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Tunnel Seventeen was colder than the rest.
Not because air flowed through it, nor because water seeped from cracks in the stone, but because the rock itself felt old. Not aged the way wood rotted or iron rusted—this was a deeper kind of age, one that pressed inward rather than wearing away.
Even before stepping inside, Yan Shi felt it.
A dull pressure settled behind his breastbone, heavy but restrained, as though the mountain were holding its breath. The sensation did not threaten. It did not welcome. It simply existed.
Other tunnels hummed faintly with spirit energy. Thin currents ran through them—weak, restless, barely noticeable. Miners could not sense it consciously, but their bodies always reacted.
Skin prickled.
Breathing changed.
Tunnel Seventeen did not hum.
It waited.
Low-grade spirit veins traced the walls in narrow, uneven lines. Their violet glow was dim and irregular, pulsing faintly before fading again, like something exhausted. The light barely reached the floor. Shadows gathered thickly along the corners.
Dust hung in the air, unmoving.
It did not drift or fall. It simply remained suspended, as if the tunnel had forgotten how gravity worked.
Some miners avoided this place whenever possible. They took longer routes. Claimed full carts elsewhere. Found excuses.
Overseers noticed the pattern and ignored it. Low yield explained everything. Fear never needed a name.
Yan Shi worked there regardless.
He was fourteen.
Even covered in stone dust, his features remained clean. He was neither striking nor forgettable—just another face that passed through the world without leaving an impression. His black hair was tied back with a frayed cord. Loose strands clung to his damp forehead.
His clothes were patched so many times the fabric had softened thin, every seam carrying the memory of repair.
A battered mining hoe rested in his hands. Its edge was chipped. Its handle had been worn smooth by countless grips before his own.
Every strike was measured.
Stone.
Crack.
Pull.
Fragments fell near his boots. He counted them without realizing it, breath steady, movements guided by habit.
One.
Two.
Three.
Beside him worked a man in his mid-thirties. Broad-shouldered. Thick forearms marked with old scars. Before every strike, his eyes lifted—not in fear, but habit—checking the ceiling, the walls, the faint glow of the veins.
Yan Shi's father.
They spoke little while working. Sound carried easily through tunnels, and overseers disliked noise. Still, Yan Shi felt steadier with his father nearby.
The pressure of the tunnel did not lessen, but it felt contained—held in place by familiarity.
Between them lay a small pile of spirit stone fragments. Low-grade. Dull. Their faint glow weakened almost immediately once removed from the wall, fading as if the mountain reclaimed them the moment they were taken.
Yan Shi adjusted his grip and raised the hoe.
"Don't hurry," his father said quietly.
"Stone remembers force."
Yan Shi nodded. He had heard those words since childhood—long before he understood them, long before he was strong enough to swing a hoe properly.
He slowed his strikes, letting the tool bite naturally instead of forcing it.
Metal rang softly against rock.
Somewhere deeper in the mountain, other tunnels echoed with distant labor. The sounds blended together, dull and repetitive, as if the mountain itself were breathing through the miners.
Yan Shi wiped sweat from his eyes.
"Father," he said.
The man paused mid-swing.
"If Mother were still alive…" Yan Shi hesitated. "She wouldn't like this place."
His father gave a faint, dry smile without turning.
"She wouldn't," he said. "But she'd still want you fed."
Nothing more was said.
The tunnel felt stable.
Heavy, but unmoving.
The rock did not groan. The veins did not flicker unusually. Nothing warned them.
Then the mountain shifted.
At first, it was barely audible—a deep, distant groan, like stone stretching after centuries of silence.
Yan Shi froze.
His father's head snapped upward.
A thin crack appeared in the ceiling, following a weak seam in the rock. It spread slowly, silently, branching outward like ink bleeding through paper.
"Step back," his father said.
The ground trembled.
Dust rained down, stinging Yan Shi's eyes. His breath caught.
"Move," his father said, louder.
Yan Shi took one step.
The ceiling collapsed.
Stone tore loose with a violent crack. Spirit veins shattered, releasing sharp flashes of violet light that cut through the dust-choked darkness.
The tunnel erupted—rock splitting, metal clanging, distant shouts echoing from neighboring passages.
Yan Shi felt the impact before he understood it.
His father was suddenly in front of him.
A heavy force struck Yan Shi's chest as he was shoved backward. His heel caught on loose stone. He fell hard.
His father shielded him.
Stone slammed down.
The world dissolved into noise.
Yan Shi hit the ground, breath torn from his lungs. Rock crashed around them, striking walls, limbs, earth. Spirit-light flared wildly, then dimmed as veins were crushed and buried.
Someone screamed.
Then another.
A shard of stone sliced across Yan Shi's arm. Pain flared sharp and immediate. He tried to move, but weight pressed in from all sides, pinning him.
"Father—"
Dust filled his mouth. He coughed, choking.
Something shifted heavily above him.
His father's body took most of the force. Not all.
Blood dripped down, warm against Yan Shi's sleeve.
"Stay still," his father said.
His voice was low. Strained. Each word carried effort.
More stone fell. A deep crack split the tunnel further along. Remaining spirit veins burst, sending weak sparks through the air before fading entirely.
The collapse came in surges.
Yan Shi felt his father's weight shift.
Then stop.
Dust settled slowly.
Noise faded into a hollow ringing.
Yan Shi lay trapped beneath rubble, barely able to draw breath. His chest burned with each shallow inhale. His legs were numb. His arm throbbed.
He felt no movement above him.
"Father," he said.
No reply.
He turned his head as far as he could. His father lay above him, arms braced as if still holding the mountain back. Dust and stone covered half his face.
He did not move.
Tunnel Seventeen was gone.
The narrow passage had become a mound of shattered rock and crushed spirit stone. The pale violet glow had nearly vanished. Only a few fragments pulsed faintly in the dark.
There was no sound.
No voices.
Only dust settling.
Yan Shi's chest tightened. He tried to push, but his arms barely responded.
Then something changed.
Not pain.
Not fear.
A pressure formed beneath his breastbone—cold and unfamiliar. It did not burn or stab. It simply existed, heavy and deliberate, as if something had slipped into a place it had never occupied before.
Yan Shi gasped.
The pressure began to move.
Slowly.
A circular motion deep within his chest. Not violent. Not expanding. Just turning, like an old mechanism forced awake.
For an instant, it sped up.
A faint red-green shimmer flickered beneath his skin—dull, unstable.
Around him, the dust and shattered spirit stones felt… closer. Not drawn from afar. Only what lay near brushed faintly against that slow rotation.
Nothing reached it.
The motion weakened.
The shimmer vanished.
The pressure slowed, then sank back into stillness, leaving only its weight behind.
Breathing hurt.
Time lost meaning beneath the mountain.
Eventually, distant voices reached him—muffled shouts echoing through collapsed stone.
Overseers.
Rescue teams.
Yan Shi forced himself to stay awake.
Hands dug through rubble. Light pierced the dust.
When they pulled him free, he did not resist.
The mountain remained silent.
And deep within his chest, something that had once turned now slept again—
not complete,
not stable,
and once awakened, impossible to forget.
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