The hum of the Korin chorus had not faded; it had merely gone underground.
When I closed my eyes that night, I could still feel the vibration inside the stone—an after-image of their communal pulse, soft as a heartbeat beneath the earth.
I followed it.
A mile east of the road, the ground sloped toward an abandoned way-station half-buried in dust. Cracked pillars, a roof eaten by wind, and on the threshold a faint shimmer where the air thickened, then parted. The seal's residue.
Taro's network had passed through here; their energy clung to surfaces like the scent of blood.
I drew a small knife, scratched a symbol in the dirt, and let a thread of chakra flow from fingertip to blade. The line flickered gold, then dissolved.
The response came instantly—breath. The dust inhaled and exhaled once, stirred by invisible lungs.
"So that's how you survive," I murmured.
Every Korin seal carried a rhythm: three slow beats, one fast. Together they formed a respiration pattern. It wasn't only a link between soldiers; it was self-maintenance. The seals literally breathed, exchanging energy the way creatures exchanged air.
Ingenious. Dangerous. Living systems always crave balance, and balance demands consumption.
I knelt, pressing both palms to the ground, and began to map the flow. The network pulsed outward in twelve thin streams, each vanishing toward the plains. Every time a current reached a dead end, it folded back, creating a cycle—a lung with too many lobes.
"They copied life," I said softly. "But forgot death."
The flaw was obvious now: the system exhaled perfectly, yet inhaled imperfectly. The intake drew not just ambient chakra but the emotional residue of the soldiers themselves. Over time, the network would drown in its own sentiment.
I smiled faintly. That was my opening.
I set up camp inside the ruin, lighting no fire. My fingers traced sigils into the sand—one for stillness, one for reflection, one for inversion. Each connected to a memory of sound: the bell of Saint-Hollow, the whisper of the Treatise, the rhythm of Taro's seal. Together they formed a pattern of my own making.
Counter-Seal Prototype – Designation: Silent Lung.
The principle was simple. Where the Korin seal exhaled unity, mine would inhale solitude. It would draw emotion inward, digest it, and release nothing. A breathing system that never needed air.
I closed my eyes, feeling the flow gather between my hands. Cold threads rose from the sand, twisting like smoke. They circled my wrists, coiling once, twice, then merged into my skin.
Pain followed—a deep, pulling ache as if my body resisted the absence of rhythm. My pulse faltered, then steadied under the new pattern: one beat, silence, one beat, silence. My body had learned to skip breathing.
I opened my eyes. The night air shimmered. Around me, sound dulled—the wind slowed, insects stilled. Even the stars seemed further away.
"First activation," I whispered. "Silent Lung complete."
I released a thread of resonance outward. It moved like frost over stone, absorbing the faint hum of the old Korin current until the ruin became a vacuum of sound. The living seal could not feed here; it suffocated.
That was the test: if silence could starve song.
At dawn, hoofbeats echoed faintly from the road—distant, disciplined. The Korin patrol had returned to inspect their lost signal. Ten riders, their gold lines glinting in the sunrise.
I crouched behind a pillar, pulse steady within the Silent Lung. My presence sank beneath the surface of perception; even my chakra signature folded inward, invisible.
The patrol dismounted. Their captain wasn't Taro—just another linked officer. He knelt where the resonance trail ended, frowning.
"An echo died here," one soldier murmured.
"Impossible," the captain replied. "The chorus doesn't die."
He touched the ground. His seal brightened—and then dimmed, choking. Confusion spread through the group as the air thickened.
"Sir—can't breathe—"
"Break the link! Now!"
Too late. The Silent Lung devoured the vibration, swallowing their synchronized rhythm. One by one, the soldiers gasped, their seals flickering into static. Not fatal, merely disoriented; the pattern couldn't sustain itself without resonance feedback.
I waited until they retreated, dragging each other toward open air. When they were gone, I stepped from the shadows.
The sand where they had knelt was perfectly smooth—no footprints, no residue. The Silent Lung had consumed everything.
I wrote in my notebook:
Observation: Living seals rely on rhythmic emotion exchange.
Countermeasure: Silence can nullify the cycle.
Result: Emotional starvation causes dissonance within 20 seconds.
Next step: Integrate selective breath—feed, then starve—to harvest resonance without collapse.
The bell in my mind rang once, approval or warning, I couldn't tell.
I looked east, toward the Korin camp hidden beyond the dunes. Taro would notice the disruption soon. He would adapt. He would seek me.
Good.
A system that evolves through resistance is the only one worth studying.
I pressed my palm to the sand, feeling the last tremor fade beneath the surface. The earth exhaled once—quietly, reverently—and was still.
"Round two," I murmured, "begins with silence."