The aftermath of Jin Lai's failed communion sent ripples through the upper echelons of the mine. The Young Master was confined to his quarters, reportedly suffering from a "severe spiritual dissonance." He refused to speak of what he had experienced, but the look in his eyes whenever he saw an Elder was one of undisguised revulsion and fear.
The Elders were furious and bewildered. Their prize asset had not only failed but had seemingly broken their connection to the Main Family. I was subjected to another round of intense questioning and scanning, but I held fast to my story: Jin Lai's own brute-force approach had shattered the delicate connection. My collective, I claimed, had acted as a circuit breaker, preventing a total backlash that could have killed him.
It was a story they had to accept, because the alternative—that a mere slave had psychically assaulted a Core Formation candidate—was unthinkable to them.
My status became even more ambiguous. I was still a "strategic resource," but now I was also a potential liability. The Elders' fear was a tangible thing. They needed my unique abilities but didn't understand or trust them. This fear was the crack in the wall we needed.
Shen, ever the opportunist, used the chaos to consolidate his power. With Yan gone and the Elders discredited by the Jin Lai incident, his authority as the pragmatic, stable hand grew. He became the de facto manager of the mine's day-to-day operations, and more importantly, of me.
He visited me in my gilded cage one evening, his expression thoughtful.
"Jin Lai is returning to the Main Family tomorrow," he said without preamble. "He has demanded to be taken away from this 'abattoir'. His words."
I remained silent, waiting.
"He will report his... experience... to his father," Shen continued, pacing slowly. "This will have consequences. The Main Family may decide to shut this operation down. Or they may send a more... thorough... individual to investigate."
He stopped and looked directly at me. "What did you show him, Wa Lang?"
I met his gaze. "The truth."
Shen let out a short, humorless laugh. "The truth. A dangerous commodity." He sighed, the weight of his position showing on his face. "You have made a powerful enemy today. But you may have also created an unexpected opportunity."
"This mine is a festering wound, Shen," I said, dropping the pretense of subservience. The collective's voice lent weight to my words. "It corrupts everything it touches—the slaves, the guards, the Parasite, even the spoilt sons of the Main Family. You know this."
"I know it is a necessary evil for the Clan's power," he replied, but his words lacked conviction.
"Is it?" I pressed. "Or is it a ticking time bomb that you are now responsible for? What happens when the next Jin Lai comes? What happens when the seal fails for real? You will be the one holding the pieces."
I was playing on his sense of self-preservation, the same instinct that had driven him to betray Yan.
"What are you suggesting?" he asked, his voice low.
"I am suggesting that the current path leads to ruin. For the Clan, and for you." I took a step closer. "There is another way. A way to de-escalate. To find a sustainable, less... volatile... method. But it requires change. And it requires someone on the inside to manage that change."
I was proposing an alliance. Not based on friendship or trust, but on mutual survival. I was offering him a way out—a chance to be the architect of a new, stable order, rather than the caretaker of a dying, monstrous one.
Shen was silent for a long time, considering. He was a practical man, not an idealist. He wouldn't help me out of the goodness of his heart. But he would help me if it was the most logical path to saving his own skin and his position.
"What would this 'change' entail?" he asked finally.
"It starts with small things," I said. "Better conditions for the slaves. Less wasteful harvesting. A moratorium on the Chosen Slave program. A shift from exploitation to... cultivation. We study the Parasite to maintain the seal, not to wake it. We use the knowledge in my collective to improve efficiency, not to create more monsters."
It was a moderate, reasonable proposal. One that would immediately reduce the suffering in the mine and slow the descent into madness, while also making Shen look like a brilliant reformer in the eyes of any sane observer from the Main Family.
"And what do you get out of this?" Shen asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Time," I answered honestly. "And a less hostile environment in which to exist. My Seed needs stability to... integrate its knowledge. Chaos is counter-productive."
It was a lie, of course. We needed time to grow stronger, to find a way to escape completely. But this was the first step.
Shen nodded slowly. "I will consider it. In the meantime, you will continue your work with Scholar Hong. But I will instruct him to focus on analytical tasks, not active experimentation."
It was a small concession, but it was a victory. The first brick in the wall of our prison had been loosened.
After Shen left, I connected with the collective. A sense of cautious optimism flowed through us. We had manipulated a senior overseer into becoming an unwitting agent of change. We had used the enemy's own power structure against itself.
'He will betray us the moment it is convenient,' Liang Jie warned, ever the cynic.
'Probably,' I agreed. 'But by then, we will be stronger. And the seeds we plant now—the seeds of doubt, of better treatment—will have taken root among the slaves. Hope is a virus, Liang Jie. And once it infects a population, it is very hard to eradicate.'
That night, for the first time, I didn't dream of blood and darkness. I dreamed of a single, green shoot pushing its way through cracked, dry earth. It was a small thing, fragile and easily crushed.
But it was alive. And it was growing.