The Scale-Split Mine festered like a suppurating wound upon the earth, thirty miles west of Essence Grace City. It ceaselessly exhaled a pall of gritty, yellow dust and an aura of profound despair. This was no mere private estate; it was a vital economic artery for the powerful Greenwood Family. Its depths yielded Scale-Iron Ore, a peculiar stone veined with dark, scale-like patterns that possessed a faint ability to absorb ambient spiritual energy. This made it a fundamental material for forging low-level enchanted armaments and constructing certain magical arrays, providing a continuous stream of wealth for its owners.
Order here was maintained by brutal violence and a rigid caste system. At the apex was the mysterious and formidable Baron, a third-tier expert dispatched by the Greenwood Family. He lurked like a dormant predator in the most heavily guarded chambers deep within the mine, his mere presence the ultimate deterrent. Below him were several trusted Head Overseers, all capable second-tier practitioners, who managed daily operations and wielded the power of life and death. Further down the chain were the common Overseers, their eyes perpetually filled with malice, who patrolled the tunnels, and the Foremen. These Foremen, promoted from the slave ranks themselves, were often psychologically twisted and more cruel, directly wielding the whips that carved despair into the very marrow of every laborer.
Foreman Scar was one such individual. The hideous scar tearing from his temple to his jaw was rumored to be self-inflicted with a pickaxe fragment—a grotesque bid to demonstrate "loyalty" to an Overseer, which had earned him this minuscule authority over a dozen slaves. He reveled in it; flogging, withholding rations, and hurling abuse were his daily sustenance, feeding his already distorted soul.
Silas Ashcroft, his neck weighed down by heavy Spirit-Suppressing Manacles, was shoved roughly into this hellscape. These specialized restraints were designed to effectively block the flow of spiritual energy through a practitioner's meridians. Coupled with the daily doses of Sinew-Softening Powder mixed into the thin, watery gruel, they were meant to reduce most slaves to mere beasts of burden, utterly incapable of mustering the strength or will to resist.
For the first few days, Silas endured in silence. The crushing labor of digging, the wretched food, the ever-present threat of the lash… He behaved no differently from the other newcomers: exhausted, numb, hollow-eyed. Yet, his internal awareness never ceased. He meticulously assessed the effects of the manacles and the drug. The Spirit-Suppressing Manacles primarily targeted energy flowing through traditional meridians; their suppressive effect on the deep-seated life essence—fortified by multiple Corpse Amalgamations and now woven into his very flesh and blood—and the nascent seed of the Law of Life near his heart, was far less effective than intended. These deeper powers flowed like a hidden aquifer, persisting with a slow, tenacious strength beneath the shackles, subtly nourishing his physique. The toxicity of the Sinew-Softening Powder was likewise mostly neutralized by his superhuman basal physicality—a result of his past amalgamations—and the enhanced metabolic and purifying abilities granted by the Law of Life. He still grew tired—a deep, bone-weary fatigue from pushing his body to its absolute limits—but it lacked the specific, enervating weakness the drug was meant to induce.
This slight, hard-won advantage became the first controllable glimmer of light in his darkness. He began consciously sinking more of his will inward, no longer content merely to perceive, but attempting to communicate with those silent, amalgamated remnants that had become part of his power. The ferocious essence of the Dire Wolf, the obdurate solidity of the Obsidian Scorpion, the immense density of the Land Stone Rhinoceros… They felt like dormant imprints, deeply embedded in the fabric of his being, difficult to isolate or mobilize.
However, during a moment of extreme exhaustion as he leaned against the cold mine wall, his consciousness, almost unconsciously, brushed against the faintest, most barely perceptible strand of spiritual essence—the residual nature of some small, burrowing creature. It was so weak, so insignificant, that it had been nearly overlooked during previous amalgamations. But now, in a state of intense focus mixed with weary mental void, Silas's consciousness sparked a strange, delicate resonance with it.
His mind stirred. He did not try to forcefully "command" or "drive" it. Instead, he attempted to "awaken" it, gently enveloping the faint signature with his will, mimicking and resonating with the innate instinct for burrowing and sensing earth vibrations buried deep within its residual memory. At first, there was no response, but the faint sense of connection didn't fade. He persisted in this silent calling, a significant expenditure of mental focus.
Finally, he felt a slight, almost imperceptible movement within the shadow of his sleeve, a fleeting sensation of ethereal coolness. Silas's mind jolted; he focused intently. It wasn't a physical entity, but an extremely faint, nearly transparent silhouette. It roughly outlined a small creature with a long snout, slender claws, and a form clearly suited for digging. It was following Silas's will, using its phantom claws to gently scrabble at the dirt on his sleeve, its movements minute in the extreme.
Success! Although the phantom was so faint it seemed a mere breath could disperse it, and it appeared unable to venture more than an inch or two from his body, this was undeniably the manifested spiritual essence of that amalgamated remnant! Silas forcefully suppressed the surge of excitement. He realized his understanding and utilization of the amalgamated entities within him had reached a new level: it wasn't just about passively absorbing their traits to strengthen himself; he could now, to some extent, actively materialize their core essence, even if it was currently this feeble.
"Since you are adept at digging and burrowing, and your form resembles a rodent…" Silas mused inwardly, "I shall call you the spirit of the 'Dire Rat'." He bestowed upon it a name. This wasn't based on knowing its true species, but on defining it by its exhibited characteristics—a act of will that seemed to help solidify his control over this newfound ability.
Henceforth, in unseen corners and moments of obscured visibility, the Dire Rat spirit became his silent accomplice. It followed Silas's will, digging soundlessly into the side walls of the tunnel, secretly fetching pockets of higher-quality ore from slightly deeper layers, occasionally even retrieving faintly glowing shards of inferior Spirit Crystals or small, dense chunks of raw Blood-Iron Ore. It would then deliver them into the subtle entrance of the Mirror Dimension Space that Silas covertly opened amidst the motions of shifting ore. The process was agonizingly slow and required immense caution, seizing only a negligible amount each time, never causing any noticeable change to the ore vein's structure. It was a precise and dangerous theft, entirely dependent on that nearly invisible spirit working in the absolute darkness.
Day after day of grueling labor, Silas also observed. He mentally mapped the Overseers' patrol routes, noted Foreman Scar's mercurial moods, and, most importantly, studied the slaves around him. Most had hollow eyes, like animate corpses, only emitting short, sharp cries when the lash fell. But there were exceptions.
A slave called Old Elmer caught Silas's attention. He was very old, his back stooped, but deep within his eyes flickered a calm, observing intelligence distinct from the pervasive numbness. His digging movements were slow, yet possessed a strange, efficient rhythm, always conserving energy cleverly and perfectly feigning strenuous effort the moment an Overseer's gaze swept over him. A few small, covert warnings he gave to other slaves also revealed to Silas his lingering shred of empathy.
One day, a localized tunnel collapse occurred. Rocks tumbled, dust choked the air. In the chaos, Old Elmer failed to dodge in time, his leg horribly crushed by a falling chunk of ore. The sickening sound of snapping bone was drowned out by the Overseers' shouts and the other slaves' panic.
Overseer Victor, a man with a habitually lazy, cruel smile plastered on his face, merely cursed and shouted at the others to keep working, ignoring Old Elmer, who was curled up in agony, clutching his mangled leg. "Useless old fool! If you can't dig, then go die somewhere out of the way! Don't block the path!"
Silas watched silently. The old man's face rapidly turned ashen, his painful moans growing faint. Silas knew that in this place, such a severe injury was a death sentence. Worse, the Overseers were just as likely to "dispose" of him to stop him from being a drain on resources.
That night, when the rest bell finally clanged, the slaves were driven back to the damp, dark collective cells like cattle, most collapsing into immediate, exhausted sleep or groaning in pain. Silas, using the deep shadows for cover, silently moved to Old Elmer's side.
The old man was delirious, his breathing rapid and feverish, the injured leg grotesquely swollen and purplish-black.
Silas hesitated for a moment. The risk of exposure was immense. But the flicker of unbroken spirit in the old man's eyes, and that small act of decency during the day, tipped the scales. It wasn't pure altruism; it was more a cold calculation—a recognition of a potentially useful asset not yet completely broken, and a faint, almost extinct echo of human connection. An experienced old man might know more secrets about this mine.
He gently placed his palm above the horrific wound, not touching it directly. Concentrating all his focus, he carefully guided the weakest trickle of power from the Law of Life seed near his heart, mingled with a thread of vitality generated by his own vast reservoir of vital energy, and channeled it, ever so slowly, into the injury.
There was no dazzling light, no obvious glow. Only an almost imperceptible, warm sensation seeped into the ruined flesh. The shattered bone fragments were gently nudged and coaxed into better alignment by this energy; torn blood vessels and muscle tissue were subtly stimulated, kick-starting an exceedingly slow process of repair. The edge of the severe, mind-numbing pain was blunted; the immediate threat of fatal infection and necrosis was held at bay.
Old Elmer let out a long, shuddering gasp, as if returning from the very brink. His cloudy eyes slowly opened, staring in sheer disbelief at Silas's vague outline in the near-total darkness. His gaze was a maelstrom of shock, profound confusion, and a fragile, dawning spark of hope—the kind of hope that was dangerous here.
"…" His mouth opened and closed, but no clear sound emerged.
Silas withdrew his hand immediately. He shook his head sharply, a quick, urgent motion, his eyes like chips of ice in the dark, conveying a silent command of absolute secrecy. Then, he melted back into the shadows and returned to his own spot as silently as a ghost, leaving no trace of his presence.
Old Elmer lay on the cold stone floor, feeling the impossible, lingering warmth and the significantly dulled agony in his leg. He stared into the oppressive darkness above, complex emotions churning within him. He knew, with terrifying certainty, that he had encountered something… other. Gratitude warred with deep-seated fear, confusion with a desperate, treacherous flicker of a hope he thought long extinguished.
And Silas, feigning sleep, calculated inwardly. The successful, if minor, use of the Dire Rat spirit had revealed a new path, but its power was currently far too weak to alter his circumstances meaningfully. Old Elmer's injury was merely stabilized, not healed; he remained vulnerable. Silas needed greater strength. He needed to find a more potent "material" for his next amalgamation, a creature native to these deep, dark places, one better adapted, more powerful, with greater potential. His consciousness seemed to stretch outward, piercing the cold stone walls, probing the deeper, more treacherous tunnels of the Scale-Split Mine, where dangerous things were rumored to dwell.
The darkness of the mine remained absolute and crushing. But a single seed had been planted in its barren soil. A silent, invisible campaign of plunder and self-evolution had quietly begun.