The healers smelled of herbs and stale incense. Their chambers were quiet, lined with shelves of dried roots, jade bottles, and scrolls scrawled with old scripts.
I sat on the wooden bench, shoulders slouched, breathing shallow—every motion calculated weakness.
Three healers circled me, their robes white but their eyes sharper than scalpels. At their head was Elder-Healer Lysandra, her face carved with wrinkles, her pupils clouded by years of staring at things most men couldn't survive.
"Damien Veyra," she rasped. "You are to swear the Healer's Oath: speak no falsehood of your condition. Any deception will rupture the spirit threads within your meridians. Do you accept?"
I lowered my gaze, letting my voice crack.
"Yes, Elder."
The oath wasn't absolute. Spirit-threads bound truth only to what they could sense. Which meant… the System's shadow could slip through.
The cold whisper echoed within me.
[Module: Veil of Hollow Flesh – Active][Your meridians appear fractured. Your qi channels mimic decay.][Falsification complete.]
A chill raced down my skin. Even I could feel the illusion—hollow, rotting, the same sensation that had once branded me as a cripple.
Perfect.
Lysandra's hand pressed to my wrist. Qi trickled into me, probing, searching for the truth of my body.
Her brow furrowed.
"…shattered dantian. Meridians… clogged. Spirit channels… hollow."
Another healer leaned close, whispering, "He shouldn't be walking."
I forced a bitter laugh. "I shouldn't be alive either. Yet here I sit."
Their murmurs grew louder. To them, I was still trash—if anything, worse than before.
The System pulsed silently in my mind. No smugness, no praise. Only the same mechanical stillness, as if it waited for me to fall.
Then Lysandra's touch lingered on my chest. Her cloudy eyes sharpened.
"…Strange."
For a heartbeat, I felt it—the veil flicker. A pulse of abyssal hunger pressed against her spirit sense, eager to consume.
Her eyes widened slightly.
But the System's chill swept across me like a tide.
[Stability increased. Detection: Nullified.]
The pulse vanished.
Lysandra blinked, frowning, uncertain whether she'd imagined it. Then she pulled her hand away.
"Pitiful. His condition is irreparable. Mark him as useless for cultivation."
The words were final, sealing the illusion.
I bowed my head low to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
Good. Let them write me off. The lower their guard, the sharper my blade will strike.
As I left the chamber, the threads above shimmered faintly. A golden strand brushed the air, trailing after me like a hound on the scent.
Heaven was still watching.
And I was still hungry.