Moving beneath the sand drained far more energy than Ji Bochuan had anticipated.
It felt like swimming through thick honey—every motion resisted, every inch demanded precise control. Around him was absolute darkness, dense yet strangely soft, the weight of countless grains pressing in from all sides.
A thin, pale-yellow membrane shimmered around his body.
The Quicksand Burrowing Art shielded him from direct pressure, but only barely. Every ten feet, he had to fine-tune the frequency of his spiritual energy, synchronizing the membrane with the vibration of the surrounding sand. Any misalignment—even a fraction—would cause the layers to collapse inward, crushing him like a thousand invisible hands.
Within his sea of consciousness, the Heart-Lantern burned steadily.
Without it, he would have already lost his sense of direction—or exhausted his reserves entirely.
Under its illumination, the darkness was no longer empty. Each grain of sand, every faint air current, each subtle shift in density unfolded into a three-dimensional map sculpted from sound and sensation. He did not see the underground world—he felt it.
His chosen path led deeper into the Core Zone.
Based on Blue Scorpion's description and the faint glow he had glimpsed earlier, the Yan Clan's camp—and the Firecrystal Vein—should be nearby. The Nine Nether Sect hunted him. The Yan Clan searched for something dangerous.
If he could draw both sides together…
It would be like locking two starving wolves in the same cage.
Divert the disaster. Stir the muddy waters.
It was his only chance.
After advancing roughly six hundred feet, the sand ahead suddenly softened—and mixed with hard fragments.
Ji Bochuan froze instantly.
He withdrew all aura, slowed his heartbeat, and let even his breath fade. The burrowing art worked only through pure sand. Solid rock or gravel forced an exit—one of the technique's natural limits.
He extended his perception cautiously, like a spider casting silk in the dark.
Above him stood the base of a massive black stone pillar, its roots buried deep beneath the sands. The surface was riddled with honeycomb-like holes, large as bowls, small as needle pricks—scars carved by centuries of wind erosion.
The air carried a faint sulfur stench, like scorched stone.
And beneath it—
Blood.
Not one kind. Fresh blood, sharp with iron. Old blood, sour and decayed. They blended together in the sulfur haze, churning the stomach.
Ji Bochuan did not surface immediately.
Clinging to the pillar's base like a gecko, he ascended inch by inch. Sand slid down his back as he moved. He stopped beside a bowl-sized opening angled upward. From within, a faint glow leaked out.
He peered inside.
A natural cavern—roughly thirty feet across. Torches burned along the walls, pine resin crackling. The light revealed chaos strewn across the floor: broken pickaxes, snapped crowbars, shattered formation flags, overturned water skins…
And bodies.
Shriveled corpses.
They wore uniform brown leather armor, each chest embroidered with the gold-thread emblem of the Yan Clan. The armor still gleamed faintly in the firelight, but the bodies beneath had collapsed into hollow husks, like empty sacks.
One corpse still clutched a pickaxe, its tip embedded deep into the rock wall. Even in death, the fingers were twisted, joints deformed from desperate exertion.
Ji Bochuan's gaze shifted to the wall itself.
A section roughly a meter square had been excavated, revealing dark red mineral veins—
Firecrystal ore.
Its surface was porous, honeycombed with tiny vents, glinting with metallic luster. Fresh chisel marks scarred the stone, debris scattered below.
But at the center—
A fist-sized cavity.
Something inside pulsed with light.
Dark crimson. Thick. Like coagulated blood.
Each pulse raised the cavern's temperature visibly, warping the air. When the light dimmed, the heat receded slightly—but the sulfur stench intensified, choking and heavy.
Ji Bochuan's heart tightened.
This was no ordinary Firecrystal vein.
The Chronicles of Celestial Affairs recorded that after millennia of gestation, Firecrystal could condense into a Firecrystal Core—a supreme fire-aspected treasure containing pure terrestrial flame.
And a death sentence.
Before maturity, it emitted lethal heat and toxic fumes. Ordinary people would ignite within thirty feet.
The Yan Clan wasn't after Mirage Sand Gold.
They were excavating a Firecrystal Core.
That explained the lockdown. The formation masters. Not defense—
Suppression.
But something had gone wrong.
The entire excavation team lay dead, their blood completely drained—exactly as Blue Scorpion had described. Worse than the Blood-Scourge from the Coldwater Crystal.
Firecrystal didn't drink blood.
So something else was here.
Ji Bochuan expanded his perception.
No living presence. Only corpses, tools, ore. Torchlight flickered steadily.
Yet something felt wrong.
The corpses were too uniform. No wounds. Skin plastered to bone. Even the marrow gone—emptied from within.
His thoughts flashed to the Blood-Scourge.
Ice and fire. Opposites.
Yet both drained blood to nothing.
Was there a connection?
Footsteps crunched outside.
Ji Bochuan withdrew instantly, pressing himself into the opening, sealing every pore.
Three men entered.
Torchlight stretched their shadows long across the wall.
At the front walked Yan Wuming, dressed in brocade, a sword at his waist, its scabbard inlaid with fire-red gemstones. Two guards followed, clad in black Yan Clan attire, their auras solid—fifth-layer Nourishing Breath or higher.
Yan Wuming's face darkened.
"Useless trash," he spat. "Can't even guard a mine."
One guard examined the bodies, professional and quick.
"Third Young Master," he reported, voice echoing. "Cause of death: blood drained completely. Entry wound at the brow—needle-thin, piercing the skull. This matches the Blood Hand technique."
Yan Wuming's eyes narrowed.
"The Nine Nether Sect?"
Another guard studied the glowing cavity.
"The core remains. Stable pulse. They didn't extract it. Likely attempted theft and were repelled by the heat field."
Yan Wuming's gaze burned with naked greed.
"The core's almost ripe. Three hours. When the geothermal tide recedes, extraction will be safe."
"Outer perimeter disturbance," a guard reported. "Sand wyrms agitated. Someone's entered."
"Perfect," Yan Wuming sneered. "Set the Dragon-Trap Formation. Anyone who enters stays."
Orders issued. The guards departed.
Silence returned.
Ji Bochuan waited.
Then moved.
He inspected the bodies. Each bore a pinpoint wound at the brow, icy residue lingering—hunger distilled.
Blood Hand.
The Nine Nether Sect was here too.
He approached the core—no closer than ten feet. Heat scorched the skin.
Too soon to touch it.
But not everything here was untouchable.
A jade shovel lay among the tools, etched with dense insulation runes. Beside it, an empty jade casket.
Firecrystal Sand.
He harvested carefully.
Gold grains spilled free like solid sunlight.
Enough to matter.
Enough to live.
Then—
The cavern throbbed.
The wall cracked.
Dark red liquid seeped out.
Ore Blood.
It surged like living veins, corrosive, toxic, sealing the exit.
Ji Bochuan retreated—cornered between molten death and the sleeping core.
No escape.
Except one.
He charged the core.
Burning. Blinding. His clothes smoked. Skin screamed.
The Heart-Lantern flared, golden life-light spilling outward.
He reached the exclusion zone.
Above—
Cracks.
Cool blue-white light.
He climbed.
Burned.
Bled.
Broke through.
And fell—
Into water.
Cool.
Pure.
A hidden cavern.
A spirit spring.
Salvation.
Later, deeper still, he found a corpse seated in meditation.
A message.
A legacy.
The Flowing Sands Wanderer.
The creator of the very art that saved him.
Ji Bochuan bowed.
And carried the dead man's will forward.
Downriver.
Toward survival.
Toward secrets older than the sand.
And unseen—
In the darkness he did not choose—
Something opened its eyes.