The days crawled like dying embers in the Ashborne Crucible.
The fire in the forge never stopped burning, but the warmth never reached Seryn. Not truly. She was alive—her wounds closing, her body healing—but her soul… her soul remained shackled in silence.
Every attempt to resist, every flicker of her will, ended in failure.
She couldn't speak without permission.
She couldn't cultivate without command.
And Soyang… Soyang never looked at her like a person.
---
Day One
She awoke to silence.
The bed beneath her was warm, too warm. Clean sheets, stitched by human hands. A bowl of bitter medicinal soup sat on a wooden tray beside her. Its surface steamed gently.
She looked around.
No guards. No chains. Just the branding ache in her foot and the invisible collar wrapped around her soul.
Then she saw him.
Soyang was across the room, standing near the forge flames, shirtless to the waist. His back was to her, muscles taut and motionless. He was forging something—a weapon, perhaps—but his movements were unnervingly calm. Not a single wasted motion. No anger, no passion. Just mechanical efficiency.
Seryn opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
She tried to summon her dark energy. Nothing stirred.
She clenched her fists.
Soyang turned only once—to glance at her.
His eyes were empty. As if she were a tool on a shelf. A broken sword awaiting repair.
Then he turned back to his flames.
---
Day Two
She tried to test the limits.
When Soyang left to gather materials from the forge's lower chamber, she limped toward the cave mouth. Her steps were slow, weak, but determined.
Two steps outside, and a searing pain shot through her skull. She screamed silently and collapsed, vision going white. Her mark glowed red-hot. It felt like her soul was being peeled.
By the time Soyang returned, she was back in bed, drenched in sweat, curled in a corner like a whipped dog.
He said nothing. Just placed a bottle of spirit tonic on the table and walked past her like wind brushing dead leaves.
Her pride shattered a little more.
---
Day Three
Something had shifted.
Soyang wasn't forging today. He sat at the edge of the room, meditating, one hand resting casually on his knee. His expression unreadable, as always.
But for the first time, she noticed something else.
He didn't eat. He didn't rest long. He didn't seem to live. He merely existed.
A ghost in the flesh.
"Why… are you like this?" she wanted to ask, but the mark burned when she even formed the thought.
And yet, that day—he spoke to her.
"You're healing slower than expected," he said flatly.
She blinked in surprise. It was the first time in three days he'd said more than a command.
He stood and walked toward her. The air around him was still—but heavy.
"Do you want to live?" he asked, voice quiet but sharp.
She didn't nod. She couldn't speak. She just looked into his eyes—those calm, merciless eyes that had killed four demons without blinking.
"I didn't ask for pity," he said. "Or tears. But if you want to live, then stop sulking."
He knelt beside her and placed a pill on her lips.
"For now, I feed you. I heal you. I own you."
Then, with unnerving softness, he added, "But one day, if you prove useful enough… maybe I'll give you your voice back."
And with that, he stood and left the chamber.
---
That night, Seryn didn't sleep.
Not because of fear. Not because of pain.
But because, for the first time, she wasn't sure if she hated him.
Or feared how familiar he felt.
---
The fire crackled in the Ashborne Crucible, but the silence in Seryn's room was louder than any flame.
On the fourth day, Soyang entered.
His steps were slow, measured—like a hunter walking into a cage that held a wounded beast. But his eyes held no fear. Just frost.
He stopped at the foot of her bed and stared at her. The silence lingered, sharp and brittle.
Then, in a voice like ice sliding over steel, he asked, "Why did your own clan betray you?"
Seryn stared at him, confused. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. The mark still silenced her.
She raised her hand and gestured—an unspoken plea. How can I answer if I cannot speak?
For a moment, Soyang said nothing. Then he lifted two fingers.
A flick of invisible force shattered the silence seal like glass.
Her voice returned, raw from disuse.
"You kidnapped me," she rasped, eyes narrowing. "What do you want from me?"
But Soyang didn't blink. "I said shut up. I'm asking about you."
The words hit like a slap.
Seryn fell silent.
After a long pause, Soyang sat beside the stone table, folding one leg over the other. He didn't face her directly—he stared at the forge flames instead, eyes distant, as if dragging out some buried truth.
"I am not human," he said finally. "I come from the Demon Plane—born of pure dark essence. My existence is a mistake the heavens didn't correct."
Seryn's breath caught.
Soyang continued, voice even but quiet. "Until I was seventeen, they revered me. Even the Demon Lord bowed to my potential. So he tried to tie me down—to chain me with a marriage to his son , his son is very cruel and he doesn't mercy to everyone . A deal to raise my cultivation… but to cage my will."
He looked at his hand, scarred and calloused from forging.
"I refused. I ran. Crossed the boundary into mortal lands. Every realm I crossed sent hunters after me. Not to kill… but to use me."
His gaze shifted—cold, cutting—directly at her.
"You were one of them. You captured me while I was bleeding out, didn't you? Shackled me, just like this."
He stood and walked to the forge, retrieving a small vial of oil, pouring it over a glowing blade.
"So now I'm returning the favor. A week, that's all. You recover. Then I'll tell you why you're still breathing."
He turned away—but paused halfway.
"Oh, and one more thing," he muttered. "Don't mistake mercy for kindness."
---
That night, after the forge dimmed and Soyang left the chamber, he called out internally.
"System."
—Active—
"How do I heal her faster?"
The response came instantly, mechanical and toneless:
Target possesses strong affinity to dark element. Exposure to pure dark-attribute materials will accelerate recovery. Seek out condensed dark element sources: obsidian hearts, void crystals… or a darkstone.
Soyang exhaled through his nose.
"Dark element, in the human realm... almost extinct."
---
Later That Day – In the Outer City Market
The city stank of incense and sweat.
Soyang walked through rows of shouting vendors, avoiding eye contact. Even with a hood, his presence drew attention—the way he moved, the subtle hum of his energy. Too refined. Too sharp.
His eyes scanned everything: crates of medicinal roots, scrolls, beast pelts. Nothing dark enough.
Then the system buzzed in his mind.
Dark essence detected. Four meters. Left.
Soyang stopped at a weathered stall, half-covered in tattered cloth.
A merchant with stained teeth and oily hands looked up. "Ah! Young master! Looking for something rare? Cultivation stones? Flame pills? Cursed relics?"
Soyang pointed to a dull, black stone the size of a fist. It looked unremarkable, almost like coal.
"I want that."
The merchant's eyes gleamed. "Ah, yes! A true treasure! Hundred-year dark essence condensation stone. One hundred spiritual stones, but only for you—"
"Ten," Soyang said coldly.
The smile cracked. "Ten? Young master, do you take me for a fool—?"
"I am the fool," Soyang interrupted, "for wasting breath on a liar."
The air around him shifted—just slightly. Enough to make the man's knees wobble.
The merchant swallowed. "...Ten, then. Ten is fine."
Soyang tossed a small pouch onto the stall and took the stone.
As he walked away, he asked quietly, "System. This is the real thing?"
Confirmed: Condensed darkstone. Formed over a century from accumulated dark elemental residue. Holds restorative value to shadow cultivators and elemental beings.
Soyang smirked.
"The merchant had no idea what he was holding."
---
Return to the Crucible
He didn't speak when he entered the chamber. Just walked to Seryn, dropped the stone onto the wooden tray beside her, and turned to leave.
"Take this. Cultivate with it. It will help you heal faster."
He didn't wait for thanks. He didn't care.
---
Later That Night
Seryn stared at the black stone.
Even in the dim forge-light, it pulsed—faint, like a sleeping heart.
This… this can't be found in mortal markets, she thought. Even in the Demonlands, this is rare. Who is he really?
Her fingers brushed the stone, and a wave of cold energy rushed through her skin, into her core. Her spiritual veins stirred for the first time in days.
The chains around her soul loosened. Just a little.
She began to absorb the dark energy—slowly, deliberately.
And as midnight passed, the black stone grew lighter.
By dawn, it was translucent.
By noon, it had crumbled into dust.
And Seryn… was standing.