The cave's walls rose around them like the ribs of a dead colossus—jagged, uneven, and etched with deep grooves carved by ages of sandstorms. The moment they crossed the threshold, the muted blue of twilight outside vanished, replaced by a stale darkness that pressed in on them from every direction. Only the faint glow reflecting from the open mouth of the cave traced their si
Silo was the first to break the silence.
"Oh my stars," he whispered, clutching the side of his head as if he'd just woken from a bad dream. "We're inside a cave with a crazy person. We are actually—inside a cave—with a crazy person."
Reina didn't look at him. She was too focused on Elias, whose body lay limp near the dead fireplace. They had set him down gently on the smoothest patch of rock they could find. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His eyelids twitched every few seconds, as if something behind them was clawing to get out.
The old man—bare feet scraping softly against stone—had barely acknowledged Silo's comment. He moved with a slow, deliberate gait toward a cracked clay basin half-covered by dust. He dipped a rag into it and wrung out whatever water it held. Then he returned to Elias, placing the damp cloth on the young man's forehead with an ease that suggested he had done this sort of thing many times before. Without ceremony, he pulled a small pouch from his belt, opened it, and slid what looked like dried leaves between Elias's lips.
Luke stared, eyes wide. His hands trembled at his sides. He didn't know if it was from exhaustion, hunger, or fear—maybe all of them tangled together.
"What are you doing to him?" Luke finally blurted. His voice cracked, soft and strained, but desperate.
The old man didn't look up at first. He adjusted the cloth gently, as though positioning it exactly mattered. Only once he was satisfied did he glance over his shoulder.
"I'm stabilizing him," he said casually, as if Luke had asked something obvious. "He drank from the pool. The mind recoils."
"The—what?" Luke snapped, stepping forward. "We didn't recoil—he—he—"
But he didn't know how to finish the sentence. His mind was still blank with shock. He could still hear the sound—the impossible shriek from beneath the water's surface, that distorted reflection screaming back at them. He remembered Elias stiffening, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
And now he lay here, sweating lightly, trembling, lips slightly parted as if whispering to a phantom.
The old man's expression sharpened, but he did not elaborate. He lifted a hand and motioned toward the circular hollow of ash and charcoal in front of them.
"Light the fire," he said simply. "It will warm him. Help him come back quicker."
The three exchanged looks.
Luke blinked at the fireplace. "We… don't have a starter."
"Or matches," Silo muttered.
Reina crossed her arms. "Or flint. Or whatever you're expecting."
The old man stared at them for several seconds—long enough that Luke wondered if the man had simply gone deaf. Then his brow furrowed into a puzzled frown.
"No starter?" he repeated.
Silo shrugged weakly. "Unless you've got some lying around…?"
The old man seemed offended by the idea and scoffed.
"You don't need tools. Just produce a spark," he said. "Even a small ember will do."
The three youths stared back blankly.
The old man raised his hand and held his palm out, as though demonstrating. "Channel the souule. Ignite the air. Even the lowest lineage can manage a—"
He stopped.
The look that crossed his face then wasn't anger or irritation. It was disbelief. His eyes widened, studying each of them as if they had just confessed to a crime against the natural order of existence.
"Wait," he said slowly. "You… can't?"
Luke blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Reina narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean 'souule'? Is that… a tool?"
The old man recoiled as if struck.
"No living creature in Quanxi is born without it."
His voice wasn't loud, but the words weighed enough that it felt like the cave itself swallowed them.
Silo raised a hand hesitantly. "Sir—I think you're confusing us with someone else."
The old man didn't respond. He stepped forward, leaning closer—studying their faces with unnerving scrutiny. His gaze moved between them: Reina, Luke, Silo. His eyes narrowed further with each second, as if trying to see beneath their skin.
Luke braced himself without knowing why.
The old man finally spoke, voice low and sharp like a blade brushing across stone.
"What lineage are you?"
They froze.
"Lineage?" Luke echoed.
"Yes," the old man snapped, impatience rising. "Your heritage. Which family strain runs through your blood? Where was your training? What art were you groomed into? Fire, brine, surge, marrow? Which discipline?"
Reina opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
"We're…" Luke swallowed. "We're from Orion."
That name hung in the air like a lead weight.
The old man blinked once.
"…Orion?" he repeated.
His expression shifted, but not to recognition—only confusion worsening.
"You're cityfolk?"
Luke nodded.
"We were—" he hesitated, "—given a mission. But things went wrong. We ended up past the wall. We don't know anything about… souule or fire arts or lineage or—whatever you're talking about."
The old man stared at him in silence, expression unreadable.
The only sound in the cave was Elias's ragged breathing.
After several painfully long seconds, the old man turned away and knelt beside the cold fireplace. He reached out and pinched the ash between his fingers. He rubbed it like someone handling something sentimental, something familiar. The air around him felt heavier now—not with anger, but disappointment.
Reina shifted uncomfortably.
"What does any of that matter?" she snapped finally. "We just need him to wake up. Just help him."
The old man didn't turn around.
"I asked you to light the fire," he said. "It's not complicated."
Silo spread his arms helplessly. "What do you want us to do, breathe on it?"
Now the old man did turn.
His look was subtle—but unmistakable: you absolute fools.
"Use the souule within you," he repeated firmly. "Will it into ignition. Harden the air into coal. Stir its heat. That is the natural practice."
Luke stared.
"We can't," he said, voice cracking from exhaustion and frustration.
"You can," the old man said coldly, "unless you are malformed or diseased."
Reina took a step forward. "We're not malformed. We're just—normal. Nobody in Orion does… whatever that is. We're not built for anything like that."
The old man straightened, spine creaking like old wood.
He regarded them again.
This time, his gaze wasn't confused—it was horrified.
"You mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that in your entire lives… you don't have any trace or knowledge of souule?"
Luke shook his head.
"No."
Silo joined in, quietly.
"I don't even know what that word means."
The cave felt colder.
The old man closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath—too soft to make out but unmistakably troubled.
When he opened them again, something in him had shifted. Not anger. Not pity.
A kind of haunted resignation.
He looked at them—three exhausted, trembling, dirt-covered youths—and he had the expression of someone staring at the aftermath of a tragedy they didn't yet understand.
He exhaled once.
Then, with a tone that was neither gentle nor cruel, he asked:
"Tell me clearly—what lineage do you come from? And what are you doing out here?"