It started quietly.
No scream.
No collapse.
Just a moment when Qin Mian stood up—and the world tilted.
She grabbed the edge of the metal table, fingers slipping on cold steel. For a second, the underground lights stretched into long, broken lines, like someone had pulled reality sideways.
She blinked hard.
The lights snapped back.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
No one believed her.
Kai was already moving.
Yin Lie noticed half a second later—too late, and that alone terrified him.
"You're not," Kai said flatly.
"Sit."
Qin Mian tried to argue.
Her legs gave out instead.
Pain That Doesn't Belong
The pain wasn't sharp.
That was the worst part.
It spread slowly from her chest outward, like something cold pressing against her ribs from the inside. Breathing felt… delayed. As if her lungs were waiting for permission.
She pressed a hand over her heart.
The Anchor responded.
Not by expanding.
By tightening.
Too tight.
Yin Lie felt it instantly.
The space around him compressed—not physically, but conceptually. Like the world had decided he was the only thing that mattered in that moment, and everything else could bend.
"Stop," he whispered.
"Mian—stop holding."
She shook her head weakly.
"If I don't—"
"You're hurting yourself," he said, voice breaking.
She laughed once, breathless.
"Yeah. I know."
The Field Eats Back
Kai knelt beside her, eyes sharp.
"What are you feeling?"
Qin Mian closed her eyes.
"Like… I'm pulling something through me," she said slowly.
"But it's heavier every time."
Her fingers trembled.
"It's not just anchoring him anymore.
It's anchoring everything around him."
Kai stiffened.
"That's not how it's supposed to work."
"I know," Qin Mian whispered.
"But the underground… the thing we touched…"
Her voice faltered.
"It doesn't accept anchors.
So my power is compensating."
Yin Lie's stomach dropped.
"By using you."
She didn't deny it.
The Anchor hummed again—louder now, unstable. Fine lines of light flickered briefly under her skin, then vanished, leaving her gasping.
Kai swore under her breath.
"This isn't resonance feedback," she said.
"It's structural overload."
Cracks You Can't See
The woman with the mechanical eye had been watching from the doorway.
She stepped closer, lens clicking softly.
"Your field is folding," she said.
"Not breaking—yet."
Qin Mian looked up.
"What happens when it breaks?"
The woman didn't answer immediately.
"When an Anchor fails outward," she said carefully,
"the environment destabilizes."
She paused.
"When it fails inward…
the Anchor collapses into the host."
Yin Lie went cold.
"…What does that mean?"
The woman met his eyes.
"It means her body starts paying the cost of existence."
Silence fell.
Qin Mian swallowed.
"That's… manageable," she said, forcing steadiness.
"I can endure it."
"No," Kai snapped.
"You can't."
Qin Mian looked at her.
Kai didn't soften.
"Endurance is not infinite."
The Moment He Notices
Yin Lie backed away a step.
Not from her.
From himself.
"This is because of me," he said hoarsely.
"I'm too heavy."
Qin Mian reached for him—
and her hand spasmed midair, fingers locking painfully.
She cried out despite herself.
Yin Lie was at her side instantly.
"I won't let you keep doing this," he said.
"Anchor or not."
Her breathing came fast, shallow.
"If I let go," she said between breaths,
"you'll fracture again."
"Then I fracture," he said.
She stared at him.
That scared her more than the pain.
The Underground Watches
Word spread fast.
Not panic—
concern.
People paused in their work.
Eyes followed Qin Mian when Kai helped her sit back down.
Not judgment.
Calculation.
"She's burning herself," someone whispered.
"For him."
"That won't last."
The graying-bearded man arrived quietly.
He took one look at Qin Mian and exhaled.
"So it's begun," he said.
Kai turned on him.
"You knew this could happen."
He didn't deny it.
"Anchors were never meant to carry weight alone," he said.
"They were meant to distribute it."
Yin Lie clenched his fists.
"Then teach us."
The man shook his head.
"That knowledge died before we came here."
Qin Mian laughed weakly.
"Of course it did."
A Choice That Isn't One
Later, when the lights dimmed again, Qin Mian lay on the mat, eyes open.
Sleep felt dangerous now.
Her chest still ached, every heartbeat too loud.
Yin Lie sat beside her, unmoving.
"You can't keep doing this," he said quietly.
She turned her head slightly.
"And you can't stop being you."
They stared at the ceiling.
Stone.
Cracks.
Old weight.
"I don't regret it," she said suddenly.
He looked at her.
"Not even this?"
She nodded.
"If the Anchor hurts," she said,
"it means it's holding something that matters."
His throat tightened.
That was when he realized—
This wasn't just protection.
This was sacrifice, happening slowly enough that no one could stop it in time.
Somewhere deeper in the underground, something shifted again.
And this time, Qin Mian felt it too.
Not as pressure.
As alignment.
The Anchor reacted—
and pain flared bright enough to steal her breath.
She bit down hard, refusing to scream.
Yin Lie felt it ripple through him.
And for the first time, he was afraid—not of losing control—
But of surviving
while she paid the price.