The hours in the tunnel pass in a strange, timeless rhythm. The world above—with its klaxons, security sweeps, and corporate politics—fades away, replaced by the immediate, earthy reality of their new home. It is a world of dripping pipes, the scuttling of unseen things, and the soft, steady, golden glow of the Relic.
True to Talia's promise, the bowl of potato pulp and Golden Spore undergoes a quiet, rapid alchemy. A gentle fizz begins to rise from the surface. The starchy, raw smell gives way to a sharp, sweet, vaguely fruity aroma. It is the smell of a secret being told, of a humble ingredient revealing its hidden, wilder nature.
They take turns sleeping in short shifts, huddling together for warmth. Mira, ever the pragmatist, has managed to hack into a low-level campus Wi-Fi signal, turning a corner of their subterranean refuge into a makeshift intelligence hub.
"Holt has officially declared Emberwood Hall a biohazard containment zone," she reports, her face illuminated by the cold blue light of her datapad. "Marche Corp is flying in a 'sanitation team' from their private labs. They're not cleaning the kitchen. They're strip-mining it for any trace of the Golden Spore."
"Let them," Lucien says with a dismissive wave. He is tending to the potato wine, swirling it gently. "They're looking for the ghost. We have the soul."
During a quiet moment, when the others are asleep, Nyra finds Caelan staring into the glowing heart of the Relic. The pulse of the culture is slow, steady, and calm, as if it knows it is finally safe.
"You're quiet," she says, sitting down beside him on the cold stone floor.
"I'm listening," he replies.
"To what?"
"To it. The Golden Spore," he says, a look of profound wonder on his face. "It's different now. After the battle in the kitchen… after the escape… it's not just alive anymore. It's… aware. It's teaching me things."
She looks at him, skeptical but intrigued. "Teaching you what? How to ferment potatoes faster?"
"It's showing me recipes," he whispers, as if confessing a secret. "Not from a book. But from… its own memory. It's a library of every single ingredient it has ever consumed. The tomato. The potato. The carrot top. The carrot that gave me the boon. Even… the Insta-Jello™. It remembers the chemical structure of the poison. It knows how to dismantle it. It's learning how to turn any poison into food."
The implication is staggering. Their little jar of life isn't just a starter. It is a sentient, evolving culinary encyclopedia.
Nyra looks from the pulsing jar to Caelan's face, which is bathed in its gentle, golden light. "What recipe is it showing you now?" she asks, her voice soft with a genuine, scientific curiosity.
Caelan closes his eyes. He is silent for a full minute, his expression distant, as if he is reading a text that only he can see. When he opens them, they are filled with a strange, new light.
"It's showing me a way out," he says.
He looks at the others, who are beginning to stir. His voice is quiet, but it rings with the certainty of a prophet.
"We can't stay here forever. We can't fight Marche Corp with security guards and tunnels. We have to fight them the only way we know how. We have to cook."
He looks at the crude, bubbling bowl of potato wine. "This is the key. Talia, your family recipe… the culture is showing me the next step. Not just to make alcohol. But to distill it."
"Distill it?" Lucien asks, sitting up. "Here? We don't have a still. We don't have any equipment."
"We do," Caelan insists, a manic, brilliant energy sparking in his eyes. He gestures around them at the forgotten infrastructure of the tunnels. A large, empty copper pipe. The drip of clean condensation from a cold water line. A pile of discarded terra-cotta pots. "We have all the leftovers of the academy's own history. We can build a still. We can make a spirit. A single, perfect, and powerfully symbolic bottle of Aurum Academy's first true moonshine."
"And then what?" Nyra challenges, caught up in his impossible vision. "We toast our own success while hiding in a sewer?"
"No," Caelan says, and the final piece of his whispered, divine recipe falls into place. The path out of the darkness becomes blindingly clear. "Then, we get it to the one person Marche Corp can't silence. The one person who values a good story more than a good stock price."
He turns to Mira, who is already typing furiously on her datapad, her eyes wide as she realizes his plan.
"Mira," he commands, "I need you to find me a secure, back-channel line of communication to the one judge who gave us a perfect zero." He takes a deep breath, and says the name that is their last, best hope.
"We need to get a message to Chef Barthol Maillard."