The whispers had stopped being background noise weeks ago.
They had beco a full parliant inside Lian’s skull—a relentless council of the dead that argued, bargained, scread, laughed, and judged every single decision he made.
The Reaper scout’s eyes had given him vision Qi that let him see ridians, Qi flows, hidden auras, and even the faint threads of fate that connected living beings to their deaths.
But the scout’s mind had co attached, cold, calculating, and utterly without rcy.
It dissected everything Lian did—his breathing pattern during sparring, the angle of his hamr swing, the hesitation in his voice when Elara asked questions he didn’t want to answer.
It mocked his lingering restraint.
It urged him to harvest faster.
Deeper.
More.
And when Lian resisted, the voices grew louder.
They no longer waited for quiet monts.
They spoke during the day.
During als.
During training.
During sleep.
They scread nas of victims.
They laughed at his promises to Elara.
They threatened to take control if he didn’t feed them.
Lian pushed back every ti.
He clenched his teeth until blood filled his mouth.
He hamred scrap tal in the forge yard until his arms shook and sparks flew high enough to light the ceiling.
He paced the forge at night, fists clenched, whispering to himself to drown them out.
But the voices were patient.
They knew.
They waited.
Elara saw it all.
She saw the way his void eyes sotis lost focus completely, staring at nothing as if arguing with ghosts.
She saw the way his fingers twitched violently against the hilt of his blade when the whispers grew too loud.
She saw the way he woke up sweating and gasping, muttering nas of people he had never t.
She saw the way he started talking to himself in low voices when he thought she was asleep.
She never asked him to stop harvesting.
She never asked him to explain the voices she sotis heard when he muttered in his sleep.
But she watched.
And she worried.
The old blacksmith saw it too.
The whispers laughed louder.
The voices began to take control in small ways at first.
Lian would wake up standing in the forge yard at night, hamr in hand, having swung at shadows without rembering.
He would find himself staring at the old blacksmith’s back during als, calculating weak points without wanting to.
He would catch himself whispering threats to the air when Elara wasn’t looking.
The third harvest had been planned.
A hidden sect elder.
Galaxy Forging Early.
Known for soul devouring.
Perfect irony.
But Lian never left the forge to get him.
The voices stopped him.
They scread.
They threatened.
They showed him visions of what would happen if he harvested again.
Lian fought.
He chained himself to the wall one night.
Used the Qi-suppress chains the blacksmith kept for ergencies.
He sat in the corner.
Bound.
Waiting.
The voices raged.
Scread.
Laughed.
Told him he was weak.
Told him to break the chains.
Told him to harvest Elara.
Lian clenched his teeth.
Held.
Elara found him at dawn.
Bound.
Sweating.
Eyes wild.
She didn’t speak.
Just sat beside him.
Held his hand.
Alloy fingers through the chains.
The old blacksmith ca.
Saw.
Sighed.
"We lock him."
"For now."
They moved him to a small side room.
Reinforced stone.
Precursor runes on walls.
Qi suppress field.
Chains on wrists.
Ankles.
He sat.
Bound.
Silent.
The voices scread.
But he held.
Elara sat outside the door.
Every day.
Every night.
Waited.
Healer monitored.
"Voices peak."
"Then fade."
"Or win."
Lian fought.
Inside.
Outside.
Bound.
The forge stayed warm.
Underground safe.
Dark.
Rundown.
But ho.
Lian waited.
Bound.
For silence.
For control.
For her.
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