The prisoner barracks, known simply as "The Pit," was hell condensed into a cavern. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, sickness, and despair. Dim, smoky oil lamps cast long, flickering shadows over rows of ragged straw pallets occupied by broken men and women. Moans, coughs, and the occasional whimper formed a grim chorus. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their faces bored or cruel.
Bao shoved Chen Fan towards an empty pallet near the back, close to a damp, dripping wall. "Your throne, Your Majesty," he sneered. "Try not to die before morning. Zhu wants his ore." He unlocked the chain from his own belt but left the manacles on Chen Fan's wrists, connected by a shorter chain that would allow minimal movement but prevent running. He tossed a small, hard lump of black bread and a wooden cup of murky water onto the filthy straw. "Dinner. Don't choke." With a final kick that sent Chen Fan sprawling onto the pallet, Bao turned and stalked away.
Pain flared anew. Chen Fan lay gasping for a moment, the rough straw scratching his skin. The Pit pressed in on him, the weight of hopelessness almost physical. He pushed himself up slowly, every movement agony. He picked up the bread – hard as rock, smelling faintly of mold. The water looked suspect. But his stomach clenched painfully with hunger. He'd need strength.
He broke off a tiny piece of bread, softened it in the water, and forced it down. It tasted like dust and despair. He sipped the water, ignoring the gritty texture. Survival. One bite, one sip at a time.
As he ate, he scanned the cavernous room. Hollow eyes watched him from nearby pallets – curiosity, apathy, hostility. He was the new meat. He saw Teng sitting near the entrance, talking quietly with another guard, occasionally glancing his way with a frown. Bao was already gone, probably to report or find easier entertainment.
*System. Status.*
```
User: Li Chen
Status: Injured (Moderate - Healing Stalled). Malnourished. Fatigued. Minor Qi Depletion.
Qi: 0.005 Units (Mortal)
Cultivation: None
Spirit Root: Mortal Low-Rank (Locked)
Known Plot Points: 97.8%
System Stability: 36.5% (Passive Recovery: 0.1%/Hour - Chaotic Environment)
```
Pathetic. But stable. Barely. He needed to recover. He needed to absorb Qi. He still had a few small, relatively pure Spirit Iron chunks tucked into his tunic pocket, salvaged during his frantic basket-filling. He palmed one, shielding it with his body from casual view. Focusing, he willed the System to absorb it, bracing for the stability cost.
```
Raw Spirit Iron Processing... Stability Cost: 1.5%
Qi Essence Extracted: +0.003 Units
System Stability: 35.0%
```
Another tiny gain. Another stability drop. It was a brutal exchange. He felt a minuscule warmth spread through his palm, less than a candle flame, but it was something. A spark of power in the crushing dark. He repeated the process with another small chunk, pushing his mental focus to the limit. Stability dropped to 33.5%. Qi crept to 0.008 Units. Exhaustion pulled at him, heavy and insistent.
"Hey. New fish."
The rough whisper came from the next pallet. A grizzled man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw watched him, his eyes sharp despite the surrounding misery. "Whatcha got there? Shinies?"
Chen Fan instinctively closed his hand over the remaining Spirit Iron chunk. "Nothing. Just a rock." He kept his voice low.
The man snorted softly. "Don't play dumb. Saw you fiddlin'. Spirit Iron. Pure bits." He leaned closer, his breath smelling of rot. "Bad idea, fish. Guards catch you hoarding, even scraps, they'll flay you alive. Worse, the other rats in this Pit smell it..." He gestured subtly around the cavern. "...they'll take it. And your bread. And maybe your teeth."
Chen Fan met the man's gaze. He saw calculation, not immediate threat. "What do you want?"
"Name's Griss," the man rasped. "Been down here five years. Seen 'em come, seen 'em go. Mostly go." He nodded towards Chen Fan's bruised face and raw hands. "You got trouble. Big trouble. Bao marked you. Teng's jumpy around you. And you got Young Master Pretty-boy's attention topside. Not good."
"Your point?" Chen Fan asked, wary.
"Point is, fish, you won't last a week on your own," Griss stated bluntly. "Not in Deep Vein Seven. Not with enemies. You need eyes. You need ears. You need someone who knows how things *really* work down here. How to avoid the guards' worst moods. Where the cleaner water seeps in. Which tunnels are death traps before the foreman even knows."
Chen Fan understood. Protection. Information. In exchange for what? He had nothing. Except... "I found something. In Seven. Something Teng didn't want reported."
Griss's eyes gleamed with interest. "Oh? Somethin' valuable? Or somethin' dangerous?"
"Both," Chen Fan whispered. "Blood Iron. Fresh vein. And a crack. Deep. Dangerous. Teng pocketed the sample. Told me to forget I saw it."
Griss sucked in a breath, his expression turning serious. "Blood Iron... Shit. That's Elder Zhu's personal poison. And a deep crack... sounds like the Whisper Shafts. Bad juju." He studied Chen Fan intently. "You're either the unluckiest bastard in the Pit... or you know more than you look." He leaned back slightly. "Alright, fish. You got my attention. What's your name?"
"Li Chen."
"Li Chen," Griss repeated, filing it away. "Tell you what. You share what you see, what you hear, especially about Seven and Zhu's goons. You keep your little rock snacks quiet. I'll give you the lay of the land. Help you avoid the worst pitfalls. Maybe even get you a better pick tomorrow. Deal?"
It was an offer born of mutual need. Griss wanted information, a potential edge. Chen Fan needed survival skills and eyes where he couldn't be. He also recognized Griss – he'd written him as a minor character, a survivor who knew the mines' secrets, eventually killed in a collapse. A potential short-term ally.
"Deal," Chen Fan agreed.
Griss gave a curt nod. "First lesson: Sleep light. Keep your bread hidden. And never turn your back on Old Man Wren." He jerked his chin towards a hunched figure several pallets away, who seemed to be sleeping but whose eyes were slightly open, watching them. "Second lesson: Deep Vein Seven ain't the only death sentence. The mess line at dawn is where most 'accidents' happen. Stick close to me tomorrow. Now, sleep. You look like death chewed you up and spat you out." Griss rolled over, turning his back, a gesture of fragile trust.
Chen Fan lay back on the scratchy straw, the Spirit Iron chunk a hard lump in his fist. He had an ally. Of sorts. He had a sliver of Qi. He had a path. He closed his eyes, not to sleep deeply, but to rest and focus inward. *System. Continue passive absorption. Conserve stability.* He needed every fraction of a percent.
He drifted in a haze of pain and exhaustion, his mind replaying the day: the rejection email, the dungeon, the guards, the energy surge, Li Feng's sneer, Qing'er's seedpod, the fissure, the Blood Iron, Griss's wary alliance. The chaotic symphony of the Pit swirled around him – snores, coughs, the clank of chains, the low murmur of guards.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the entrance. Shouts. The sound of a scuffle. A pained cry.
Chen Fan's eyes snapped open. Teng and another guard were dragging a prisoner – a young man, barely older than Chen Fan looked, his face bloody, his tunic torn. They threw him roughly onto an empty pallet near Chen Fan.
"Try stealing from the kitchen stores again, rat!" Teng snarled, delivering a vicious kick to the boy's ribs. "Next time, we take your hand!" The guards stalked away, leaving the boy curled into a ball, whimpering.
The boy, named Lin, was another minor character Chen Fan remembered – destined to die in a cave-in next week. He was trembling violently, clutching his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers.
Nearby prisoners shuffled away, not wanting any association. Griss didn't move, pretending sleep.
Chen Fan watched the boy suffer. He had 0.008 Qi Units. A pathetic amount. But the System had mentioned "Minor Tissue Regeneration" when Qing'er's salve was active. Could Qi... *heal*?
It was a reckless gamble. Wasting his precious, hard-won Qi. Drawing attention. But the boy's pain was visceral. And Chen Fan remembered writing Lin had a younger sister topside who relied on him. A tiny spark of compassion, or perhaps the author's need to fix a disposable character, flared.
*System. Can Qi be used for healing? Basic application?*
```
Qi Application: Basic Healing (Mortal Level)
- Feasibility: Yes (Inefficient - Recommended Minimum Qi: 0.05 Units)
- Effect: Accelerate natural healing, minor pain reduction, stabilize critical bleeding (temporarily)
- Cost: Variable based on injury severity. User's current Qi reserves insufficient for significant effect on target.
```
Insufficient. But... stabilize bleeding? Temporarily? Lin was bleeding internally, Chen Fan could tell. He might not last the night.
Chen Fan made his decision. He shuffled closer to Lin's pallet, chains clinking softly. He ignored the wary glances from nearby prisoners. He knelt beside the trembling boy.
"Hey," Chen Fan whispered. "Lin, right?"
Lin's eyes, wide with pain and fear, focused on him. He tried to speak, but only a wet gasp came out.
"Don't talk," Chen Fan said. "I might... I might be able to help a little. But you have to be quiet. Very quiet." He placed his hand, the one holding the tiny Spirit Iron chunk he was still passively absorbing from, lightly on Lin's arm, away from the injured abdomen. It was a gesture of contact, a conduit. He focused *hard*, not on expelling Qi, but on *directing* the faint trickle he was absorbing *through* himself and *into* Lin, picturing it as a cool stream soothing the internal damage. He wasn't giving his own Qi; he was acting as a filter, channeling the raw energy from the ore into a basic healing intent. It was clumsy. Desperate.
```
Qi Transfer Attempt Detected! (External Source - Raw Spirit Iron)
Channeling Unstable Qi! Risk of Backlash!
Target: Lin (Status: Internal Bleeding - Severe)
Applying Basic Healing Template...
```
He felt a jolt, like static shock, travel up his arm. Lin gasped, his body arching slightly. A faint, almost invisible shimmer seemed to pass between Chen Fan's hand and Lin's arm for a split second. Chen Fan felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, his meager Qi reserves dipping slightly to 0.007 from the effort of channeling.
```
Effect: Minor Bleeding Stabilization Achieved (Temporary - Duration: 4-6 hours)
System Stability: 32.9% (Chaotic Qi Channeling Penalty)
```
Lin's violent trembling lessened slightly. His breathing, while still ragged, seemed a fraction less labored. The terror in his eyes flickered, replaced by stunned confusion. "Wha... what did you...?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Shhh," Chen Fan hissed, pulling his hand away quickly. "Just rest. Don't draw attention." He shuffled back to his own pallet, his heart pounding. It had worked. Barely. He'd bought Lin a few hours. He felt drained, his stability lower.
He lay back down, closing his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He could feel the stares now – not just Lin's bewildered gaze, but others in the gloom. Whispers started, rippling through the nearby pallets like a sinister wind. *"...saw that?" "...touched him..." "...glow?" "...weird..."*
Griss rolled over slowly, his eyes open now, fixed on Chen Fan with intense, unreadable curiosity. "What in the Nine Hells was that, Li Chen?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Before Chen Fan could even think of a response, a harsh voice cut through the murmurs from the entrance. "Quiet down, maggots! Lights out! Any more noise, no one eats tomorrow!"
The Pit plunged into near darkness as guards snuffed most of the lamps. But the whispers didn't stop entirely. They just grew softer, more insidious. And the weight of attention pressed down on Chen Fan heavier than the mountain itself.
He had tried to help. He had used his pitiful power. And he had just painted a massive target on his back in the darkest, most desperate place imaginable. He felt the Shadowmoss Seedpod in his pocket, cool and hard. The fissure awaited. But first, he had to survive the night in the Pit.
He closed his eyes, not sleeping, just waiting, every nerve on edge. The whispers swirled. The darkness pressed close. He could almost feel the predatory gazes.
Suddenly, a hand, rough and calloused, clamped over his mouth from behind, stifling any cry. Another hand grabbed the chain between his manacles, yanking his arms painfully back. Hot, sour breath washed over his ear as a voice, low and menacing, growled: "The boss wants a word, rock-boy. About your little light show..."