The spiraling metal walkway seemed endless. Only the faint vibration underfoot and the ominous pulse from the core deep within the shaft confirmed she was still moving. The dark red glow from below cast twisting, leaping shadows on the corroded pipe walls, like the pulse of a lurking monster. The mark on her hand burned with a persistent, aching heat—no longer a guide, but a resonant burn synchronizing with the polluted core below.
Just as she passed a semi-open platform that might have once been an observation post, something changed.
From deep within the platform, behind a tangle of thick energy conduits, came a faint, metallic rattle.
Not the grating scrape of the Shadows, nor the minute gnawing. It was... the sound of chains!
Her body tensed instantly. The short blade slipped silently into her hand as her sharp gaze snapped toward the sound. The burning in her mark intensified sharply, as if powerfully attracted to something.
She approached cautiously, weaving around the labyrinth of discarded pipes.
The sight stole her breath.
A figure was shackled to the cold wall by chains as thick as a bowl's mouth. The chains were no ordinary metal; they were inscribed with runes of the same lineage as her Mark, but more intricate, imbued with a sense of suppression, now emitting a faint, inhibitory white light. The figure was ragged, clothes nearly fused with the surrounding filth and rust, head bowed, long hair matted, features obscured.
But what drew her eye was the figure's exposed left hand. On it, a Mark—clearly of the same origin as hers, but more complex and far dimmer—pulsed with the slow, weak rhythm of a dying heart. It was this mark that resonated with hers, causing the burning pain!
As if sensing her approach, the prisoner stirred slightly.
Then, a voice, impossibly hoarse and dry, as if unused for a millennium, rasped out with a tremor of disbelief:
"...At last... you've... come..."
Every alarm in her mind screamed. She held the blade ready, offering no reply.
The prisoner raised his head with immense, painful slowness.
Grime and filth caked his face, but his eyes—though sunken and bloodshot—still held a remnant of sharpness and... an emotion she couldn't immediately decipher. His gaze swept over her blade, then fixed, unwaveringly, on the clear, active Mark on her own left hand.
There was no hostility in that look, no plea. Instead, a bottomless weariness and a near-desperate scrutiny.
"They... gave you this 'gift'... too?" He moved cracked lips, the sound like weathered parchment rubbing together.
"Who are 'they'?" she finally spoke, her voice cold and clear in the empty observatory. "The Outer Gods? Or the ones who chained you here?"
The prisoner didn't answer directly. His gaze seemed to pass through her, fixed on some distant, painful memory.
"When the 'Furnace' boiled... I thought it was hope..." he muttered, his tone laced with bone-deep sarcasm. "The lament of the elf... was once this land's most poignant music... We thought we were forging a new order, a... more efficient future..."
His fragmented words instantly connected with the broken images she'd seen in the control node. The Furnace. The chemical weeping of the elf... This man was a participant in that forsaken project?!
"But 'Gold'... is the sweeter poison," he continued, his focus returning to the Mark on her hand, his eyes filled with a dense, incomprehensible sorrow. "Life... birth, activity, death... all become nourishment... cycling endlessly, without cease... What a... perfect harvest..."
Each word was a hammer blow to her already vague understanding of this world. The experiments of the Outer Gods, the harvesting of energy—had it penetrated every facet of existence?
"Why are you chained here?" she pressed, trying to piece it together. "Who did this?"
The prisoner's lips twisted into a ghastly approximation of a smile.
"Why?" he repeated, his eyes suddenly sharp, a hidden fury cracking through like a dormant volcano. "Because... I awoke."
He struggled violently. The inhibitory runes on the chains flared, white light biting into his flesh, drawing a stifled groan of pain. But he kept his fierce gaze on her.
"I could no longer stand by and watch the entire world, myself included, become... fodder for those 'Extraterrestrial Existences'!" His voice was ragged, filled with the fury of powerlessness. "I tried... to sever the energy flow to one sector... I wanted some people... to have a true death, at least, not... be drained dry and... thrown back into this eternal cage!"
His words exploded in her mind like thunder. True death? Eternal cage? Did the Golden Mark system established by the Outer Gods control even the end of life and its cycle?
"And then?" Her voice held an unconscious tension. This prisoner wasn't a lackey of the gods, but an... awakened rebel?
"Then?" The prisoner let out a bleak laugh, the light in his eyes fading rapidly, replaced by a near-apathy. "Then, my most trusted lieutenant, the man I called brother, the one who swore with me to find a way out... he gave me this. From behind."
He turned slightly, revealing a long-healed but still vicious, charred wound near his ribs. The edges of the wound faintly retained a trace of the same suppressive energy that emanated from the chains.
"He said..." the prisoner's voice dropped to a near-whisper, carrying a soul-freezing chill, "'Maintain the status quo. At least we live. At least there is still a chance.'... He handed me over to the Keepers, in exchange for... his continued existence within this system."
Betrayal.
So naked. So brutal. From the one he trusted most, for the chance to survive in this twisted system.
In that moment, she felt she could understand how this man's ideals had crumbled, how his world had been shattered by the one he trusted most. It wasn't just physical imprisonment; it was the utter destruction of belief. The despair in his eyes was so profound it threatened to drag her down into the abyss with him.
She looked at his shackled Mark, kin to her own, then at the still-'active' one on her hand. A chill crawled up her spine. Was the 'key' she held merely a tool, in others' eyes, to maintain this cruel 'status quo'? Where was that betraying lieutenant now? Had he... become one of the Keepers?
A dead silence fell over the observatory, broken only by the ominous hum from the shaft's core and the faint sizzle of the inhibitory runes.
She stood before this prisoner forgotten by time, the short blade in her hand feeling heavier than ever before.
She was no longer facing just shadowy monsters and ruins, but the tip of a vast, rotten iceberg of a system, steeped in betrayal and despair. And she, bearing this Mark symbolizing both 'gift' and 'shackle'—where was she to go?
Become the next 'awakened' one to be purged? Or... be forced to become part of this eternal harvesting system?
The weight of the choice had never been so clear, nor so suffocating.
The gaze of the Keepers fell upon her like tangible golden chains. It wasn't an inquiry, but a confirmation. Confirming the 'legitimacy' of the Mark on her hand, her 'anomalous' presence here, and... the 'potential contamination' represented by her brief exchange with the prisoner.
No warning. No interrogation.
One of the Keepers merely raised his hand, the one orbited by the miniature golden Mark, and pressed it downward, gently, toward her.
Huummm—!
An immaterial, yet mountain-heavy force descended! It wasn't a physical impact, but a suppression acting upon the space around her, upon her connection to the golden light—a suppression of rules.
The glow from her Mark, which had been resonating obediently, suddenly stuttered, as if smothered by an invisible hand. All its activity, all its connections, were forcibly severed in an instant. The feeling was like a fish thrown out of water, a bird with broken wings—a primal, instinctual suffocation gripped her throat.
She tried to raise her blade, to summon the Mark's meager power, but her arms felt filled with lead. The Mark no longer offered warm power, but a cold, searing pain of being severed from the root. The fragile connection she had forged with this land, with this energy system, had been effortlessly severed by the Keepers with absolute authority.
She was like an instrument abruptly unplugged, all her extraordinary abilities gone, leaving only the weakness of mortal flesh.
The Keepers didn't even grant her another glance. Their attention returned to the prisoner. To them, she, the accidental intruder, was no longer a variable, just a minor interference to be dealt with later.
The chanting rose again, sonorous and solemn.
Two Keepers stepped forward. The miniature Marks in their hands blazed, projecting two solid beams of golden light that enveloped the thick chains binding the prisoner.
Click... Crack...
The inhibitory runes on the chains went out, one by one. Then, the chains themselves, like living things, began to writhe and unlock, groaning with the sound of heavy metal. But this release was not freedom.
The prisoner's body was slowly lifted by the two golden beams, suspended in mid-air. He offered no resistance, merely closed his eyes within the pure golden radiance, the sarcastic twist of his lips deepening, as if in silent accusation against this so-called 'sanctity'.
His body began to turn translucent.
Not vanishing, but a... refinement.
The energy constituting his flesh, bones, even his soul, was being forcibly extracted and stripped away by the golden beams. Wispy strands of dim energy, tinged with his personal imprint and 'rebellious' hue, were drawn out like polluted water being purified, then rapidly broken down and assimilated within the golden light, merging into the sacred radiance, becoming a minuscule nutrient for the great order's operation.
And where his heart had been, a single, most pure, most dazzling point of golden light was being condensed and extracted. It was the core of his life, the most fundamental thread of golden energy from his 'defective' Mark. It was being reclaimed, like precious metal being smelted from a discarded component.
The process was quiet, orderly, filled with a kind of terrifying, ritualistic beauty. No screams, no bloodshed, only the absolute calm of energy being 'corrected', being 'returned to the proper path'. Within this boundless sacred light and solemn chant, an individual who had once awakened and sought to rebel was being utterly erased, transformed into fuel to maintain this eternal illusion.
She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Not from physical restraint, but from the bone-deep chill and powerlessness evoked by the scene before her.
She had thought the Mark was power, a key. Now she understood it was also a shackle, a brand. Possessing it didn't mean you held power; it only meant you were incorporated into the system. And the system's controllers could revoke everything granted to you at any time, even turning you yourself into consumable fuel for the system's operation.
The so-called 'choice' had never existed. The moment she was branded, she was already on the board. Whether she became an obedient piece or a sacrificed pawn was never her decision to make.
The prisoner's form grew fainter, the core golden point brighter.
Her sense of value was ground to dust before this cold reality. Anger? Resentment? In the face of such absolute disparity in power and rule-based suppression, these emotions seemed pathetically pale.
What could she do? Charge forward, with her now-mortal body, and crash against these Keeper incarnations?
It would be suicide, and meaningless.
Her fingers dug into her palms, nails breaking the skin, the sharp pain forcing a sliver of clarity into her chaotic, despairing mind.
Survive.
A most primitive, most instinctive thought, like the last straw clutched in a storm, rose from the depths of despair.
Only by surviving could she see more. Only by surviving could she possibly... verify the prisoner's words, find the cracks beneath this 'sacred' order.
Slowly, very slowly, she took a step backward. Deeper into the pipe shadows at the observatory entrance, even though she knew these shadows were useless against the pervasive golden light. But she needed the motion, to tell herself she hadn't given up.
The Keepers, focused on the sacrificial rite, seemed not to notice her retreat, or simply didn't care.
Her gaze swept one last time over the prisoner's now almost fully transparent form, outlined only by a dazzling golden point.
She memorized his eyes, that mix of sarcasm, sorrow, and final, resigned despair.
She memorized every detail of this 'sacred' sacrifice, the cold crushing of an individual beneath the great radiance.
Then, she turned around.
Away from the inevitable final act. Away from the suffocating powerlessness.
She began to run, upward, along the spiraling walkway. Not a flight, but a retreat. The Mark's power was temporarily void, but her legs could still run, her eyes could still observe, her will had not yet been utterly washed away by this golden tide.
The clues weren't severed. They had become clearer, more brutal, because of this sacrifice. They pointed to the cold, core logic of this Golden Order—compliance did not ensure prosperity, but defiance guaranteed annihilation.
And she, this accidental variable, this 'vessel' with her power stripped, had to find a path... of her own. Before the system 'processed' her.
The cold metal walkway stretched before her, each footstep echoing faintly in the vast shaft structure, a mirror to her own frantic heartbeat. The mark on her hand remained dormant, the void left by the forcibly severed power gnawing at her will. But she couldn't stop. Once the Keepers finished with the prisoner, she was next.
She stopped descending. Instead, relying on a vague memory of the architecture, she climbed upward, searching for any possible crack, any gap not fully monitored. The sacred golden light in the air hadn't fully receded, but its warmth was gone, leaving only a surveillant's chill.
At a partially collapsed pipe junction, aged by eons, she found a maintenance closet, mostly buried. It was filled with discarded instruments and broken components, all covered in thick dust. Beside an ancient device with a cracked shell and exposed crystalline internals, she found scattered fragments of a peculiar slate. Different from the common rune-stones outside, these were etched with older, more abstract energy flow diagrams, and some... anatomical schematics of the Mark itself.
The fragments were incomplete, the information shattered. But she could just make out that the depicted Mark wasn't a monolithic block. Inside, there seemed to be several key "nodes" or "interfaces" connected to a more fundamental energy flow, one not entirely controlled from the outside. Faint annotations used archaic terms unlike the current Golden Mark system. One word recurred, meaning "Heart-Source" or "Autonomous Frequency."
A wild thought flashed through her mind: Was the Mark's power not wholly bestowed and controlled from 'above'? Was it itself just an access point, one the current system had forcibly 'calibrated' to a single, controlled channel? If she could find a way, even temporarily, to adjust this 'frequency'...
She clutched the most crucial fragment tightly. The cold stone seemed to carry a sliver of warmth, of hope. This could be the key! The first step to breaking the shackles!
Right then—
Huummm!
That familiar, grand, and solemn resonance descended again! More intense than before!
Boundless golden light, like liquid gold, poured from above, instantly flooding the cramped space! This time, the light wasn't a backdrop; it carried a clear direction and oppressive force, like countless golden needles stabbing into her entire body, especially the Mark on her left hand!
"Urgh—Ah!"
A pained grunt escaped her as she felt her very soul being ripped from her body by the radiance. The Mark on her hand trembled violently within the gold, not in resonance, but under violent invasion, scrutiny, and locking by a force of higher authority!
She tried, following the vague diagrams on the slate fragments, to focus her mind, to sense the so-called "nodes" within the Mark, to pry loose a thread of power not belonging to this sacred glory.
There was a response!
Deep in her consciousness, beneath the overwhelming golden pressure, she seemed to truly touch a faint, wild spark within the Mark—utterly different from the external sacred power! It was fleeting, like an illusion, but it had been real.
Yet this insignificant resistance was like a stone dropped into the ocean, failing to create even a ripple.
The figures of three Keepers materialized soundlessly within the golden haze at the closet entrance. Their white masks reflected the cold gleam of the gold, their hollow gazes fixed on her, and on the slate fragment clutched in her hand.
No words. No movement.
Just their gaze caused the suppressing force acting upon her to increase exponentially! The air around her seemed to solidify into gold, pinning her firmly in place, unable to move a finger. The "wild spark" she had just touched in her mind was utterly extinguished. The Mark on her hand burned like a red-hot brand, a tearing agony surging through it as its connection to the external golden light was brutally, completely severed and sealed.
This time, it was more thorough than before. She could even feel something rooted in her very life essence being forcibly stripped away.
One of the Keepers raised his hand.
She saw the miniature Golden Mark model in his palm focus its light to an extreme.
Then, a golden beam of indescribable brilliance, carrying an absolute will of purification and annihilation, shot toward her face.
Her vision was consumed by pure gold.
Her consciousness dissolved in boundless light and heat.
The last sensations were the cold of the slate fragment in her hand, and... a distant, blurred sigh, as if from another world.
Everything returned to nothingness.
...
At that same moment, in a small village nestled in the folds of a valley at the far edge of the Fugē Àoníng ruins, where cooking smoke rose lazily into the air...
A young shepherd named Erika leaned against the peeling wall of the village's small chapel, idly chewing on a stalk of grass. The setting sun stretched his shadow long.
Suddenly, from the distant horizon, from the direction of the "Cursed Land"—Fugē Àoníng, perpetually shrouded in gloom and twisted energies—a piercing golden light beam erupted, stabbing through the cloud layer! So pure, so sacred, it jolted him even at this distance, making him straighten up unconsciously.
"The Emissaries have descended again?" he muttered, recalling the daily teachings of the chapel priest: "Sincerely accept the governance of the Auric Guard and the rule of the Auric Creed to feel the Divine Might and bathe in its Grace." This golden light was said to be a symbol of the Emissaries purifying the world's filth, demonstrating their supreme authority.
But before the awe in his heart could fully form...
Immediately after, before the first golden beam had fully faded, a second, more concentrated, sharper beam, carrying a sense of finality, shot skyward from the same location!
Two Emissary beams in a single day?
Erika stood frozen. In all his memory, such a thing had never happened.