The underground forge had beco a prison of Lian’s own making, though the chains on his wrists and ankles were only part of the confinent.
Weeks had passed since the second harvest, and the Reaper scout’s mind had rooted itself so deeply inside Lian that it no longer felt like an intruder—it felt like a second self, colder, older, and infinitely more patient.
The scout did not scream anymore.
It spoke.
Calm.
Reasonable.
Logical.
It laid out argunts like a strategist presenting a battle plan.
“You hesitate because you still cling to human weakness.”
“Elara is a liability. She will slow you. She will die. Harvest her core. Gain her aug precision. Beco whole.”
“You promised the old man you would stop. Promises are chains. Break them. The white-eyed man will not wait for your sentint.”
“You are not avenging Harlan. You are delaying. Every day you wait, he grows stronger. Every day you wait, you grow weaker.”
Lian fought the voice every waking mont.
He no longer paced the forge yard.
He no longer hamred scrap.
He sat chained in the small side room the old blacksmith had reinforced with precursor runes and Qi-suppress fields.
The room was barely larger than a cell—stone walls etched with containnt symbols, a single narrow cot, a bucket in the corner, no window, only the faint orange glow seeping under the door from the forge.
The chains were thick titanium, rune-etched to suppress Qi flow.
They were not cruel.
They were necessary.
The old blacksmith had put them on himself.
The healer woman had monitored the process.
Elara had stood in the doorway, alloy fingers clenched, blue cyber eyes unreadable.
She had not protested.
She had only said one thing before the door closed.
“Stay you.”
Lian had nodded.
Then the door shut.
And the voices began their real work.
They did not scream.
They reasoned.
They showed visions.
Lian saw himself unchained, harvesting the old blacksmith first—taking the aug legs, the hamr knowledge, the root strength.
Then the healer—her dical augs, her nanite knowledge.
Then Elara.
Her alloy body.
Her blade skill.
Her loyalty.
The visions were vivid.
Tempting.
Logical.
“You will be unstoppable.”
“You will kill the white-eyed man in days.”
“You will never lose again.”
Lian closed his eyes.
Clenched his fists against the chains.
The tal bit into his skin.
He bled.
He welcod the pain.
It was real.
The voices were not.
They adapted.
They showed him failure.
Visions of the white-eyed man standing over Elara’s broken body.
Harlan’s face superimposed on hers.
Empty sockets.
Missing heart.
The voices whispered.
“You failed him.”
“You will fail her.”
“Unless you beco more.”
Lian’s breathing grew ragged.
He rocked against the chains.
The runes glowed.
Suppressed.
But not enough.
The voices laughed softly.
“You cannot win.”
“You were born weak.”
“You will die weak.”
“Unless you feed us.”
Lian spoke for the first ti in days.
Voice hoarse.
Broken.
“I will not.”
The voices paused.
Then.
“We shall see.”
Outside the door, Elara sat.
Every day.
Every night.
She did not speak.
She waited.
The old blacksmith brought food.
Passed it through the slot.
The healer monitored vitals through the wall.
They did not open the door.
Not yet.
The forge stayed warm.
Underground safe.
Dark.
Rundown.
But ho.
Lian fought.
Bound.
For silence.
For control.
For her.
The voices waited.
Patient.
They knew.
He would break.
Or they would.
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