The darkness was not absolute. It was a thick, suffocating grey, heavy with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of old blood. Blake's consciousness returned in jagged fragments: the memory of the silver bowl, the roar of Silas Sterling's voice, and the sharp, sudden impact on the back of his neck.
He tried to move his arms, but a jolt of white-hot agony flared in his shoulders. His wrists were shackled to the stone wall behind him, held by heavy "Spirit-Iron" chains that felt cold enough to burn his skin. His legs were splayed out in the filth of the floor, similarly bound.
He gasped, the cold air rattling in his lungs. His internal energy—the vibrant 5th-layer power he had worked so hard to cultivate—felt sluggish, as if it were being suppressed by the very metal around his wrists.
"Awake, are you?"
The voice was raspy, coming from the shadows directly across from him. Blake squinted, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light of a single, flickering torch mounted near the heavy iron door of the cell.
"Father?" Blake croaked.
Thomas Harrison sat in the corner of the cell, his shadow cast long and distorted against the wall. He was no longer the proud commander of the Sterling forces. His robes were torn, his hair disheveled, and his face was a mask of exhaustion and grief. He wasn't shackled, but he sat with a defeated slumped posture that suggested he wouldn't run even if the door were left wide open.
"I'm sorry, Blake," Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. "I thought... I thought if you were talented enough, if your light shone bright enough, the origin wouldn't matter."
"What origin?" Blake struggled against the chains, the metal clinking rhythmically. "What happened to the blood, Father? Why did the bowl turn grey?"
Thomas looked up, his eyes hollow. "Because the Harrison line isn't a martial line, Blake. Not truly. We were the 'Sin-Bearers' of the Higher Heavens. Our ancestors were hunters of the forbidden—those who used the Void to balance the light. When the Great Purge happened, we fled to the lower realms, hiding our nature beneath the veneer of common cultivators. We used seals to mask our blood, to make it appear 'pure' to the testing stones of houses like the Sterlings."
Blake stared at him, his mind reeling. "Forbidden? The Void? I don't understand. I worked for my strength. Every layer, every strike... that was mine!"
"It was," Thomas agreed. "But the Sterling ritual is ancient. It doesn't just test strength; it tests the resonance of the soul. When your blood touched that water, it reacted to the dormant 'Void-Seed' within you. To the Sterlings, who worship the Light of the Gale, anything touched by the Void is an abomination. A demon."
"I am not a demon," Blake snarled, his anger finally beginning to flare through the confusion.
"To them, there is no difference," Thomas said. "They see our lineage as a parasite. They think we've been 'feeding' off their resources to cultivate a monster in their midst."
The heavy iron door groaned open, the sound echoing like a scream in the small cell. Silas Sterling stepped inside, flanked by Captain Dravis and a group of enforcers. The Clan Head looked different—the majestic mask of a leader had been replaced by a cold, calculating cruelty. He looked at Blake not as a grandson-in-law, but as a piece of meat on a butcher's block.
"The 5th Layer," Silas said, his voice quiet and dangerous. "We poured Marrow-Refining Essence into you. We gave you the Spirit-Healing Grass. We gave you our techniques. All to nourish a shadow-spawn."
"I won the tournament for your house, Silas!" Blake shouted, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "I defeated the Hawthornes! I brought honor to the Sterling name!"
Silas stepped forward and delivered a backhanded strike across Blake's face. The force was immense—Silas was a Master of the Vital Essence Realm. Blake's head snapped to the side, and he felt the copper taste of blood fill his mouth.
"You brought us shame," Silas hissed. "The Hawthornes are already mocking us. They say we were so desperate for a genius that we bedded with demons. The marriage is void. The Harrison name is stricken from the records. Every scrap of resource you consumed will be repaid in blood."
He turned to Dravis. "Has the girl been told?"
"Lady Jazmin is in the high chambers, My Lord," Dravis replied. "She is... distraught. She insists she had no knowledge of the taint."
"Distraught?" Blake spat, wiping the blood from his lip. "She stood by me yesterday! She said we were going to rule this city together!"
Silas looked at Blake with a flicker of amusement. "Jazmin is a Sterling. She knows where her loyalty lies. She has already agreed to the 'Purification.' She will marry Garrett Hawthorne within the month to mend the rift between our houses and prove our commitment to the Light."
The words hit Blake harder than the physical blow. Garrett Hawthorne? The brute I just humbled? The image of Jazmin's radiant smile from the previous night flashed in his mind, now feeling like a poisoned needle.
"You can't do this," Blake whispered.
"I can do whatever is necessary to preserve the Sterling legacy," Silas said. He looked at Thomas. "Your father has already signed the confession. He admits to the deception. He admits to the 'Dark Arts' used to accelerate your growth."
"I didn't sign anything!" Thomas yelled, suddenly standing up. "You tortured it out of my hands while I was unconscious!"
Silas ignored him, looking back at Blake. "You are a fascinating specimen, Blake. To reach the 5th layer with such a tainted origin... the Elders want to know how the Void-Seed interacts with the Flesh Tempering process. We won't kill you yet. We will extract the essence of your cultivation, layer by layer, to see how it can be used for our own disciples."
"You're going to cripple him," Thomas whispered, his face going pale.
"I am going to 'reclaim' what belongs to the Sterling Clan," Silas corrected.
He turned and walked toward the door. "Dravis, begin the first extraction. Start with the marrow. I want to see how that essence we gave him has bonded with his 'shadow' blood."
"As you command, My Lord," Dravis said, stepping forward. He held a long, thin needle made of black bone—an Extraction Spike.
The enforcers stepped in, holding Blake's head and torso still against the stone wall. Thomas tried to rush forward, but a guard struck him with the pommel of a sword, sending him crumpled back into the corner.
"Look at me, boy," Dravis said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "This is going to hurt. But don't worry. You've always been a genius. I'm sure you'll find a way to endure."
Blake struggled, his muscles straining against the Spirit-Iron chains until his skin began to tear. He felt the cold tip of the black bone needle press against the base of his spine.
"Stop!" Blake roared. "Silas! I am still a Harrison! My father served you for twenty years!"
The only response was the sound of the iron door clanging shut.
Dravis leaned in, his weight behind the needle. Crunch.
Blake's scream was a raw, primal sound that tore through the silence of the dungeon. It wasn't just physical pain; it felt as though his very soul were being hooked and pulled through a needle's eye. The 5th-layer energy he had so carefully cultivated—the strength in his bones, the resilience in his muscles—began to flow toward the spike.
He felt the density of his marrow vanishing. He felt his bones becoming brittle, his muscles losing their vibrant hum. The silver edge of his potential was being systematically shattered.
In the corner, Thomas Harrison watched his son's agony, his own sobs lost in Blake's screams.
Hours passed. Or perhaps it was days. In the windowless cell, time had no meaning. Blake drifted in and out of consciousness, his body a map of agony. Every time he woke, Dravis or another enforcer was there, the black bone needle ready for another "extraction."
They took his 5th layer. Then they took his 4th.
By the time they reached the 3rd layer—the tempering of the skin—Blake could no longer scream. He hung from the chains, his body limp, his breathing a shallow, fluttering mess. His skin, once radiant with the health of a genius, was now pale and translucent, mapped with the blue veins of a dying man.
He was no longer the hero of Thousand Blade City. He was a "shadow-spawn" in a cage, a failed experiment being picked apart by scavengers.
One evening—or what he assumed was evening—the door opened again. This time, it wasn't the guards. A figure in a hooded cloak stepped into the cell.
Blake raised his head with an effort that felt like moving a mountain. Through the haze of pain, he saw a pair of familiar boots.
"Jazmin?" he whispered, his voice a ghost of its former self.
The hood was pulled back, revealing Jazmin's beautiful face. She looked perfect—her hair was coiffed, her skin was clear, and she wore a dress of fine silk. But her eyes were cold. There was no pity in them, only a distant, clinical curiosity.
"I came to see if it was true," she said, her voice as smooth as ever. "My grandfather said you were a hollow shell now. He was right."
"Jazmin... why?" Blake reached out a trembling, shackled hand. "The festival... the things you said..."
"I said what a Sterling wife should say to a Sterling genius," she replied, stepping back so his fingers couldn't touch her hem. "But you aren't a genius, Blake. You're a mistake. A lie. Do you know how much embarrassment you've caused me? I had to beg my grandfather to let me marry Garrett just to wash the stain of your name off my reputation."
"Garrett?" Blake coughed, blood flecking his chin. "You... you hate him. You called him a brute."
"He's a brute with pure blood," she snapped. "And he's a 6th-layer champion now. He'll provide the Sterling Clan with strong heirs. You? You would have given me shadows."
She reached into a small pouch and pulled out a single honey-cake—the kind they had eaten together at the festival only days ago. She looked at it for a moment, then dropped it into the filth near Blake's feet.
"Consider it a final gift, Blake Harrison," she said, turning toward the door. "Don't bother trying to survive the next extraction. The Elders have decided that the 1st layer—the foundation of the flesh—is where the Void-Seed is most concentrated. They're going to take it all tomorrow."
"Jazmin!" Blake called out, but the iron door slammed shut, the sound final and absolute.
Blake looked down at the honey-cake in the dirt. A small, hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest, turning into a racking cough. This was the woman he had intended to protect. This was the clan he had bled for.
In the corner, Thomas Harrison hadn't moved. Blake realized with a jolt of horror that his father's chest was no longer rising. Thomas had died in the night, his heart likely failing from the combination of the guards' blows and the sheer weight of his despair.
Blake was alone. He was broken. He was "trash."
He felt a strange, cold sensation in the center of his chest. It wasn't the pain of the extractions. It was something deeper. Something that had been sleeping beneath the 5th-layer energy, hidden even from his own awareness.
The "Void-Seed."
As his physical body reached its absolute limit, as his martial foundation was stripped away, the seed began to stir. It didn't feel like the vibrant, warm energy of the Sterling Gale. It felt like a vacuum—a silent, infinite hunger.
Power? Hah! Power is just how loud your blood screams.
The words didn't come from his own mind. They were a rasp, a vibration that seemed to echo from the very marrow they had tried to steal.
Blake closed his eyes. He didn't focus on the pain, or the chains, or the cold body of his father. He focused on that hunger in his chest. He focused on the memory of the silver bowl turning grey.
If he was a demon, he would be a demon. If he was a shadow, he would be the darkness that swallowed the light.
He took a slow, agonizing breath. The Spirit-Iron chains began to hum, a faint, black mist beginning to coil around the metal links.