Hao Wei stepped through the Safety Seal into the lower layers of the Scar. The air was thinner here, heavier with dust and the acrid tang of decaying Primeval Essence. Sludge pooled in every crevice. Broken tools and fractured bodies littered the floor, half-crystallized from previous Exhales. Survival wasn't about strength—it was about noticing patterns and exploiting mistakes. And mistakes were everywhere.
Feng Zhen crouched behind a jagged rock, scribbling numbers on a scrap of copper-etched paper. "At this rate… 0.21% loss every thirty seconds. If we stay in this layer for more than four minutes, our Apertures degrade irreversibly…" He trailed off, staring at Hao Wei with that anxious, calculating expression that always made Hao Wei feel two steps ahead.
Lu Di shuffled behind him, pickaxe dragging in the sludge. His shadow fell over Hao Wei's feet, a silent, shapeless thing. He mirrored every movement, every pause, perfectly. Hao Wei didn't have to think about him. That was the only way he could be useful.
Ahead, the faint glow of the Auction Hall pulsed. The Sect used these lower layers as a marketplace for corpses, organs, and prime artifacts—where debts were sold, bought, or stolen. Surviving Sifters, if they had anything worth trading, went here to avoid outright liquidation. Failure meant being recycled into the mine itself.
Hao Wei adjusted the pouch of Year-Stones in his bag. Ten stones were enough to keep them alive tonight, but the world didn't reward "enough." It punished hesitation. He kept moving.
The Hall's doors opened with a metallic groan. Inside, a chaos of scents hit him: burned flesh, fermented essence, and the coppery tang of blood. Merchants in tattered robes shouted over each other, displaying jars of Soul-Silk, glistening Heart-Seeds, and rows of crystallized limbs. There was no morality here—only value, and everyone understood it.
Hao Wei's eyes flicked to a crate marked Rank 2 Wraiths—Residual Will Containment. A thin veil of mist hovered above the containers, trapped echoes of lives that had lingered too long. One of them swirled toward the ceiling, like smoke trying to escape its own cage. He ignored it. Lessons had been learned: emotions were liabilities.
Feng Zhen's whisper broke his focus. "That crate… the residuals—they could increase our Aperture by 3.4% if integrated correctly…"
"Or they could kill you," Hao Wei interrupted, stepping forward. His voice was calm, sharp. "We're not here to gamble. We're here to survive. And profit. Pick one target. One. If we try to do everything, we die."
Lu Di tilted his head, staring at the crates, waiting for instruction. Hao Wei pointed. Lu Di moved. Efficient.
They approached a table where a merchant displayed three small cages. Each held a single Heart-Seed, pulsing faintly like a trapped heartbeat. Price tags in Year-Stones dangled over them. Hao Wei could see the subtle imbalance—the aura of decay on one, the overpressure of Primeval Essence on another.
He selected the smallest, weakest one. Not for its potential power, but for the lowest risk. Every second spent debating was a second the Scar could exhale.
"Five stones," the merchant barked.
Hao Wei dropped four stones. The merchant snarled. "Six!"
He dropped a fifth, keeping the sixth in his bag. "Keep your greed. We're leaving."
Feng Zhen paled. "You—Hao Wei, the stability—"
"Is enough. If we survive, it'll compound. If not… well, the World will take care of it. Our responsibility is only ourselves and the quota."
Lu Di mirrored the motion, dropping an extra stone he didn't need to count. The Heart-Seed was theirs. The merchant muttered curses as the trio slipped into the exit tunnels, dodging scavenger Sifters who sniffed for weakness, for loose Year-Stones, for any opportunity to kill and harvest.
Outside, the Scar pulsed. The Exhale had left layers unstable; chunks of rock jutted at impossible angles, threatening to fall. Hao Wei felt the pull in his Aperture. The Heart-Seed throbbed in his bag, harmonizing faintly with his own Essence. It would keep the Glutton-Leech alive a little longer, keep him sharper, hungrier.
"Next layer," he muttered again.
Feng Zhen exhaled, eyes wide, voice trembling. "Hao Wei… how can you move like this? No hesitation… no—"
"Observation," Hao Wei said, voice low. "And ruthlessness. You calculate. You wait. I survive. That's the difference."
Lu Di nodded obediently, echoing the tone, the lesson, the survival mantra.
The Vertical Scar didn't reward effort. It rewarded results. And in this world, the results were measured in life, essence, and the cold, hard clink of Year-Stones.
Hao Wei smiled faintly—well, as much as one could in a mine smelling of rot and blood. Survival was profit. Profit was life. And he intended to have as much of both as the Vertical Scar would allow.
Because in the Scar, there was no morality, no heroics, and no forgiveness. Only those who learned to pay, steal, and survive would ever reach the heights of the World's Debt.
And Hao Wei was learning fast.