The leather whip whistled through the dank air, aimed straight for Chen Fan's already battered face. Time seemed to slow. Adrenaline, sharp and cold, burned through the haze of pain. *Left leg weak. Old injury. Western Expedition.* The knowledge wasn't just memory; it felt etched into his soul, confirmed by the faint red glow around Bao's right knee in his system-enhanced vision.
Chen Fan didn't try to dodge back – the chains held him fast to the wall. Instead, he threw his weight *forward*, towards the descending blow, as much as the chains allowed. It was a desperate, counter-intuitive move.
The whip cracked, but instead of striking his cheekbone full force, the tip grazed his shoulder and snapped against the stone wall behind him. The unexpected movement threw Bao slightly off-balance, his weight instinctively shifting onto his supposedly good right leg. A sharp gasp escaped him as the old injury flared.
*Now!*
Chen Fan acted purely on instinct, fueled by panic and authorial insight. As Bao winced and momentarily favored his left leg again, Chen Fan lashed out with his own right foot. He wasn't aiming to kick the guard; he was aiming for the loose straw and filth scattered on the dungeon floor directly in front of Bao's unstable right foot.
His shin connected painfully with the ground, scraping skin, but he succeeded in kicking a small mound of damp, slippery refuse right under Bao's boot.
Bao, already unbalanced from the whip recoil and his flaring knee pain, stepped down onto the slick mess. His boot slid violently forward. His arms windmilled, a comical look of utter surprise replacing his fury. He crashed backwards with a heavy thud, landing hard on his backside, the whip flying from his grasp and skittering across the stones.
The second guard, who had been lounging by the door with a bored expression, stared open-mouthed. "Bao? What in the heavens—?"
Chen Fan didn't wait. He scrambled, chains clanking furiously, his body screaming in protest. He stretched his manacled hands towards the fallen whip, fingers straining. Inches away. Bao was already roaring, struggling to get up, his face purple with rage and humiliation.
"Grab him, you idiot!" Bao bellowed at the other guard.
The second guard, a younger man named Hu, snapped out of his stupor and lunged forward, drawing a short cudgel from his belt.
Chen Fan's fingertips brushed the rough leather of the whip handle. He closed his hand around it just as Hu reached him. He had no skill, no strength, but he had momentum and desperation. Instead of trying to stand or swing the whip properly, he yanked it back towards himself with all his might as Hu grabbed for his tunic.
The sudden pull, combined with Hu's forward momentum, caused the younger guard to stumble awkwardly over Chen Fan's outstretched legs. Hu crashed face-first into the slimy stone wall beside the chained author with a sickening crunch and a muffled groan, then slumped to the floor, unconscious or stunned.
Bao was back on his feet, limping but murderous, drawing a cruel-looking dagger from his boot. "You little snake! I'll carve you up!"
Chen Fan stared at the dagger, then at the unconscious Hu, then back at Bao. He had the whip, but he was still chained, injured, and facing an armed, enraged cultivator – even a low-level one like a sect guard was leagues above a mortal like current Li Chen. His brief victory tasted like ashes. He'd bought seconds, not freedom.
Suddenly, a voice, soft but laced with steel, came from the cell bars. "That's enough, Bao."
A young woman stood in the corridor, backlit by the torches. She wore simple grey disciple robes of the Verdant Peak Sect, but they couldn't hide her delicate features – large, almond-shaped eyes currently narrowed in disapproval, high cheekbones, and lips pressed into a thin line. Her long black hair was tied back severely. Chen Fan recognized her instantly: **Su Qing'er**, the herbalist's apprentice. A minor character he'd written as kind-hearted, often tending to injured low-level disciples and laborers. In the original plot, she'd given Li Chen a basic healing salve before he was shipped to the mines, a small act of mercy he vaguely remembered later.
"Disciple Su!" Bao sputtered, trying to sheath his dagger clumsily. "This prisoner attacked us! He—"
"I saw," Qing'er interrupted, her gaze sweeping over the scene: Bao disheveled and limping, Hu unconscious against the wall, and Chen Fan chained, bruised, clutching a whip, his one good eye blazing with defiance and fear. Her eyes lingered on his injuries. "I saw you raise your whip to an injured, chained prisoner. I saw him defend himself. Poorly." Her voice held no warmth.
"He insulted the sect! He resisted transfer!" Bao blustered.
Qing'er stepped into the cell, ignoring Bao. She knelt gracefully beside Hu, checking his pulse with practiced fingers. "He's alive. Concussed, likely." She stood and faced Bao, her small frame radiating unexpected authority. "Elder Zhu assigned this prisoner to the mines. Not to your... *tender* mercies beforehand. If he dies before he reaches the ore caves due to your 'enthusiasm,' who do you think Elder Zhu will blame? You? Or me, the one who reported finding a guard beaten by a half-dead mortal?"
Bao paled. Elder Zhu was notoriously unforgiving of failures and even more notorious for shifting blame downwards. He glared venomously at Chen Fan but lowered the dagger fully. "Fine. But he goes to the mines. Now."
"After I assess his injuries," Qing'er stated firmly, turning towards Chen Fan. "Elder Zhu wants workers, not corpses. At least, not *immediate* corpses." Her tone was clinical, but Chen Fan caught the faintest flicker of pity in her eyes as she looked at him.
She approached cautiously. Chen Fan tensed, still clutching the whip. Qing'er stopped a few feet away. "Drop it," she said quietly but firmly. "You won't win that fight. Not today."
Chen Fan hesitated. She was right. He let the whip clatter to the floor. Qing'er knelt again, this time in front of him. She reached into a small pouch at her waist and pulled out a simple ceramic jar. The familiar, slightly bitter scent of Green Mending Salve hit Chen Fan's nostrils – a detail he'd written. She dipped her fingers into the ointment.
"This will help with the bruising and pain," she murmured, her voice low so Bao wouldn't hear. "It won't heal broken bones or internal injuries, but it will take the edge off." Her fingers, surprisingly cool and gentle, dabbed the salve onto the worst swelling around his eye and cheekbone. A faint, soothing warmth spread from the contact, momentarily easing the throbbing.
As she worked, her eyes met his. Close up, he saw intelligence and a deep weariness in them. "Li Chen, was it?" she whispered. "The one with the... unfortunate Spirit Root?"
Chen Fan managed a slight nod, the movement sending fresh spikes of pain through his neck. Her proximity, her unexpected kindness amidst the brutality, was a lifeline he hadn't anticipated. He knew Qing'er's future – she had a hidden talent for spirit herb refinement, overlooked because of her low birth within the sect. She was destined to become a valuable, if minor, ally later for Li Chen. Could she be one now?
He needed information. He needed leverage. "The mines..." he rasped, his voice raw. "They're a death sentence, aren't they? Li Feng... Elder Zhu..."
Qing'er's fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted towards Bao, who was muttering and hauling the groaning Hu to his feet. She leaned infinitesimally closer. "Keep your head down," she breathed, so softly it was almost inaudible. "Do your work. Don't draw attention. The caves... the deepest tunnels... sometimes, things are overlooked." Her gaze held his, intense and meaningful. "Even by those who wish you gone."
*Overlooked.* The word echoed. He knew what she was hinting at. The Abyssal Chasm. The route to the God-Slaying Scripture. Was she... suggesting it? Did she know?
Before he could ask, Bao limped over, dragging Hu. "Enough coddling, Disciple Su! The cart leaves at dawn. Get him ready." He roughly unlocked the manacles from the wall ring, leaving them clamped around Chen Fan's wrists, now connected by a shorter chain. He shoved a coarse sack into Qing'er's hands. "Put his things in there. Pathetic scraps."
Qing'er stood, her expression carefully neutral again. She took the sack and moved to the corner where a small bundle lay – Li Chen's meager possessions from his former life as a clan outcast. Chen Fan watched her, his mind racing. *Overlooked. Deepest tunnels.* It was a confirmation. A dangerous, terrifying lifeline thrown by an unexpected quarter.
Qing'er finished gathering the few items – a worn change of clothes, a cheap wooden comb, a small, smooth river stone (a memento of his mother, Chen Fan recalled writing). As she turned back, her sleeve brushed against the stone wall. Something small and dark, like a dried bean pod, fell silently from her hand into the filthy straw near Chen Fan's foot. She didn't look at it. She didn't look at him. She simply handed the sack to Bao.
"His possessions," she stated blandly.
Bao snatched it, sneering. He grabbed the chain linking Chen Fan's manacles. "Up, maggot! Time to earn your keep... or die trying."
Chen Fan stumbled as Bao yanked him to his feet. Agony flared anew, but the salve had taken the worst edge off. As Bao shoved him towards the cell door, Chen Fan managed to glance down. Half-buried in the muck and straw lay the object Qing'er had dropped: a single, wrinkled **Shadowmoss Seedpod**.
Recognition slammed into him. *Shadowmoss.* He'd invented it! A rare, almost mythical herb that thrived only in places thick with negative energy and profound darkness – places like the deepest, most dangerous spirit ore mines... or the edge of an Abyssal Chasm. It was a key ingredient in high-level stealth elixirs and shadow-affinity cultivation aids. Extremely valuable. And Qing'er had just given him one.
It wasn't just a hint. It was a map. A key.
Bao propelled him out into the torch-lit corridor, towards a heavy wooden door leading deeper into the mountain, away from the cells. Qing'er stood silently in the cell doorway, watching them go, her face impassive in the flickering light.
As Bao hauled him towards the unknown darkness, Chen Fan clenched his fist around the chain. The salve soothed his skin, but the seedpod's potential burned in his mind. He knew the plot. He had a system. He had a dangerous hint. And now, he had a seed.
He just had to survive the Verdant Peak Spirit Ore Mines long enough to plant it.
The heavy door groaned open, revealing a yawning blackness that swallowed the torchlight. A wave of stale, mineral-heavy air, laced with the faint, acrid tang of unstable spirit ore, washed over them. Distant echoes of clanging picks and muffled shouts drifted up from the depths. Bao gave him a final, brutal shove.
Chen Fan stumbled forward, into the oppressive dark, the chain rattling like a death knell. The last thing he saw before the door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into near-total blackness punctuated only by flickering sconces far apart on the rough-hewn walls, was the pale, watchful face of Su Qing'er disappearing as the heavy wood thudded closed, sealing him in the belly of the beast. Somewhere deep below, the mountain groaned.