Hao Wei wiped black grease from his lips. The Dusk-Dew veins above flickered weakly, casting uneven light on the sludge-streaked walls. Every breath tasted of wet iron and rot. This wasn't a mountain peak meditation; it was a hole at the bottom of the Vertical Scar.
Feng Zhen crouched over a copper gauge. "0.2 percent drop in essence stability," he muttered, tapping his ink-stained fingers. Lu Di swung his pickaxe beside Hao Wei, copying his movements without thought.
The Dusk-Dew blackened. The Exhale was coming. Hao Wei felt the Glutton-Leech in his stomach shriek as it shrank under the vacuum. His Aperture ached, essence siphoning out like water through a straw.
A scream cut through the mine. A rival Sifter's foot was trapped under a collapsing beam.
Feng Zhen froze. "We could… calculate a rescue…"
Lu Di waited, pickaxe ready.
Hao Wei ignored them. The Year-Stones scattered on the floor were more valuable than a stranger's life. He snatched the pouch. Efficiency mattered. Survival mattered. Result mattered.
The air ripped out of the tunnel. Walls groaned, sludge slid, pickaxes rattled. Feng Zhen coughed, clutching his gauge. Lu Di swung blindly. Hao Wei pushed forward, each step a battle against the Exhale, each heartbeat drawing him closer to crystallization.
The Safety Seal of the Sect's gates appeared. They stumbled through just as the mine behind them collapsed. Outside, the world was a vacuum of crystallized death. Anything left behind was now a deposit, an entry in the Vertical Scar's predatory ledger.
Hao Wei counted the Year-Stones. Ten. Quota met. The Greater Result achieved. Morality was irrelevant. Sentiment was irrelevant. Survival and calculation—nothing else mattered in a world that devoured everything, even time.