The air within the tunnel was becoming increasingly viscous, saturated with the decaying energy of the five Mid-Tier Knights. Because Del had unlocked the 【Undercurrent】 state, the surrounding atmosphere seemed warped by an invisible magnetic field. The drifting blood mist didn't settle; instead, it swirled slowly around him in a macabre, crimson vortex, drawn by the gravitational pull of his Black Sand Qi.

  Del stepped through the dark red mire, the sound of his boots grinding against bone fragments echoing with a sharp, grating persistence. He didn't walk fast, but in this dead purgatory, every step felt like a hammer blow against the heart of the only survivor.

  Allen Morey sat paralyzed amidst the heap of corpses. The silver longsword that had once symbolized the pride of House Morey was now snapped into two jagged pieces. He gasped for air, each rise and fall of his chest grating his fractured ribs together with a sound like grinding stones. His face, once handsome and radiating noble grace, was a mask of dried blood and coal dust. Only his eyes—wide, bloodshot, and filled with a stuttering horror—remained clear as he stared at the approaching black-robed figure.

  "What... what kind of monster... are you..."

  Allen’s voice was a jagged rasp, barely audible over the steady drip-drip of mineral water from the ceiling. He had witnessed it all. The "Cleaners"—the elite iron fist of his family, the killers he believed could sweep through the underground and challenge surface armies—had been dismantled like clockwork toys. This man hadn't even broken a sweat; the slaughter had taken less than five breaths.

  Del stopped three paces away, looking down at the dying scion with an expression of profound indifference. Faint threads of ink-colored energy spiraled around Del’s silhouette. His eyes held no malice, only a cold, analytical detachment that was far more terrifying than rage.

  "A monster?" Del’s lips curled into a thin, mocking sliver of a smile. His voice echoed through the tunnel, overlapping with itself in a haunting resonance. "Allen, when your family drove thousands of innocent miners forward to act as living meat-shields, you didn't think they were monsters. When Vivian was casually run through by one of your own knights for a few trinkets and a moment of lust, you didn't call that a monstrous act."

  Del leaned forward slightly, and a spiritual pressure as heavy as a mountain slammed into Allen, stealing the air from his lungs.

  "Why is it that when the blood belongs to the Morey elite, I suddenly become the monster? Or is it that in your cheap noble logic, only the weak deserve to be 'sacrifices,' while the strong who strike back must be labeled as 'monsters'?"

  "That was... that was war!" Allen shrieked, the effort causing him to cough up a thick, dark glob of blood containing bits of his own lung tissue. "House Morey... we stand for order! For the rule of law! We carry the blood of the Founders... we are the chosen..."

  "The blood of the Founders?"

  Del suddenly reached down, his slender fingers clamping onto Allen’s chin with a grip of cold iron, forcing the boy to look at the mangled remains scattered across the floor. He forced Allen to look at the severed arm of Commander Mozza and the crushed skull of the lecherous knight.

  "Look at them, Allen. Look at the blood of your 'Cleaners.' Does it look any different from the blood of the miners they trampled? It smells just as copper-sharp, it feels just as cold, and it dries just as fast in the dust. The family you take such pride in didn't even look back when they retreated. The corrosive dust they sowed behind them didn't detour around your lungs just because you carry 'noble blood.' At this very moment, in the Duke’s ledger, the name 'Allen Morey' has likely already been crossed out, replaced by a convenient story of a 'heroic death' to be told over wine."

  Allen’s pupils shuddered violently. Tears mixed with blood traced jagged paths down his cheeks. Del’s words were like a white-hot poker, searing through the final layer of his "Noble Honor."

  He knew Del was right. He had seen his father’s cold spine as the banners retreated. He had heard Mozza’s command to abandon the forward positions. In that moment, he hadn't been a beloved son; he was a discarded gear in a broken machine, left to be ground into the dirt for the sake of a few crates of medicine.

  "They... they had to... for the greater good... to preserve the spark..." Allen’s voice trailed off into a hopeless, broken whimper.

  "Stop lying to yourself, Allen. You are far too intelligent for such delusions." Del released his grip and stood straight, his gaze piercing through the boy’s soul. "In the depths of this mine, there is no 'greater good.' There is only strength and weakness. You were abandoned because, at that specific second, your life was worth less than the gold those medicine crates represent. Your family honor is a paper shield that disintegrated the moment it touched the reality of profit."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  At the mention of honor, Allen’s eyes drifted to Vivian. The girl who had tried so hard to balance the scales of power between the great houses was now a bag of refuse in the mud. Her eyes were fixed on the void, reflecting a grey, absolute nothingness.

  That sight finally snapped the last pillar of Allen’s sanity.

  "And what about you?" Allen laughed, a sound filled with destructive madness. He looked up at Del. "What are you after? You didn't save me out of mercy. To you, I am just another 'high-grade consumable'—a tool with the Morey name on it. Like that necklace you took, will you just toss me aside once you've drained my value?"

  Del was silent for a long moment. Then, for the first time since entering the mine, he let out a genuine, low-pitched chuckle.

  "You are absolutely correct. In this world, everyone is a consumable. The only difference is that some die for nothing, like the insects underfoot, while others become the fuel that sets the world on fire. Allen, you should feel fortunate. Right now, you still have 'value' worth my time."

  Del raised his right hand. A swirl of dark Black Sand Qi pulsed at his fingertips like an obsidian lotus blooming on the edge of a cliff.

  "I have a feeling you don't actually want to die, Allen. Beyond the despair in your eyes, I see a beautiful, burning rage—the rage of a man who wants to crawl back to the surface and drag everyone who abandoned him into this same stinking pit. That frequency of hatred... it resonates perfectly with the Black Sand Sect."

  Allen stared at the dark light. It was a power unlike anything he had ever seen. It held none of the golden splendor of Combat Qi; it was a hungry, silent void, yet in that moment, it offered him a sense of security he had never known.

  "What do you want from me? What can a 'dead hero' like me possibly do for you?" Allen rasped, a tiny spark of vengeance igniting in the depths of his eyes.

  "A proxy on the surface," Del stated plainly, without a hint of deception. "The collapse of the Morey and Simon families in the North District is inevitable, but the world demands a 'legitimate' face. I need you to return to your family. I need you to consolidate the remnants of their power. You will build a perfect facade—a 'North District Reconstruction Committee' led by you. You will deal with the greedy nobles, handle the tedious politics, and manage the logistics that I find utterly beneath me."

  "And I," Del looked toward the dark end of the tunnel, "I want this city to be silent. I want every inch of this mine branded with the laws of the Black Sand. I will build my foundation here, in the dark. You will be the shield that hides me from the world’s eyes, and the hidden blade I use to strike the surface when the time comes."

  "A puppet..." Allen’s mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. "I suppose it’s better than rotting in the mud. But I am a cripple now. Mozza’s blow shattered my meridians. My Combat Qi is gone."

  "Combat Qi? That primitive residue of biology and emotion? It was garbage to begin with. Its loss is no tragedy."

  Del snorted, and a sudden surge of black energy erupted from his hand, his finger tapping Allen directly between the eyes.

  "What I am giving you is a legacy that transcends the understanding of this world. Follow me, and you will not be a puppet. You will be the sharpest blade in the dark. When you finally stand before the Duke’s manor again, your father and brother won't look at you as a 'sacrifice.' They will kneel in the shadow of the Black Sand and beg for your mercy."

  Del’s words were a devil’s contract, sliding perfectly into the cracks of Allen’s shattered heart.

  "This power... can I truly master it?" Allen looked at his trembling, blood-stained hands.

  "That depends on whether your will can survive the baptism."

  The shadows around Del expanded, swallowing Allen into a pocket of absolute silence. The mineral toxins and energy fluctuations of the North District seemed to freeze at Del’s command. He looked down at the boy and issued the final question that would end a past and birth a future:

  "Allen Morey. Cast aside your rotting name. Throw away your useless pity. Now, I ask you one last time—do you wish to learn my sword?"

  A deathly silence fell over the tunnel.

  Allen’s life flashed before his eyes: his father’s cold lectures, his brother’s sneering contempt, Vivian’s gruesome end, and the sight of five elite knights turning into mist. In that heartbeat, the shackles of "bloodline" melted in the fires of his hatred.

  With the last of his strength, Allen struggled to flip himself over, kneeling in the filth. He slammed his forehead against the cold, hard rock, the sound of the impact ringing out clearly in the hollow tunnel.

  "Master," Allen’s voice no longer trembled. It was cold, focused, and tinged with a terrifying madness. "Please... teach me how to kill those 'noble' men. Teach me the way of the black sword."

  Del looked at the boy at his feet and nodded with satisfaction. He knew that the first true seed of the City of Black Wind had taken root in this bloody soil.

  "Very well. From this day forth, you are the First Disciple of the Black Sand Sect."

  Del flicked a finger, sending a wisp of refined 【Undercurrent】 Qi into Allen, instantly stabilizing his damaged heart and lungs.

  "Go. Pick up that shattered necklace." Del pointed to the empty shell of the Abyssal Ember lying near Vivian’s corpse. "That is your first lesson. Learn to touch your old dreams with your own hands and feel the temperature of their rot. Remember this feeling; it will ensure that when you swing your sword, you will never hesitate."

  Allen gritted his teeth and stood up on shaking legs, stumbling toward Vivian. His silhouette, flickering in the dim glow-stones, looked solitary and broken, yet it radiated the newfound ferocity of a hungry ghost.

  Del looked toward the exit, toward the surface world. He knew that with his increasing analysis levels, this tiny mine could no longer hold him.

  "the Black Wind begins in the shadows," Del whispered to the dark, "but it shall eventually sweep across the entire world."