The nights in Scale-Split Mine were a heavy curtain woven from gasps and oppression. Only after confirming the surroundings had fallen into a deathly silence, punctuated only by the distant, regular footsteps of guards and the exhausted snores of nearby slaves, did Silas sink his consciousness into the mark on his wrist.
Hum—
His consciousness was once again pulled into that cold, familiar mirror-space. Unlike his first entry, a single copy of himself did not appear.
With a thought, three phantom figures of varying forms, radiating ferocious auras, rapidly condensed—exactly the Stone-Claw Mongrel, the Cavern Hyena, and the Shadow-Wing Bat he had slain and stored here. Though not physical, they perfectly replicated their living combat instincts and traits, their eyes gleaming with programmed killing intent. They lunged silently from three different directions!
Silas took a deep breath and did not immediately summon the energy claws. He needed to rely purely on his Late Stage Initial Beast Body Grafting Realm physique, reaction speed, and Earth Sense to respond.
Swish!
The Mongrel phantom's claws tore through the air,aiming for his throat, swift as lightning. Silas sidestepped, twisted his waist, and avoided it by a hair's breadth, while his right leg swept out like a whip, smashing into the charging Hyena. A dull thud echoed as the hyena phantom was sent tumbling away. But from the other side, the bat's silent ultrasonic wave slammed into him!
Bzzz—
His brain felt as if pierced by fine needles,causing instant dizziness and disorientation. In that brief moment of stagnation, the Mongrel's second pounce was upon him!
"Condense!"
Silas growled, holding back no longer. The obsidian energy claws shot from his ten fingers, crossing before him to block!
A screeching sound of metal on metal exploded within the mirror realm! Claws and phantom hooks ground against each other violently, sparks flying. The tremendous impact sent Silas staggering back, his arms numb.
"Speed, power, coordination... all stronger than in life! The mirror simulates them at their peak condition!" Silas realized instantly, the pressure skyrocketing, but a fiercer battle intent ignited in his eyes.
He stopped merely evading and began attacking proactively. His Earth Sense expanded to its limit, the faint vibrations underfoot predicting his opponents' trajectories and feeding the information into his mind. The energy claws ripped through the darkness, each swing accompanied by a sharp tearing sound.
He experimented with combining different abilities: using the Mountain Goat's agility to kick off the (simulated) walls for impossible changes in direction; employing the Python's flexibility to twist his body at the last millimeter, avoiding fatal blows; even mimicking the Mongrel's power generation to make his own lunges more explosive.
The battle became grueling. The phantoms were tireless, their coordination exquisite, and they perfectly replicated the creatures' traits. Wounds continuously added to Silas's body—bloody gashes from claws, internal injuries from ultrasonic waves, wounds torn by the hyena's bites... The pain was unbearably real.
But he gritted his teeth and held on. The Law of Life surged within him, constantly repairing the injuries. Though the speed had slowed due to his increased realm, it was enough to prevent a complete collapse. He banished all distractions, pouring his entire mind into resisting, digesting, and absorbing the combat experience. His control over his own power became refined and seamless at an astonishing rate.
After what felt like an eternity, when the last Shadow-Wing Bat phantom was shredded by his claws and dissolved into points of light, Silas finally knelt on one knee, breathing heavily. His clothes were in tatters, covered in crisscrossing wounds and dried blood scabs. His internal energy was nearly depleted.
But his eyes were terrifyingly bright.
He had completed the preliminary integration and familiarization with the power of the Late Stage! Various abilities obeyed his will like his own limbs. His combat awareness had elevated a notch. He was confident that if he faced the previous ambush again, he could resolve it faster and more cleanly.
"Twenty-eight uses left..." He sensed the faint information from the mirror and returned his consciousness to reality. The physical exhaustion and injuries were perfectly brought back, but all were slowly recovering under the operation of the Law of Life.
The training cost was immense, but the harvest was magnificent.
Perhaps it was the subtle changes brought by his increased strength, the remnant killing intent from the bloodshed in the old tunnel, or the calm light in his eyes that differed from the numb servility of the others, but he began to be silently watched by a few slaves.
Among them was a young slave named Reef. He had broken two fingers in a collapse, and the wound, festering in the foul environment, was oozing pus. He was burning with fever, on the verge of being dragged away and "processed" by the Overseers.
Silas saw the fear of death and the desire for life in his eyes, much like his own not long ago. More importantly, he saw an opportunity—a chance to test the medical knowledge Old Elmer had gifted him and potentially quietly cultivate a potential ally.
He chose a deep night, under the pretext of "sharing some stolen water," to approach the dying Reef.
He didn't use obvious Law of Life energy. Recalling the knowledge on the bone chip, Silas's fingertips contained a trace of extremely faint vitality, transformed through medical theory, imitating massage techniques to stimulate blood flow. He quickly pressed several acupoints on Reef's arm, while feeding him a small pinch of crushed, common moss with anti-inflammatory and analgesic properties (collected by the Dire Rat Spirit in damp places), mixed with water.
The process was brief and concealed.
Miraculously, by the later part of the night, Reef's fever had broken! Though his fingers remained crippled, the festering stopped. His life was saved.
Reef looked at Silas with disbelief, gratitude, and awe.
Emboldened by the initial success, Silas became more cautious. He only chose those with non-fatal but extremely painful injuries that could seemingly only improve with "good luck," intervening secretly. Using moss, lichen, even certain mineral powders, combined with extremely weak vitality stimulation disguised as massage, he quietly alleviated the pains of a few slaves.
He was flawless, stretching the recovery process to fit the illusion of "natural healing." He believed no one could see through it, except perhaps Old Elmer.
However, he underestimated the twisted complexity of the human heart in a desperate environment.
Among those he had helped was a slave named Snitch. This man had a rat-like face, his eyes always shifty. He used to curry favor with Foreman Scar and snitch for meager favors. Silas helped him only because his stomach aches made him roll on the ground, disturbing Silas's rest.
Snitch's stomach pain indeed improved greatly after Silas's "massages" a few times. But instead of gratitude, it bred vicious suspicion.
'Why does he know this?'
'Where did he get the herbs?'
'That massage technique...seems to have some special power?'
'He healed from his injuries unusually fast before...'
'He must be hiding some treasure!Or has a secret!'
A crazy idea formed in Snitch's mind: Report him! Report Silas to the Overseer for hiding treasures or using dark magic! Such a great service might free him from this damned mine, or at least get him easier work!
Greed and baseness outweighed the recent bit of kindness.
Days later, the opportunity came. Head Overseer Borg, a bear-like man with a brutal scar splitting his browbone—a Second Rank expert—came down personally to inspect an abnormal vein.
Snitch seized the chance, scrambling and crawling to Borg's feet, kneeling, his voice shrill with excitement and fear:
"Sir!Honorable Head Overseer, sir! I want to report! I report that slave named Silas! He... he hides things! He knows strange dark magic to heal people! He must have stolen spirit crystals! Or something more valuable! I saw it with my own eyes! There's something wrong with him!"
Borg's cold eyes swept over Snitch as if looking at an insect, but the words "hiding," "dark magic," and "spirit crystals" caught his attention. Any unauthorized power or wealth in the mine was theft and defiance against the Greenwood Family.
"Which one is Silas?" Borg's voice was low and oppressive.
Soon, Silas, who had been digging with his head down, was dragged out roughly by two fierce Overseers and brought before Borg.
"Search him." Borg was curt.
The Overseers roughly searched Silas head to toe, finding nothing, of course. The concealment of the Mirror Dimension Space was beyond their comprehension.
"Sir! He must have hidden it! Or... or swallowed it! He must have a secret!" Snitch urged anxiously from the side, afraid his "credit" would vanish.
Borg narrowed his eyes, examining Silas. This slave was indeed different—too calm-eyed, his body seemingly lean but containing a toughness, not utterly numb like the others. Better to believe it.
"Take him away," Borg waved his hand. " 'Ask' him carefully. Snitch, if your information proves valuable, you will be rewarded."
Snitch's face instantly bloomed with ecstatic, fawning smiles.
Silas's heart sank, but his face showed timely terror and bewilderment. He loudly pleaded innocence: "Sir! I didn't! He's slandering me! I'm just a common slave!"
His act was useless. He was dragged roughly towards the sinister interrogation room deep in the mine.
The following days became the darkest time of Silas's life.
The interrogation room reeked of thick blood and decay. He was bound to a cold rack, the Spirit-Suppressing Manacles activated to their extreme, trying to lock down any abnormal energy flow.
Whips, clubs, branding irons, nail chairs... various cruel instruments were applied in turn. The Overseers, unable to get the whereabouts of the "treasure" they wanted, poured their anger and perverted desires onto his flesh.
Agony washed over his nerves in relentless waves.
Silas clenched his jaw, suppressing all screams and roars deep in his throat. He used his newly mastered power to precisely control his muscles and reactions—making the wounds appear deeper, the pain more intense, but always avoiding truly vital areas.
He absolutely could not use the Law of Life for obvious recovery, let alone expose the energy claws or other abilities. Once exposed, what awaited him would be the Baron's personal intervention and true annihilation. He had to endure!
Every time he blacked out, he was revived with cold water.
His consciousness floated and sank in endless pain.
It was at the edge of this extreme torment, on the verge of complete mental dissolution, that a strange change occurred.
The Spirit-Suppressing Manacles primarily suppressed spiritual energy (Qi), but their effect on the deeper Soul, closely related to consciousness, was relatively limited.
Extreme pain itself was the most savage impact and tearing of the soul. Every application of a torture device felt like it was going to shatter his consciousness structure.
And at the moment his soul was torn by pain, on the verge of damage, the imprint of the Law of Life deep in his bones and that wisp of a seed in his heart would spontaneously release a stream of warm, vast vitality. This vitality not only repaired his physical wounds but also subtly smoothed the ripples in his soul, slowly mending the tears.
Damage... repair... more damage... more repair...
In this horrific, despairing cycle, Silas keenly captured that infinitesimally subtle difference:
Each time his soul was torn and then mended, though the process was agonizing, the repaired part seemed to become... a trace more condensed? A trace more resilient?
It was like a piece of pig iron, repeatedly forged and quenched. Though it seemed ready to shatter each time, the impurities were eventually removed, making it stronger and tougher.
A realization struck his chaotic mind like lightning:
Soul cultivation wasn't only about absorbing spiritual energy!
Extreme tempering, hovering on the edge of destruction and rebirth, was also an ancient and brutal way to temper the soul and make it powerful!
The Law of Life he possessed was the unique, perfect guarantee for this insane cultivation! Others who damaged their souls might turn idiots or be annihilated. But he, as long as he wasn't instantly utterly destroyed, could constantly recover under the Law's power and emerge stronger after each recovery!
Discovering this, the fear and pain in Silas's heart seemed to find an outlet. He was no longer purely passive; he began to actively guide it!
He deliberately focused part of his consciousness on the pain itself, guiding the tearing sensation to impact his soul structure more deeply, as if actively placing his soul on an anvil to be hammered. Simultaneously, he focused more on guiding the Law of Life's energy—not just to repair his body but to precisely nourish and mend the invisible soul wounds.
The pain intensified dramatically! It was a torture that reached the very source, indescribable!
But he endured it stubbornly, a hint of a crazy, excited smirk curling at the corner of his mouth that no one could understand.
He could "feel" that beneath the endless agony, his soul was undergoing a slow, steadfast transformation. Becoming more solid, more transparent. His control over his body and perception of energy seemed to have gained a faint, corresponding boost.
The foundation of the Initial Foundation Forging Realm of Spirit was being tempered and solidified to an unprecedented degree by this hellish torment!
The Overseers soon noticed that this slave named Silas was becoming more "durable." He used to black out after a few strikes, now it often took much longer. His eyes were no longer completely vacant or fearful, occasionally flashing with a cold focus that made them inexplicably uneasy.
They attributed it to the slave's innate toughness or that he had simply gone mad, not thinking deeper. They just redoubled their efforts.
As for the informant Snitch, he never got the reward he desired. Borg just impatiently told him to "get back to work." His snitching earned him the extreme disgust and isolation of the other slaves, putting him in a worse position than before.
Silas endured it all alone in the dark interrogation room, undergoing this cruel, unknown Soul Tempering.
Until one day, the earth shook without warning, violently!
BOOM! RUMBLE—!!!
It was as if a giant beast were turning over deep underground. The entire mine groaned under the strain! Rocks clattered down, support beams cracked with thunderous sounds, and the terrified screams of slaves and panicked shouts of guards echoed from afar!
"Earth Dragon turns over! Run!" Panicked cries sounded in the corridor outside the interrogation room.
The Overseer in charge of the torture paled, cursed, threw down his tools, and rushed out in a panic to save himself, instantly forgetting Silas left in the collapsing prison.
Massive stones began to fall from the ceiling, crashing to the ground, dust filling the air.
Silas jerked his head up, his manacled hands clenching tightly, an astonishing light erupting in his eyes.
Opportunity!