Deep within the Rocky Mountains, beneath layers of ancient granite
Most believe the world is what can be seen—Rothschild wealth, Freemason symbols, the Vatican's secret archives. Yet true history is always written in the places no one looks.
Deep beneath the oldest granite layers of the North American continental plate, folded into spaces no modern drill could ever reach, the "Chamber of Entropy" has existed for more than three thousand years. Its name has never surfaced in any historical record, yet at every pivotal moment of human civilization—the night before the Trojan Horse was drawn into the gates, the hour Tutankhamun's tomb was sealed, the third dawn of the Great Fire of Rome—grey-robed figures have stood in the shadows, recording something.
They do not seek wealth. When one's life is measured in centuries, gold and dirt are fundamentally the same.
They do not seek power. After witnessing seven empires rise and fall, a throne is but a fleeting seat on a carousel.
The Chamber of Entropy seeks something deeper—the conversion rate between universal order and chaos, the ultimate reversal of life's entropy, and… the most foundational code known as rules.
Here, the air hung cold and still, tasting of ozone and ancient stone. In a cavern so vast its ceiling vanished into darkness, azure crystals pulsed with a low, hypnotic light, throwing elongated, warped shadows across rough-hewn walls. Dozens of figures stood in silent rows, faces hidden deep within grey hoods, their quiet more unnerving than any sound.
At the center of a stone dais, Samuel stood with his back to the assembly. He still wore that shabby coat, a stark contrast to the subterranean cathedral surrounding him.
A grey robe slid silently forward, dropping to both knees at the dais' edge, forehead nearly grazing the cold rock. His body trembled faintly—not from cold, but from terror and forced obsequiousness woven together.
"Master," the voice came, a deliberately muted whimper. "Target Bing-Wu Seven-Three… has new developments."
The grey-robed man, Cassiel, drew a deep breath, forcing his tone into its most sycophantic register. "He has recently completed his first successful forced coupling of multiple rule fragments! He took the seemingly contradictory concepts you bestowed, fused them by force like some ancient alchemist, and produced… a physical pill radiating a life-nourishing property!"
He stole a glance upward, trying to catch any shift in Samuel's stance, but saw only stillness. He hurriedly bowed his head, words quickening. "Your vision spans the ages, Master! This act of grinding against the grain of the rules—the Source Resonance it produced—is forty-seven percent more efficient than the standard host model predicts! It is practically drawing out fundamental essence for you!"
The old man turned slowly. The ordinary lines of his face were etched with an ancient, predatory interest. This was Samuel.
Cassiel, as if encouraged, straightened his posture a fraction. "The second matter… He used this newly forged thing to save an elder who should have died of natural decay. Pulled the man back from death's edge." He licked his dry lips unconsciously.
Samuel gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"And the first—in that Zone of Unordered Chaos in Los Angeles, he unleashed no widespread destruction, but played mind games!" Cassiel's tone grew even more fawning. "He has begun channeling that Qi into close combat, and has subdued the local power."
Finished, Cassiel pressed himself fully to the ground, awaiting his master's word.
Samuel's lips curved into something that was not a smile.
"His efficiency as a vessel improves," Samuel murmured, more to himself. "He forges the scraps I give him into weapons that cut deeper into this world's fabric. The more he strains against his limits, the more fragments he extracts for me."
He waved a hand.
Cassiel retreated backward, dissolving into the silent ranks.
Samuel turned and walked toward a section of rock that slid open noiselessly as he approached. The passage descended, the air thickening with the cloying scents of iron and something sweetly rotten. The door sealed behind him. The only sound was the desperate, ragged breathing of seven men and women chained to the cold floor of the inner sanctum.
Their pleas began as whimpers. "Please… we did as you said… we used the luck…"
Whimpers sharpened into screams as Samuel began his work, a low hum vibrating through the stone. Screams twisted into curses. "You demon! You led us here!"
One man's voice, with his final breath, shrieked, "It was you! Step by step—" The voice cut off.
The hum faded. A dull crimson glow receded from the intricate markings on the floor. In the inner room, the seven still stood. To look at them, they were unharmed, clothes intact. But their eyes were utterly hollow, every expression wiped from their faces, as if all inner substance had been vacuumed out in an instant, leaving only standing husks.
Samuel scanned these vessels with indifference, then turned and left.