Hao Wei wiped his fingers on his pants again, the black grease from the sludge-mines smeared across the soft curve of his lips. He didn't bother looking at Feng Zhen or Lu Di; their movements were predictable, their Apertures barely humming, both of them still alive, still expendable. That was the only thing that mattered. Survival. Quotas. The world didn't reward kindness—it collected debts.
The Sludge-Mine stank of wet iron and decay. Dusk-Dew veins clung to the ceiling, flickering as if they could sense the change in the air before even Hao Wei did. And they did. The color was wrong—more gray than yellow, a shadow of rot threading through the veins. It meant the Exhale was coming. The World's Breath would suck the essence out of everything in the tunnel, leaving bodies crystallized, stiff, and useless except as raw materials for the living.
Feng Zhen crouched over a copper pressure gauge, muttering numbers under his breath. "0.17… 0.18… no, it's—" He froze, teeth tapping. The gauge didn't lie. Primeval Essence density was dropping faster than expected. The Glutton-Leech in Hao Wei's gut twisted, shrieking silently, trying to feed from the decaying energy around them. Hao Wei felt the sharp pull in his Aperture, the pressure of essence draining through his body like water through a sieve.
Lu Di swung his pickaxe with a lazy rhythm, mimicking Hao Wei's grip. He didn't think about it; he never did. He just followed. Predictable. Safe. Useful. Hao Wei didn't care if Lu Di understood why. He only cared that the boy kept moving, kept digging, kept obeying.
"Three minutes," Hao Wei muttered. The world's pull was stronger now. He could feel his own shadow flicker as the Shadow Aperture shrank inside him. Each breath tasted like wet iron, heavier than the last. The air had turned into a sponge that sucked at every living cell, every ounce of Primeval Essence. The world was taking, and there was no negotiation.
Then came the scream. Not loud, not sharp—it was a wet, clanging sort of cry that bounced off the sludge walls. A Sifter from another Sect had slipped, one foot wedged between a stalagmite of crystallized Dusk-Dew and the soft sludge floor.
Feng Zhen froze mid-calculation. "We… we could—if we stabilize the air pressure—" His voice trembled. Hao Wei didn't need to look at him. He knew Feng Zhen was already imagining the formulas, the ratios, the optimal sequence for life. Too slow. Ineffective.
Lu Di tilted his head toward the trapped Sifter, waiting. Waiting for the command.
Hao Wei didn't give one. He stepped over the puddle of sludge, feeling the pull of the Exhale against his chest, against his Aperture. Every second in this mine was a second closer to crystallization, to being ground into Primeval Stones like so many unlucky souls before them. He crouched next to the fallen Sifter, saw the pouch of Year-Stones that had slipped from the trembling fingers. They clinked softly against the sludge. Ten. Maybe eleven. Enough to meet tonight's quota. Enough to keep the Sect from foreclosing on them.
Hao Wei grabbed the pouch, fingers closing over the smooth, cold stones. He didn't look back. The Sifter whimpered, stuck, the world pulling at them like a giant straw. Let them scream. Let them crystallize. That wasn't his life, and it wasn't his debt. Survival came first. Always survival.
The Exhale hit in full force. The air collapsed. Hao Wei felt the pull in his chest as though someone had shoved a fist into his Aperture and was trying to tear it out. The Glutton-Leech shrieked and shrank, its tiny body curling in pain, sucking what it could from Hao Wei's dwindling reserves. He didn't care. Every beat of his heart, every pull of essence, was a reminder: the world was a bank. They were collectors, not saviors.
Feng Zhen gripped the gauge, pale. "Hao Wei… the… the vacuum—"
"Move." Hao Wei's voice was soft but sharp. No pleading, no hesitation. Just the word that decided life or death. Lu Di mirrored the motion, pickaxe swinging, stumbling, following without thought. They slid through the sludge tunnel, dodging jagged crystals, the exhaled air trying to suck them into nothingness. Every second was a calculation, every movement a risk.
They reached the Safety Seal. The massive stone arch of the Sect's gate shimmered faintly with protective charms, pulsing as it absorbed the Exhale like a sponge. Beyond it, the mine's air snapped back into normal density, less rotten, slightly breathable. Hao Wei dropped the pouch of Year-Stones into his bag, counting quickly in his head. Enough. They were alive, and alive was profitable.
Behind them, a faint cracking noise echoed. The Sifter's foot hadn't made it. A small, wet thump followed. They were gone. The world had collected its due. Hao Wei didn't flinch. He wiped the grease from his lips again, tasted the iron tang, and exhaled.
"Next layer," he said simply, voice low. "We keep moving."
Feng Zhen looked at him, eyes wide. He wanted to lecture, to calculate, to mourn. Hao Wei ignored him. Lu Di just nodded, already imitating the tone, the posture, the decision, without thought or morality. Useful. Efficient. Alive.
The Sludge-Mines were quiet behind them now. The Dusk-Dew veins flickered, shivering as though mourning the dead, but the trio moved forward. The Scar didn't wait, and neither could they.
Primeval Essence in their Apertures hummed weakly, dirty and coarse. Year-Stones jingled in the bag. And the world, patient and indifferent, waited for them to slip again.
Because in the Vertical Scar, survival wasn't measured by victories. It was measured by debts paid and lives stolen.
And Hao Wei? He was learning how to excel at both.