"The sect law says he cannot be an Inner Disciple," Shen murmured, a thin, cruel smile forming at the corner of his scarred mouth. "But look at him. A Rank-9 body, tempered by that suicidal Asura manual. Killing him would be a waste." His grip tightened in Dver's hair, forcing his head up. "I need someone to carry my carriage. Someone to taste my wine. Someone to scrub the blood from my floors." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "He is no longer a disciple. He is property. My property."
Above, the Saintess tilted her head slightly, her gaze calm but attentive. "A Rank-9 slave, Deacon? Isn't that… dangerous? A dog with teeth that sharp might bite." Shen let out a low, dismissive laugh. "Not after I pull the teeth." From his sleeve, he produced a heavy black iron collar etched with faint crimson runes. The air around it felt wrong, dense and suffocating. With a single motion, he locked it around Dver's neck.
The smell of burning flesh spread instantly. Needles embedded within the collar drove into his neck and meridians, forcing their way into vital channels. The pain was not sharp but crushing, invasive, as if something heavy had been forced directly into his core. Dver screamed, half real, half performed.
Inside his mind, the Void stirred. "Iron around the neck," it observed, distant and unmoved. "He places a leash on something he cannot measure." Be still, Dver replied silently, his thoughts cold and precise. Let him believe it works.
His body collapsed forward, his forehead striking the ground at Shen's feet. His voice broke into something weak and desperate. "P-please… Master… it hurts…" Shen kicked him aside without hesitation. "It will stop when you learn to kneel properly." Dver rolled across the stone, coughing, struggling to rise. "Get up," Shen continued. "You're going to clean the Discipline Hall. There's a great deal of blood today."
The Discipline Hall of the Inner Sect was not built for justice. It was built for pain. While the upper courts displayed beauty, floating gardens and quiet streams, this place existed beneath them, buried in stone and iron. The air carried the scent of old blood, and the walls held sound too well. Nothing escaped easily. Dver was stripped of his robes and given a coarse black tunic marked with the character for servant. Then he was put to work.
For hours, he scrubbed. He cleaned obsidian floors darkened by stains that never fully faded. He polished iron restraints and spiked chairs. He carried buckets filled with filth, bile, saltwater, severed remnants discarded without care. Shen remained seated above it all, drinking spirit-tea and watching without interest. Occasionally, he flicked a thread of Qi toward Dver, just enough to burn, just enough to force a reaction.
To anyone watching, Dver was broken, a Rank-9 reduced to nothing, a man who had survived too long and lost everything that mattered. But beneath that, he was listening. Every report delivered by the Enforcers, every whispered conversation between slaves, every fluctuation in the flow beneath the floor. The Sect's Qi veins moved like a hidden network, and here, at this depth, they could be felt clearly.
Inside his mind, the Void shifted. "This place," it murmured. "Behind the Deacon's seat. There is something sealed. Dense. Refined." Dver did not look up. His movements remained slow, uneven, convincingly clumsy. "Master Shen…" he said quietly, forcing hesitation into his voice. "The racks are… clean. Should I… attend to the chamber behind the screen?"
Shen paused, his tea cup hovering mid-air, then sneered. "You can barely stand, and you think I would let something like you near my private vault?" The word slipped without care, but it settled. "Get out of my sight. Sleep with the other dogs."
Dver lowered himself immediately, bowing until his forehead touched the stone. "Yes, Master. Thank you for your mercy." He withdrew without delay. The corridor outside was dim, lined with reflective surfaces dulled by age. As he passed one of them, his reflection flickered.
For an instant, it was not a broken servant staring back, but something else, still, watching, smiling without warmth.
Then it was gone.
Dver continued walking, his posture unchanged, his presence small and unremarkable. Around his neck, the iron collar pulsed faintly. It was designed to suppress Qi, to bind, to control.
But it grasped at something it did not understand.
The Lower Cells were quiet, the kind of silence that settled heavily against stone and did not echo back. Dver was thrown into a narrow chamber, the iron door slamming shut behind him as the lock slid into place with a dull, final weight. For a brief moment, nothing moved. Then the act ended. He straightened slowly, the tremor leaving his hands as his breathing evened out, the pain in his body receding into something distant and irrelevant. One by one, he pulled the needles from his arms, watching without expression as the poison broke down and was absorbed before it could spread. His gaze lifted to the iron collar around his neck. It pulsed faintly. He touched it once, briefly.
"A Jade Summit," he said.
Dver closed his eyes, letting the structure of the estate settle into place within his awareness. Stone carried information. Movement left patterns. Even silence had direction. He was not confined. He had been placed.
"Let them prepare," he said quietly.
Morning came without warmth. By the time the door opened, Dver had already returned to his role. His posture slackened, his breathing roughened, his gaze dulled into something vacant. He was dragged out without resistance. The climb to the summit was long, the carriage heavy, built more for display than necessity. The other slaves strained beneath its weight, while Dver staggered under his share with carefully uneven steps, his breath breaking at the right moments. To them, he was failing. To him, the weight was nothing. He let himself stumble. He let himself fall once. He thanked them when they struck him. By the time they reached the summit, he was exactly what they expected him to be.
The hall was dense with pressure. Elders, guests, high-ranking disciples, the air itself carried their presence, suffocating to most. To Dver, it was structure, fragile, layered, measurable. He was dragged into the center, and laughter followed immediately.
"Look at him."
"That's Rank-9?"
"A waste."
Dver fell to his knees, his voice breaking into a desperate tremor. "P-please… I cannot stand… the pressure…" A needle struck his shoulder, and he collapsed fully, letting the impact carry him across the polished jade. The laughter deepened. More attention gathered. He became the center of it.
A spectacle.
Above, the Saintess watched, still and composed. Dver's body shifted slightly, just enough to appear overwhelmed. His head snapped upward, his eyes meeting hers.
There was no fear in them.
Only calculation.
Then it vanished.
The trembling returned.
The act resumed.
The assembly ended late. Shen remained behind, occupied with politics and praise as the others dispersed. Dver was handed back to Madam Shen, and the control jade activated instantly. The collar constricted sharply, forcing him to one knee with a strained gasp.
"Walk," she said.
He obeyed.
Step by step, silent and submissive, his movements perfectly measured.
As they passed through the gates of the inner estate and the doors sealed behind them, the noise of the summit disappeared entirely. Only silence remained, heavy, closed, controlled.
And for the first time since entering
Dver was exactly where he needed to be.