Chapter 115 — Aether’s Corruption

  The Sleeping Catacombs

  Aether’s Rot

  Seven braced himself as the corrupted air thickened around him like invisible sludge. His new bionic arm—a miracle of Yumi’s engineering—responded to the ambient mana instantly. When he opened the siphon channels, the filaments along the forearm lit with a steady, hungry glow.

  “Alright… let’s test this.”

  He extended the arm.

  Mana absorption mode engaged.

  A thin ribbon of Aether peeled away from the air—pulled in like smoke being inhaled.

  For a split second, the energy felt normal.

  Then the arm convulsed.

  A violent jerk snapped up through the shoulder housing. The internal conduits screamed, lights flickering red. The corrupted Aether destabilized the runic circuits so quickly that Seven nearly lost the limb again.

  “Shit—shut down, shut down!”

  He forced the manual release.

  The arm clanked, vents snapping open as unstable Aether howled out like steam escaping a pressure chamber. The servos buzzed erratically before settling into an uneasy hum.

  Seven flexed the fingers carefully.

  They twitched, but responded.

  “…Corrupted Aether’s worse than I thought.”

  The bionic graft felt sluggish now, like half the nerves had gone numb. Yumi warned him once: this new arm could absorb mana, but only if the mana itself wasn’t poisoned.

  Inside this facility, everything was poisoned.

  From the ceiling’s darkness, two sets of golden eyes narrowed.

  Kinata’s breath stilled in her throat.

  “…That shouldn’t be possible.”

  She had seen corruption before—old battlefields, dead titan carcasses, abandoned war ruins. But this? This was deeper. It was the kind of Aether that had ripped the previous world apart.

  Lyra shifted beside her, arms crossed.

  “So if he keeps sucking in this sludge, he’ll rot from the inside.”

  She sounded unimpressed.

  “And here I thought taking him alive would be the hard part.”

  Kinata did not answer.

  Her gaze remained fixed on Seven, jaw tightening.

  He had entered a place even the Aku would’ve approached with caution.

  And worst of all?

  So had they.

  The Dead That Never Left

  Seven shook the last of the malfunction out of his arm, rolling the shoulder joint until the internal whirring quieted.

  “This place is a bust,” he muttered. “No Aether worth taking home… sorry, Miss Hopps.”

  The apology rang hollow in the dead hall.

  He took one step forward—

  And froze.

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  A noise drifted from deeper within the metal catacombs.

  Low.

  Human.

  Broken.

  A groan.

  Seven pivoted instantly, rifle raised, breath held tight.

  There was no wind here.

  No animals.

  No reason a human voice should echo through a place sealed for centuries.

  “…No way.”

  Another groan—closer this time, wet and strained.

  Seven swallowed hard.

  One part of him wanted to hope.

  Another survivor?

  Someone like him who woke up here?

  Someone trapped?

  But the rest of him—the soldier in him—knew better.

  “It’s been two hundred years… nothing should still be alive down here.”

  His finger slipped toward the rifle’s trigger.

  Just in case.

  Lyra’s ears twitched at the sound.

  She turned.

  “That wasn’t him.”

  Kinata’s eyes narrowed, reading the mana shifts. “Something’s moving. Something old.”

  Lyra grinned.

  “I’ll check it. Don’t cry if I get bored.”

  Before Kinata could reprimand her, Lyra was already gone—her form slipping between shadows as naturally as a whisper.

  Lyra drifted through the halls like a pale specter. Her feet barely touched the floor as she traced the sound’s origin.

  The corridor opened into a ruined dormitory.

  Six bunks.

  Broken lockers.

  Peeling paint.

  Rotten air.

  And one figure slumped against the wall.

  At first, Lyra thought it was a corpse.

  Then it moved.

  Her pupils contracted sharply.

  The body twitched—limbs jerking in unnatural spasms. Veins swallowed by rotten black Aether pulsed under translucent flesh. Entire sections of skin had dissolved, leaving bone glistening like polished stone. The jaw worked uselessly, mouthing silent agony.

  Its eyes were rolled back white.

  But one thing remained perfectly visible—

  The number glowing faintly at the base of its neck.

  856

  Lyra went still.

  “…Another anomaly?”

  The corruption had devoured most of the flesh, but that number—the branding of an anomaly—burned through even the rot.

  This wasn’t a survivor.

  This was a warning.

  A glimpse of what could happen to Seven.

  Kinata finally appeared behind her, silent as frost.

  Lyra gestured toward the figure.

  “Look at that,” she whispered. “Now things get interesting.”

  Kinata’s expression tightened—not with fear, but with realization.

  Someone else like Seven had been here.

  And whatever woke up this place…

  …had devoured them.

  The Facility Reacts

  Seven forced himself toward the cafeteria’s far exit, each step heavier than the last.

  The air pressed in on him—thick, clinging, almost syrup-like. The corrupted Aether pooled along the walls like oil, drifting in slow spirals toward him. His lungs felt coated in static.

  “Stay focused,” he muttered, voice low.

  The longer he stayed here, the more certain he became:

  If he lingered long enough, his fate would match the corpses in the halls.

  Another groan traveled through the vents—wet, rattling, too close.

  Seven raised his rifle.

  Something scraped across the tile behind him.

  He spun instantly, body low, weapon aimed—

  —just as the lights flickered.

  Not off.

  Just wrong.

  A shadow moved.

  Then another.

  And then they emerged.

  Aether’s Undead — The Forgotten Soldiers

  The first figure hurled itself from a collapsed support beam, bones snapping like dried branches. Its limbs bent at angles no living creature could tolerate.

  Seven fired on instinct.

  A crack of Manar surged from his rifle—

  —slamming into its chest, burning straight through.

  The corpse staggered back…

  …then lurched forward again, as if nothing vital had been hit.

  “Persistent bastard—”

  Seven fired again, shifting his aim.

  The second shot tore the thing apart, reducing it to ash and drifting black flakes that dissolved into the corrupted air.

  But the shadows behind it trembled.

  And more stepped out.

  Some were ancient—little more than bone wrapped in the last scraps of uniforms older than The Last City itself.

  Some were newer—flesh half-rotted, skin darkened with Aether burns.

  But the worst were the recent ones.

  Seven’s breath hitched as he saw numbers glowing on their necks.

  Not carved.

  Branded.

  Just like his.

  Anomaly 856

  Anomaly 421

  Anomaly 109

  All shambling toward him, twitching violently as the corrupted Aether puppeteered their bodies.

  “…Damn it,” Seven whispered.

  A cold realization sank deep:

  Others like him had been summoned here.

  Sent to shelter here.

  And the shelter devoured them.

  They weren’t hungry for flesh.

  They were seeking mana—his mana.

  Drawn to it like moths to flame.

  A Struggle Against the Past

  Seven activated Enchanted Combat.

  Jagged glitch-sigils flared along his torso and arms, crackling like unstable red lightning. The surge of power burned through his muscles, heightening his senses.

  A corpse lunged from the side—too fast.

  Seven ducked low, sliding across the frozen tile. His bionic arm screamed in protest as he used it to pivot, barely avoiding the swipe of decayed fingers sharpened into claws.

  He fired mid-spin.

  A mana round detonated against a skull, scattering bone shards.

  Another corpse reached from behind—

  Seven elbowed it hard, feeling bone crack beneath metal.

  Still more came.

  A dozen.

  Maybe more.

  It was like fighting the past itself—every corpse a reminder of how many had died trying to escape this place.

  His bionic arm flickered, lights dimming as the corruption he’d siphoned earlier interfered with the channels.

  “Not now—!”

  One corpse slammed into him, its weight surprising. Seven smashed its jaw with his rifle butt, sending it reeling.

  Another grabbed his coat from behind.

  He spun, slicing the strap with his combat knife.

  His breathing grew harsher.

  His muscles began to burn.

  He couldn’t keep using Enchanted Combat indefinitely.

  If he exhausted himself here, he’d be another husk in these halls.

  He blasted two more corpses apart, but for every one that fell, another emerged from the deeper corridors—drawn to his mana output like predators smelling blood.

  “Too many… way too many.”

  He had to move—

  Force a break—

  Find a way out—

  Or he wouldn’t leave this place alive.

  Kinata and Lyra — Hunters Turned Witnesses

  From above, perched silently along a rusted support beam, Kinata watched the battle unfold.

  Her eyes narrowed, golden irises glowing faintly.

  Lyra reappeared beside her, tail twitching with agitation.

  "Look, there’s another one," she whispered, her voice a tense murmur that barely broke the silence. "Corruption claimed him. Just look at the number on his neck. He was just like Seven."

  Kinata didn’t blink.

  Her gaze remained on Seven—alone, cornered, fighting like a trapped animal refusing death.

  The air vibrated around him. His mana spiked with every shot, every dodge, every frantic breath.

  Lyra muttered, “If he stays here, he’ll become one of them.”

  Kinata slowly exhaled.

  “He won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Lyra arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing at her lips. “I thought our mission was to ‘capture him alive.’ Sounds to me like someone’s getting a bit too sentimental.”

  Kinata ignored the jab.

  This was no longer a simple hunt.

  Something ancient was stirring inside this facility.

  Something connected to anomaly humans.

  And Seven was dancing on the edge of becoming its next casualty.

  Kinata’s claws extended slightly.

  Her voice was a whisper of steel:

  “The instant he’s by himself… we strike.”

  Lyra’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Finally, the time has come.”

  A Closing Sense of Doom

  Seven blasted apart another shambling corpse—but his legs buckled.

  His vision blurred.

  His mana reserves throbbed painfully—almost drained.

  He staggered, leaning on his rifle.

  More shadows stirred beyond the flickering lights.

  A wave.

  An army.

  A graveyard waking up.

  He was alone.

  His arm malfunctioning.

  His stamina running out.

  And somewhere in the darkness—

  Two impossible predators watched him.

  Waiting for the moment he broke.