance, and the block with the shaft of the spear.
Years of training in street fights, using the long weapon to control space.
Cairen blinked, feeling the movents settle into his muscles. Finally, a new battle experience. This ti, the spear.
It was useful. Very useful in fights against multiple enemies.
The excitent grew with each absorption. To the point that Cairen forgot for a mont that he was killing people.
He did not stop. Cell after cell, the process repeated.
Judgnt, dissolution, the energy and the soul, mories. Most of the mories were mundane.
He learned to cook soups over campfires, weave fishing nets, and even tan leather in foul-slling workshops.
They were useless for the Academy, but he would keep them in the back of his mind anyway.
Each one was a piece of stolen life, subtly strengthening his already powerful soul, making his mind more resilient.
In the fifteenth cell, a striking mory erged. The prisoner was a middle-aged man, with scars crossing his arms.
After the absorption, Cairen saw himself in a clearing under the moon, hands raised, tracing symbols in the air with weak Qi.
The air trembled, forming an invisible barrier that repelled a simulated arrow.
It was a basic formation, a defensive technique to create energy shields. He felt the flow of Qi, the power nodes that anchored the formation to the ground.
It was not advanced, but it was the first glimpse of sothing beyond physical combat. Cairen smiled coldly.
Formations—this could most certainly be useful, both for protection and as a profession.
The twentieth cell brought another surprise. An elderly woman with empty eyes.
Her mories were of her harvesting herbs in a dense forest, identifying poisonous and dicinal plants by touch and sll.
He felt the knowledge. Roots that cured fever, leaves that induced sleep, flowers that killed with a touch. Herbs.
The woman was a low-level alchemist. Cairen now knew how to create so types of poison and redies.
The pressure in Cairen’s dantian grew with each absorption. The fallen energy accumulated, spinning faster, denser. But still not enough.
The prisoners on the first floor were weak, their residual Qi low. The energy coming from the remaining bodies was a supplent. A constant drip that filled the gaps, but not enough to drive such a rapid breakthrough.
The greatest gains were truly the mories. They enriched him unpredictably, shaping him into sothing more complete.
On the twenty-fifth, a mory of fighting with an axe. Cairen saw himself in a dark mine, swinging the tool against rocks, but also against bandits who invaded. Heavy blows erged, using the weight of the blade to crush defenses.
Once again, it was well stored in the depths of his soul.
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