The air beneath the Sacred Baobab didn't smell like a mine. It didn't have the scent of damp earth or machine oil. Instead, it smelled of ozone and old paper the exact scent of the Tredex Grand Library. As Samson led Zekiya and his miners down the spiraling stone stairs, the blue sap from the tree roots above dripped onto his shoulders, glowing like liquid neon.
"This is not a mine," Zekiya whispered, his grip tightening on his rusted rifle. "This is a temple. My people have lived on this land for a thousand years, and no one told us of a city beneath the roots."
"It wasn't a city," Samson said, his boots clicking against the smooth, black stone of the floor. "It was a vault. And it wasn't built by your people. It was built by mine."
The sapphire tattoo on Samson's arm was no longer just glowing; it was vibrating so intensely that his skin felt like it was being peeled back. The map of the Great Dyke on his forearm was aligning with the corridors they were walking through. He realized with a jolt of terror that the blueprints for this African underground were etched into his very DNA.
The Chamber of Transmutation
They reached a massive circular chamber. In the center stood a device that defied every law of physics Samson knew. It was a pillar of rotating gold, suspended in mid-air by a vortex of blue energy. Around the pillar were dozens of glass sarcophagi.
Inside the glass were the missing miners.
They weren't dead. Their eyes were open, but their skin was slowly hardening, turning into a brilliant, 24-karat crust. The blue quartz was being pumped into their veins through tubes made of translucent root-matter.
"My God," Chipo Moyo's voice echoed from the entrance. She had followed them, her face pale, the dart wound in her shoulder bandaged with a strip of cloth. "They are... they are turning them into bullion."
"Not just bullion," a voice boomed from the shadows across the room.
A man stepped into the light. He was dressed in a bespoke Italian suit that looked absurd in the subterranean heat. This was Mr. Sibanda, the owner of the Invictus Mine. But he didn't look like a businessman anymore. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his skin had a metallic, sickly sheen.
"Detective Samson," Sibanda said, spreading his hands. "The international community wants to know where the gold went. They want to know why the markets are failing. They don't realize that we are creating a new standard. Why dig for rocks when you can harvest the literal value of a human life?"
"You're a butcher, Sibanda," Samson growled, stepping toward him.
"I am a visionary!" Sibanda screamed, his composure breaking. "The world is running out of resources, Detective. But it is never running out of people. This machine—the Alchemical Heart—was left here by your predecessors. The ones who built Tredex. They knew that memory and soul-energy are the only currencies that never devaluate. I just figured out how to mint them."
The International Concern
Behind Sibanda, several computer monitors flickered to life. Samson saw the logos of three major international banks and two world governments. They weren't investigating the "Missing Gold" to stop the crime—they were watching the "live feed" of the transmutation to see if the technology worked.
The "International Concern" wasn't about human rights; it was a performance review.
"You think you're in charge, Sibanda?" Samson pointed to the screens. "You're just the foreman. Those people on the screens... they're the ones who sent the mercenaries. And as soon as you prove the process is stable, they'll kill you and take the Heart for themselves."
Sibanda hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the screens. In that moment of doubt, the blue quartz in Kuda's hand flared with a blinding intensity.
The Breakout
"The balance!" Kuda screamed, his voice no longer his own. "The earth has taken enough!"
The boy's hand hit the floor. A shockwave of pure Aetheric energy ripped through the room. The glass sarcophagi shattered. The miners, half-turned to gold, tumbled out onto the floor. They weren't fully human, and they weren't fully metal—they were something in between. They rose like statues coming to life, their golden skin reflecting the blue fire in the room.
"Zekiya! Get your men out of here!" Samson yelled, drawing his weapon.
The mercenaries burst through the side doors, their suppressed weapons spitting lead. But the "Gold-Miners" didn't die. The bullets flattened against their metallic skin. With a collective roar of agony and reclaimed memory, the transformed miners lunged at the men in gray.
It wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter.
Samson sprinted toward the Alchemical Heart. He knew he couldn't just turn it off. Like the Ledger in Tredex, it was tied to the land itself. He looked at Sibanda, who was cowering behind the central pillar.
"How do I stop it?" Samson demanded, grabbing Sibanda by the collar.
"You can't!" Sibanda sobbed. "It's a feedback loop! It's feeding on Kuda now! The boy is the battery!"
Samson looked at Kuda. The boy was levitating, his body a conduit for the massive amount of energy pouring out of the Earth. The blue light was turning into a violent, searing white. If it blew, it wouldn't just take out the mine—it would vaporize Kadoma.
"I have to ground the circuit," Samson whispered.
He looked at his sapphire tattoo. He knew what he had to do. He wasn't just a detective; he was a living conductor. He reached out and grabbed the rotating golden pillar with his bare, tattooed hand.