The chamber ahead stretched wider. It wasn't a room. It was a facility, carved deep into the iron belly of the dungeon.
Rows upon rows of transparent, tube-like pillars lined the chamber, each pulsing faintly with a soft, unnatural glow. Inside these tubes, prisoners were being inserted like ingredients into a machine. And just like ingredients, they were processed.
One prisoner—a willowy spirit wreathed in translucent wisps of violet and silver—was gently pushed into the open maw of a tube. As it hissed shut around her, a low, trembling cry echoed from within—not of pain. Not yet.
But because she remembered what's coming.
Inside the tube, pale blue veins of arcane light surged upward from the base, weaving through her ephemeral form like invasive roots. Her cry climbed—high, fractured, then vanished into silence. A spectral mist—her soul's essence—spiraled upward, drawn into a crystalline core nestled atop the structure. The core shimmered… then crystallized… and a dull-blue spirit stone dropped with a soft clink into the tray below.
The tube hissed open again.
She emerged.
Still drifting.
But no longer sentient.
Her eyes, once radiant with inner light, now flickered dimly. Her features, once fluid and expressive, sagged into a mask of hollow obedience. Her form, though still glowing faintly, had faded—thinned, frayed, stripped of will.
An echo of what once lived.
A soul-husk turned into fuel.
She floated forward on silent limbs and joined the others—spirit remnants already harvested, condemned to linger in the line of the used.
Zen shivered. His breath caught.
The process continued, one after another—men, women, creatures. Some fought. Some screamed. Some knelt and begged.
But all met the same fate.
And the guards—those dreadful watchers—stood beside every tube. They looked almost regal, like knights of some grotesque empire. Their white armor was ornate, polished to an obscene sheen, shaped with thick plates that made them look both ceremonial and crushing. One held a long iron staff topped with a bulb-like device, glowing faintly with restraining magic. A crimson plume jutted from their helmet, regal and mocking.
They didn't speak.
They didn't show emotion.
They only acted.
A wraith-like figure tore from the line, its luminous form flickering erratically as it surged toward the far gate in a blind panic.
The nearest guard moved. Not with speed, but with certainty. His bulk shouldn't have allowed it—but the staff came down with a sound like thunder. The prisoner collapsed. Two guards dragged him back, limp and sobbing. He was placed into the next tube, and the process began anew.
The stone clinked.
The body emerged.
Hollow.
And on it went.
Zen couldn't look away.
This wasn't punishment. This wasn't prison.
This was a harvest.
The Iron Maw wasn't just a name.
It ate.
Ellie stood in front of Zen, her expression soft, but her eyes weighed down by sorrow. She watched the next prisoner step into a tube, the glow intensifying for a brief moment before fading with another hollow clink of spirit stone.
"It's a spirit mine," she said quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the low hum of the extraction tubes.
Zen turned to her, disoriented. "A… what?"
"A spirit mine," she repeated, her tone heavier now. "Mining spirit stones from the Spirit Realm itself is unstable, dangerous. So they found another way."
She gestured to the rows of prisoners and the tubes that devoured them one by one.
"Every prisoner here," she continued, "is a spiritual being of Spirit Realm. Some high-born. Some wild. Some like you."
Her words chilled him more than the air.
"It's easier to harvest spirit stones this way. These tubes are designed to extract spirit energy directly from living hosts. The more essence you have… the more valuable you are. So they keep you alive. Hollow. Dry. But alive."
His heart pounded.
"They keep feeding the mine," Ellie continued, "and the mine keeps feeding Vespara."
Zen took a step back, the bile rising in his throat.
"Don't fight the pull when it's your turn," Ellie said suddenly, looking up at him with fierce seriousness. "When the tube closes around you… don't resist. Don't tighten your soul. Let the energy flow."
"What?" he whispered, barely believing what he was hearing.
"If you resist, it hurts more. The tube will rip it from you forcefully. But if you surrender to it, it takes only what it's calibrated to. Enough to feed Vespara's quotas—but not enough to kill you."
She placed a hand gently on his forearm, grounding him. "I've seen many go mad trying to hold onto every drop of their essence. Some shattered. Others became… less than husks."
"Then why aren't you—?"
"I am," she said quietly, a sad smile curling on her lips. "Just more intact than most."
Zen stared into her eyes. And for a fleeting second, he saw someone who hadn't given up yet. Not fully.
"I know it's cruel," she whispered. "I know it's wrong. But right now… surviving is all we can do."
Another scream erupted as a tube sealed again. Another stone dropped. Another husk stumbled out.
And Zen swallowed down the rising dread.
Because his turn would come.
And the Iron Maw never skipped a meal.
His turn came.
A guard pointed silently toward the open tube. Zen stepped forward, his legs heavy, each step a protest. The floor beneath him was slick with the residue of spirit—ash and dust from those who had already passed through.
He looked at Elli. She nodded once, her gaze calm, but her eyes shimmered with something he couldn't name. Pity, maybe. Or regret.
The guard grunted and pushed him lightly. The touch of the armored hand felt like a mountain had nudged him. Zen stumbled inside the tube.
The door sealed behind him with a hiss.
Immediately, he felt it.
A force—vast, ancient, and hungry—wrapped around his body, seeping into him. His veins lit up like molten gold, his body trembling as if it was trying to hold back a sea.
He remembered Elli's words: Don't resist. Let the spirit power flow.
He closed his eyes.
It started slowly. A warm draw, almost soothing… but then, it grew sharper, faster. His very essence—his soul—was being unraveled strand by strand. His memories flickered behind his eyes like dying fireflies.
He bit down on a scream.
Outside, the tube pulsed faintly. A faint blue glow gathered at the top, forming a small, smooth crystal—his spirit stone.
He felt pain—so much of it, he couldn't put it into words. It wasn't just in his body, but in something deeper… his spirit, his essence. Like something inside him had been wrung out and left to dry in a place with no sun.
He stumbled slightly as he emerged from the tube, breath shallow, limbs trembling.
A guard stood waiting. Without a word, it shoved a small vial into his hands.
The potion inside was a thick, dark liquid—almost black, but with a sickly green sheen that shimmered when the light hit it wrong. It clung to the inside of the glass like oil, slow and heavy, as if it didn't want to be consumed.
It didn't bubble or steam. It just sat there—dense, unmoving—like it had a mind of its own.
A faint, bitter smell rose from the mouth of the vial. Like scorched herbs, wet stone, and something faintly sweet… like decay dressed in perfume. Zen's stomach twisted.
The guard didn't explain. He didn't need to.
Zen raised the vial to his lips. The moment the liquid touched his tongue; it was like swallowing a shadow. Cold. Sharp. Alive. It slid down like tar, leaving a trail of cold fire in its wake.
But the pain… began to dull.
His strength crept back slowly hollow and unstable, but enough to walk.
Whatever that potion was… it didn't heal. It simply forced the body to keep going.
Ellie walked beside him, her eyes catching the strain on his face.
"Don't worry," she said softly. "It will get better… once your spirit energy starts to return."
They walked in silence, the cold stone floor echoing beneath their weary steps.
Zen trailed behind the others, still tasting the bitter residue of the potion on his tongue. It left a numbness in his chest—not quite relief, not quite warmth. Just enough to keep him standing.
The corridor twisted and turned like the throat of some vast beast, lit dimly by flickering spirit-lamps embedded in the iron walls. The air smelled of rust, ash, and something more subtle—like forgotten dreams left to rot.
Finally, they reached their cell.
It wasn't a room. It was a cage. Bars thick as tree trunks lined the front, and the interior was carved into the iron wall itself, like the hollowed maw of some ancient creature. Damp. Cold. Unwelcoming.
Zen stepped inside last. The door groaned shut behind him with a metallic finality.
Zen slumped against the wall, his limbs heavy, breath shallow. Every muscle ached like it had been wrung dry, his spirit still trembling from the extraction. The potion dulled the pain, but not the exhaustion. It was the kind of tired that went beyond flesh—bone-deep, soul-deep.
Elli approached quietly, her hooved steps soft against the cold floor.
She knelt beside him, her gentle eyes meeting his. As she placed a hand on his forehead, warmth seeped into him—soft and soothing, like sunlight filtering through water.
After a while, she withdrew her hand and whispered,
"You should sleep," her voice tender, almost maternal. "Your spirit needs time to mend. The first day is always the hardest."
Zen tried to respond, but only a whisper came out—half a breath, half a thought. He nodded instead.
Elli gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. No one will bother you here."
She stood and returned to her corner.
Zen lay down on the cold stone, curled slightly, arms tucked close to his body. He didn't even realize when his eyes closed.
Sleep took him like the tide—quiet, slow, and dark.
For the first time in a long while, he slept without nightmares.