The mines swallowed sound.

  There was no echo, no wind, no life—only the rhythmic ctter of pickaxes against rock and the occasional crack of a whip. The deeper one descended into Ulipon’s guts, the more time lost meaning. There were no windows, no sky, no sun. Only the breathing of the stone.

  And pain.

  Endless pain.

  Qing’s first full day in the mines began with a cough that tasted like copper and ended with blood in his boots.

  He could no longer tell if his legs trembled from cold or exhaustion. His palms had torn open long before the first quota bell. Now they simply wept slowly into the wood of the pickaxe handle. Blistered skin stuck to the grain. When he pulled away, the wounds stretched like wet parchment.

  One more swing.

  He lifted the axe.

  Muscles rebelled. The handle wobbled in his grip. The weight of the crude iron head was heavier than it had been the moment before. It was always heavier.

  His back curved from the stab wound, still throbbing where the copper ID card pulsed deep in his gut. Every motion pulled against the wound. The nerves around it fred like fire ants chewing through his insides.

  Swing.

  Cck.

  The tip struck stone, barely chipping it.

  A hiss of disappointment came from above. A guard leaned zily against a support beam, tail flicking like a bored cat.

  “You call that a swing, tailworm?” the guard snarled. “Hit it again. I want to hear the wall cry.”

  Qing clenched his teeth and raised the axe.

  Cck.

  A spark jumped. This time, a sliver of stone peeled off.

  A cough from somewhere behind. Someone vomiting.

  “You’re stalling,” the guard said, strolling toward him. “You know what we do to stallers?”

  Qing didn’t respond. He couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, he might scream.

  The guard leaned closer, nostrils fring as he sniffed.

  “That stab wound still fresh?” he grinned. “Let me help you bleed it properly.”

  He raised his whip.

  Qing flinched—

  A loud crack rang out.

  But it wasn’t the whip.

  It was the pickaxe in Qing’s hand.

  The shaft snapped at the head, unable to take another poorly aligned swing.

  The weight yanked forward and Qing tumbled, nding hard on his knees, ribs buckling against a jolt of pain so intense he thought his heart had stopped.

  The guard ughed.

  “Well, well. Maybe you’re weaker than you look. Which is saying something, filth.”

  He turned and walked off, whip cracking against another poor soul’s back.

  Qing sat there.

  Breathing.

  Hurting.

  Alone.

  It was in that silence—cut off from the others, kneeling in blood and dust—that he felt it.

  A pulse.

  Not in the wound. Not in the ID. Not in his chest or his head.

  But… beneath those things.

  Something… lower. Deeper.

  A cold thread crawling under his flesh, from the center of his stomach toward his left rib. He could feel it—trace it—not with fingers, but with attention. Like focusing on a sore tooth or an itch beneath the skin.

  The pain… it traveled a path.

  A specific path.

  Why?

  He closed his eyes.

  He ignored the whip cracks. Ignored the distant groans. Focused only inward.

  Again—there it was.

  Pain traveled along something. A channel. A vein? No. It didn’t pulse like blood. It didn’t contract like muscle.

  It carried sensation—not just pain, but a pattern.

  And more than that… he could feel where it began.

  Somewhere behind the sor plexus. Just under the ID card. A knot.

  The Center?

  The name came unbidden. Not from the system. From him.

  His Center.

  He focused harder.

  As he did, more threads revealed themselves—one running down his left thigh, one curling into his right shoulder, another hooking behind his eye socket.

  Each thread was like a pathway of gss filled with fire.

  But if he followed it with his mind—carefully, like tracing a wire—he could map it.

  These aren’t nerves, he thought. They’re… something else.

  He exhaled, slow and long, ignoring the spike of dizziness that came with it.

  Then he tried something insane.

  He pulled.

  Mentally, not physically. Like trying to clench a fist that wasn’t there.

  One thread—the one to his left bicep—shivered.

  A second ter, the pain in his arm dulled by half.

  Qing’s eyes opened.

  His breath caught.

  I… stopped the pain?

  He sat up straighter.

  No—not stopped. It was still there, but muted. Like a scream heard through water. His fingers still throbbed. The wound still ached.

  But the signal was weaker.

  He ughed.

  Then coughed.

  Then bled from his lips again.

  But he ughed anyway.

  That night, he didn’t sleep.

  He y on the stone floor, surrounded by the silent bodies of sves too tired to dream. Nore had curled up near him, offering what little body heat she had. But Qing couldn’t rest.

  He reached inside again.

  One by one, he traced the threads.

  Some pain couldn’t be dulled—the ID card was too deep. But the whip bruises? The hand calluses? The pickaxe splinters in his palm?

  Each could be redirected.

  The pain ran through the threads.

  And he could cut them.

  Or reroute them.

  Not permanently. Not safely. Not yet.

  But enough.

  By the time the work bell rang, Qing had rewired two whole threads. His right leg worked again. His grip was tighter.

  He stood faster than he ever had.

  The guard noticed.

  “You’re walking now?” he sneered. “About time. Maybe you’ll even get your quota today.”

  Qing didn’t answer.

  He just picked up a new axe.

  And swung.

  The next three days were a blur.

  Stone. Sweat. Pain. Food so foul it crawled across the tongue. Sleep so shallow it could hardly be called rest.

  But every moment, Qing studied the pain.

  He mapped the threads like an engineer in a colpsing mine.

  And slowly… his system responded.

  SYSTEM NOTIFICATIONYou have discovered: Internal Conduction ThreadsTrait Progression: Center Mapping (1%)Specialization Option: Self-Directed Neuropath Cultivation [Locked]He didn’t know what that meant.

  But it meant something.

  He wasn't just breaking rocks.

  He was rebuilding himself.

  Then, on the fifth night, he pushed too far.

  He had tried to close three threads at once—one to his ankle, one to his rib, one to his left eye.

  The moment he clenched, something inside snapped.

  He convulsed.

  Screamed.

  His left arm twisted backward at the elbow. Blood burst from his nose. His muscles spasmed like dying insects.

  He colpsed in front of the barracks.

  The guards dragged him back in. Tossed him on the floor like garbage.

  No food.

  No water.

  He bcked out.

  When he woke, Nore was beside him again.

  This time, no words.

  Just her hand on his chest. Cool. Steady.

  “I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

  “I… was rewiring,” he groaned.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t try to be more than what you are.”

  “I have to.”

  “No,” she said softly. “You just have to survive.”

  But she was wrong.

  He had to do more.

  Because he was starting to believe he was made for something else.

  That night, in the dark silence of the barracks, Qing reached inward again.

  The pain greeted him like an old friend.

  But this time, he wasn’t afraid.

  This time, he smiled.

  And said hello.