Mystique Soul: A Cultivator's Flame
Chapter 118: Light of Darkness

Chapter 118: Light of Darkness

Below the city lies a place not quite a basement. Not quite a lab. Not entirely a prison either. But it carried pieces of all three put together in a one big scary gloomy place. It was like it came straight out of a horror story with a mad scientist, a wicked, thrilling ghosts and a sadists playroom.

The walls are really damp and made out of stone bricks, slick with condensation that glistened under the sallow flicker of a single, hanging bulb. It swayed slightly, casting long, distorted shadows that crawled like specters across the floor. The light was sickly disgusting yellow, like old bruises, and buzzed with a tired hum, a sound that grew louder the longer you sat in the silence. It was a sound that burrowed into your bones.

The air was thick. Stale, with the sour tang of rust and something deeper... the metallic stench of old blood clinging to the cracks in the floor. You could taste it at the back of your throat if you breathed too deep.

Chains hung from the ceiling, not in use now, but too polished to be forgotten relics. They gleamed faintly, like they remembered the last pair of wrists they embraced. In one corner, a table stood crooked, its surface scarred with burn marks and tools laid out like surgical instruments. But this was no hospital. Nothing healing ever happened here.

Drips echoed somewhere beyond the walls. Constant. Slow. A leaky pipe, perhaps or maybe something else. In a place like this, even the walls seemed to weep.

Beyond the cracked walls of that forgotten room, just past the corroded pipes and rust-flecked hinges, a hallway stretched into deeper darkness. Only a few dim crystals still lit by magic flicked, most long dead or out of mana, casting blotchy pools of light on the concrete floor. Near the end of the hall stood a thick metal door, its paint peeling in long strips like old skin. From behind it, a sound emerged.

Voices.

"Are you... yes... shugsh"

"Shushs... he said so..."

Not loud. Not shouting. Just murmurs, low and intent, muffled by steel but persistent. Like the rustle of dead leaves dragged by wind, or the soft scratching of nails against old parchment. But there was something off about the tone, too calm, too practiced. As if they were discussing something ordinary.

A flickering light above the door buzzed faintly as if protesting the presence of what lay inside. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by the vibrations of the voices.

Inside a much more kept room, with a simple table and shelves full of vials and books, people can be seen discussing something.

"Batch thirty-seven is ready," said the first voice, male, smooth as oil poured over glass. "We got a better yield this time. Took care not to bruise the goods too early."

Another voice responded, this one feminine, with a light, almost melodic tone, like a schoolteacher giving a gentle correction. "That’s good. The last one was ruined before it ripened. It’s wasteful when they rot too fast, especially after so much effort cultivating them."

A chair scraped against the floor.

"They’re still unaware, yes?" she asked, her voice slightly distorted by the metal. "No signs of early awareness?"

"None that I could detect," the man replied. "The sedatives are balanced. Keeps them docile, even lets them dream."

"Dreams are useful," the woman mused. "They flavor the end product. A sweeter finish. Fear adds bitterness, you know. Unless that’s the desired taste."

He gave a short chuckle. "Not for this batch. The client requested purity. Untouched emotion. We’ve been feeding them carefully. No sharp memories. Just enough warmth."

Footsteps. Two pairs. A faint clink of glass.

"They’re delicate at this stage," he continued. "If we push too hard, the organs stress. You remember what happened last time."

A pause.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "I remember. It screamed."

Silence, for a moment. Even the hum of electricity seemed to stutter.

Then, the woman spoke again, softly.

"They shouldn’t scream. Not until the end. And only then, if requested."

There was a shuffle of papers.

"Any preference for tonight’s harvest?" she asked.

"Something fresh," the man answered. "No more leftovers from the lower cells. I want one from the second row. The boy, maybe. His readings were ideal. Young enough. Not too damaged."

"You’ll have to extract him carefully. He still has use. Perhaps a full draw tonight, and then... partial segments over the next week."

"That could work. The muscle tone’s not bad either. We’ll need it intact."

"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "And the marrow?"

"Still rich. Unused. We can divide the samples if the temperature’s right. I’ll prep the casing."

A clatter of metal tools.

And then laughter, soft, casual, as if the topic was tea or a favorite recipe.

The woman sighed. "I do wish they wouldn’t cry when they see the instruments. It ruins the ambiance. It’s better when they just... accept."

The man’s voice turned amused. "They better not try to run this time. That kid almost made it out. Tsk."

"I told you long ago to take care of that brat. Boss wont be too happy if he finds out about the two witnesses"

"Bha, we just need to capture them. One of them was a beastman. Those taste especially savory" the speaker disgustingly licked his lips. "Haven’t had one in a long time. We can deliver the girl to the boss to quell his anger. She looks much to his taste in women anyway while we can just keep the beast as nutrient"

Another pause. Something shifted against the floor, perhaps fabric, or the dragging of something heavier.

"Tsk, let’s just focus on this batch first. With it out, I doubt they can leave the city anytime soon"

"Yeah, yeah. Everything was taken care of. The brat tried to get her sister out but as I said, she’s taken care of"

"And the last one?" she asked.

"The sister? Dead. Too soon, she killed herself before we could take her back. Took down some men with her too."

"Such a shame" she whispered, and it sounded almost genuine. "She had potential. Do you think she saw it coming?"

"I think she knew the moment the restraints snapped shut."

"Well," the woman said, her voice taking on a brighter lilt, "at least we have plenty more to choose from. The next delivery is due before dawn."

"That soon?"

"Mm. I expedited it. There’s a surge in demand. Something about the red moon. They say it adds to the ritual’s potency."

There was a long silence then, one that felt deeper than before. Heavier.

When the man spoke again, it was quieter. Reverent.

"It’s almost time."

"Yes," she agreed. "Let’s hope tonight’s harvest is... satisfying."

The conversation faded, swallowed by the thick metal walls and the creeping cold. The only sound left was the buzz of the light and the faint echo of something dripping.

Something that wasn’t water. And from under the door, a faint smell. Earthy. Damp. Sweet, almost, but not in a way that invited closeness. It was the sweetness of rot. The perfume of overripe fruit left too long in the dark.

Further into the room beyond, the light widened. Not artificial. It pulsed, faint and greenish, like bioluminescence humming just under the skin of the world.

Humans lay across the floor, not sprawled or twisted in pain, but gently placed, as though they had lain down for a nap and simply never woke again. Men, women, even children. Their chests rose and fell in slow rhythm, but none of them stirred.

The most familiar would be Wei Jian amongst them.

Roots coiled beneath their bodies. Not just underneath, but through. Like veins made of bark. Some emerged from wrists, ankles, even mouths. They pulsed gently with that same green glow. No one screamed. No one fought. They were too far gone for that.

And at the center of the room something unseen. A shadow just outside the eye’s grasp. Every time you tried to look at it, the eye slid off. Like oil on water.

Above that area, the blood moon loomed heavily over the city, the entire city looks like it had been veiled by light.

Above that festering place, the blood moon loomed, swollen and unnaturally low, as if the sky itself had bent down to whisper something cruel into the city’s ear.

Its light soaked the rooftops in a sheen of dark ruby, so rich it painted over the edges of reality. Shadows deepened unnaturally where the moonlight touched, like the city was being slowly devoured by crimson ink. The streets, usually crawling with the hum of life, now sat in breathless silence veiled entirely in that ghostly hue.

Windows were shuttered tight. Curtains pinned with trembling hands. Lamps turned low or off altogether. There was no safety in light, not tonight.

In every home, people clung to each other or solitude. They hid in kitchens, in closets, under beds anywhere the light could not reach. Some whispered prayers to old gods, others simply wept, their backs pressed to walls, the wooden floor beneath them cold as tombstone.

Children asked what was happening.

The adults lied.

Dogs barked at the windows until they were hoarse. Cats hissed and vanished into the cracks. In the distance, somewhere near the market district, a scream had rung out earlier but it hadn’t come again. It never did.

In the richer districts, panic had the polish of elegance: velvet curtains drawn, candelabras snuffed out, security systems blinking quietly behind imported glass. In the slums, it was bare and real people huddling beneath tarpaulin rooftops, covered in sheets and desperate silence.

Every now and then, the light would catch on something reflective a street sign, a shattered bottle and gleam like a slit eye watching from above. Unblinking. Endless.

And still the moon watched. No movement stirred from it, no clouds dared to cross it. It simply hung there, bleeding its light across the city like a wound the sky couldn’t close.

And beneath its gaze, something old was remembering

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