Burn moved swiftly through the underground corridor, his tal heeled boots echoing faintly against the stone floor.
The passage was surprisingly well-maintained for sothing carved into the heart of a cliff. No loose rubble or sagging beams—soone had put care into keeping this place intact, which, given the circumstances, was more unsettling than reassuring.
It wasn’t the kind of place that whispered "forgotten refuge." No, this was a hidden artery of purpose, pulsing just beneath the surface of the Inkian capital’s northern cliffs.
The air grew heavier with each step he took, thick with the faint, rancid tang of corrupted mana. Burn’s golden eyes narrowed as he followed the faint traces of energy, a trail left behind by the kidnapped First Prince of Inkia and the Elven Princess.
He descended deeper and deeper, the corridor sloping subtly downward. With every twist and turn, the walls seed to close in, the shadows stretching unnaturally long.
Eventually, the narrow hallway opened into a cavernous chamber. Burn paused just long enough to take it in, though his expression didn’t so much as flicker. His sharp gaze swept over the sight before him, cataloging every grotesque detail.
Humans shuffled about like the walking dead, their bodies filthy and gaunt, clothed in rags barely worthy of the na. They moved chanically, scooping viscous dark liquid from large, ominous vats into small, glass-like containers. The liquid was foul, shimring with a malevolent light that seed to pulse with an almost sentient hunger.
The slaves didn’t speak, didn’t look up. Their eyes were dull, their faces slack—shadows of humanity hollowed out by prolonged exposure to corrupted mana. It wasn’t just their bodies that had decayed but their minds as well, eroded bit by bit until all that remained was blind obedience.
Burn’s lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the process. The small containers, once filled, were carried—by hand, no less—to an intricate vessel in the center of the chamber. A hulking machine bristling with runes and tal pipes, it humd with unnatural energy.
The mont a container was placed into the vessel, the runes activated, casting eerie light across the chamber. The liquid inside contorted and twisted unnaturally, shrieking as though alive.
Then, with a flash, it transford into a multicolored jewel—a beautiful, polished trinket that would look right at ho on a noble’s mantlepiece or around the neck of so unsuspecting socialite.
Burn exhaled sharply, his breath coming out like a hiss. The scene was grotesque, and yet it was almost mockingly elegant in its execution. A factory from the abyss, churning out corruption disguised as beauty.
The slaves never stopped. There was no hesitation, no questioning of what they were doing. Their hands moved chanically, their eyes unseeing.
If Burn hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken them for golems—mindless constructs built for nial labor. But no, these were people—people broken so thoroughly that they’d been reduced to cogs in a machine.
Burn took a step forward, the sound of his boots cutting sharply through the oppressive hum of the chamber. None of the workers looked his way; they were too far gone to notice an intruder.
The dragon horn sword in his grip twitched faintly, responding to his mood, as though eager to rend the entire operation apart. Burn tightened his hold, his jaw clenching as he forced the weapon’s instincts back. Not yet.
His gaze swept over the chamber one last ti, his eyes lingering on the glimring jewels being stacked neatly in crates. Such a fine product from such foul origins. It was almost poetic in its repulsiveness.
Burn moved, his boots treading lightly over the cold stone floor, carefully avoiding the scattered puddles of black liquid that shimred faintly in the dim light.
The oppressive hum of the chamber buzzed faintly behind him as he pressed forward, his golden eyes fixed on the faint trail of mana he had been following. The traces were faint but clear, unmistakably leading deeper into the heart of this subterranean labyrinth.
He ca to a stop as the trail ended abruptly in an empty chamber. The stillness in the air was a contrast to the noise and chaos of the factory behind him. Burn’s sharp gaze swept the room, his dragon horn sword held loosely at his side, its faint glow casting long, jagged shadows on the walls.
Nothing. Not a single trace of the First Prince or the Elven Princess. Just stone walls, eerie silence, and the heavy, oppressive weight of corrupted mana lingering in the air like an uninvited guest overstaying its welco.
Burn exhaled sharply, frustration flickering in his golden eyes. But then sothing caught his attention—a glint of light. He turned his head and saw it: a glass window built into the far wall, offering a view into the adjacent chamber.
He stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone. When he reached the window, his eyes widened slightly.
On the other side, a platform inscribed with glowing runes and intricate magic circles took center stage. The air around it shimred faintly with dark energy, the runes pulsing rhythmically like a beating heart.
A line of slaves, the sa gaunt, hollow-eyed figures he had seen earlier, shuffled forward, one by one. Their movents were sluggish, as if each step required a monuntal effort. As each of them stepped onto the platform, the magic circles flared to life, enveloping them in a dark, simring light.
Burn’s jaw tightened as he watched the process unfold. The corrupted mana that had seeped into their bodies was drawn out, siphoned away by the magic circle in a grotesque display of purification.
The dark energy swirled and coalesced before vanishing entirely, leaving the slaves physically unhard—or at least as unhard as anyone could be after hours of exposure to such toxic filth.
Then, one by one, the slaves stepped off the platform and trudged back the way they ca, presumably to continue their work. The cycle was as clear as it was cruel: work, absorb corruption, purge it, repeat.
Burn’s sharp gaze narrowed, his mind racing as he pieced together the implications. So that was how these slaves managed to avoid succumbing to the poison outright.
Unlike his father, who had been gravely ill from prolonged exposure to corrupted mana, these workers were kept just healthy enough to function. A twisted sort of maintenance—a grotesque workaround that kept their bodies intact, while their minds…
Burn’s thoughts trailed off as a bitter mory surfaced, unbidden. The runaway slave he had encountered once. A man who had escaped a place like this, his body intact but his mind shattered, broken beyond repair.
The slave had spoken in fragnted words, barely coherent, his eyes vacant and lifeless. The horror in that man’s gaze was sothing Burn hadn’t forgotten.
“Save my soone, he said.”
Soone of his was still… here, sowhere.
He exhaled sharply, a sardonic edge creeping into his thoughts. Of course. Why waste good workers when you can turn them into reusable tools? Keep them standing, keep them working. Never mind the cost of their humanity—that’s just an unfortunate side effect.
Burn’s grip on his sword tightened, the faint glow of the dragon horn blade brightening in response to his simring anger. He took one last look at the platform, watching as another slave stepped forward to have their body cleansed of corruption, their mind slipping further into the void with every cycle.
“Efficiency,” Burn muttered, his voice low and sharp. “They’ve turned suffering into a process. How... admirable.”
As Burn strode purposefully back toward the corridor, the faint echoes of his boots on stone were interrupted by a sudden flicker of light against his chest. His sharp eyes darted downward as the locket he wore glowed faintly, then flared to life with a pulsing, urgent light.
Burn froze, his free hand shot to the locket. He grasped it tightly, his sharp features darkening as a jarring wave of mana coursed through his body.
It was a sensation unlike anything he had felt before. A fluctuation, erratic and volatile, rippling through his Vision for the first ti.
“Morgan…!”
Ti was running out.
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