A Waste of Time

Chapter 117: Unstrung Verse

Su An’s daydreams shattered when her Communication-Talisman flared faintly inside her Space-Pouch. Hers was of the lowest quality, which could only mean one thing: the next watcher had arrived outside, waiting. By rule, no one could pass through the Defensive Formations at the stone gate of the Azure Lock Chamber without receiving the jade token from the one already inside.

“My replacement is here…” she murmured, rising reluctantly to her feet. She tucked the cushion back into her pouch, then straightened her robes. A sudden confidence stirred in her, and she posed elegantly before him, chin lifted like a swan displaying its pride. “But don’t you worry, kid. Big sister is going straight to the Assignment Office to book every upcoming shift for this chore. That way, I’ll be the one to keep you company.”

Daemon tilted his head up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Well, thank you, beautiful big sister.”

The words were light, polite—but they landed.

“En.” Su An’s nod was firm, her smile widening with delight. “You sit tight.”

“Got nowhere else to go,” he quipped without thinking.

The attempt at humor hit harder than he intended. Her smile faltered, dimming like a flower wilting in sudden frost. For a moment her face betrayed the weight of his situation, the reminder that he truly was caged here.

Daemon said nothing more, simply watching as she turned and left in silence. Her fists, however, told the truth: knuckles pale, clenched tight as though she could strangle her own helplessness.

Silly girl, he thought as he lowered himself onto the mattress.

Moments later, the shimmering veil parted to admit a middle-aged man in the same ash-colored robes. This one carried himself stiffly, his wary eyes flicking toward the boy on the dais before deliberately turning away. The two regarded one another without words, and soon each settled into their own quiet. Silence suited them both well enough.

To each their comfort, I suppose. Works for me,

Daemon mused, closing his eyes.But sleep would have to wait. Ten minutes earlier, while speaking with Su An, the familiar chime of the System had rung inside his mind. He had ignored it then—but not now.

Time to Roll the Dice.

It had been two days since Daemon awoke to the grim truth of his situation. His clash with the Cultivators of Ten-Thousand Beasts Mountain had ended with his capture, and now he sat confined within the Azure Lock Chamber. His life was not in immediate danger, yet his freedom had been stripped from him as cleanly as blood drawn from his veins.

The guard assigned to him—a middle-aged Outer Disciple—had grown accustomed to the task. No longer stiff with fear, he had learned to keep his composure in the boy’s presence. Still, he never dared lower his vigilance. Even when replacing the jade vials or draining the gourd, the man refused to show Daemon his back. He knew, deep in his bones, that this sickly-looking child could snap his neck like a dry twig if given the chance.

But Daemon had no such intention. Escape was not on his mind—not yet. First, he needed to understand what he was truly up against. And more than that, he wanted to know what lay beyond this cold, sealed chamber.

So he played the role of prisoner with unnerving calm. He asked the guard for food when hunger stirred, and for drink when his throat grew dry. On occasion, he even asked the man to step outside and give him privacy, whether to bathe or relieve himself. It left the Outer Disciple feeling less like a jailer and more like a servant, his patience stretched thin.

The pay was generous, and the assignment was not difficult. But spending days locked inside the chamber with this boy tested the man’s mind more than any assignment within or mission outside the mountain. He found himself silently counting the hours, yearning for the moment his replacement would arrive so he could escape.

Daemon, by contrast, was serene. He slept when he wished, wandered the perimeter of the Formation when restlessness struck, and studied the carved beast totems etched into the eight pillars whenever curiosity took hold. Most of the time, however, he simply sat on his cushion, silent and unmoving, his vacant eyes gazing at nothing within but everything without.

The truth was simpler: whenever he grew weary of staring at the guard’s plain, lifeless face, Daemon let his consciousness slip back into the submerged path. There, he passed the time by invoking the Hourly-Rolls, hoping to edge ever closer to the bright white tile at the path’s forefront—the one he believed would finally let him break through the surface of that endless ocean.

So far, the journey had been chaos. The System had tossed him about like driftwood, denying him control, pulling him into red Summoning Circles that hurled him backward without warning. He had hated it—still hated it—but somewhere along the way, he had learned to stop fighting. To conserve his strength. To go with the current of the System’s rules rather than crash against them.

“Roll.”

The word echoed, and the Dice obeyed. It spun, tumbled, and clattered in the void. Daemon’s heart clenched with anxious hope, his thoughts so desperate they bordered on prayer. He even imagined singing angels and rainbow skies above a Heavenly Palace, begging for mercy. All he wanted was progress—just a single step forward, free of the cursed red tiles.

6–White.

His eyes widened. The tight line of his lips softened into a grin.

I did it!

His hand shot into the “Osu” gesture of a karateka, triumphant, as the System’s power surged and thrust him forward six tiles. When the momentum stopped, the Dice appeared in his hand once more.

And there it was: only one tile ahead.

His head was almost above the water, hair slick against his temples. One more step and he would see what waited beyond the surface.

The chance of rolling a 1–Red had never been lower. He had suffered from that result too many times before; the odds couldn’t possibly betray him again.

Don’t jinx it, Daemon, he told himself, clenching the Dice. Just throw it and end this so-called Leviathan-Maw Trial.

“Roll.”

1–Gold.

Daemon’s vision blurred the moment he saw the number. His strength collapsed from under him, and he fell hard to his knees, despair crashing down on him like a wave.

The System’s unseen hand gave him no choice. Its propelling force shoved him forward, driving him into a fate he had dreaded since the beginning.

The tile beneath him dissolved. His body sank into the Summoning Circle—down, down—until his knees struck solid ground once more.

But the surface he touched was different. No longer the sterile white, pale blue, dark blue, or black tiles he had grown used to.

Soil.

His fingers dug deep into it, clenching a fistful as though he couldn’t trust his own senses. He lifted it slowly, watching grains crumble between his fingers. He smelled it—rich earth. He felt it—cool, damp, alive.

And then the breeze came. Gentle, carrying with it the green perfume of leaves, the distant musk of bark, and the soft rustle of a forest.

“I’m out!” Daemon leapt upright, spinning in place, wide-eyed. Trees rose tall around him, their branches whispering in the wind. Not a single ripple of water or tile lay in sight.

“How… how did I get out?” he whispered, staring at his hands. Only two of them.

He patted his shoulders, rubbed beneath his arms, even craned his neck upward as if to double-check. One head. Two arms. Nothing more.

Usually, when he emerged from the path after completing a Daily-Roll, the System’s whim left him as an Asura—a towering giant of ten meters, with six arms and three heads. An instrument of war. A Fiend.

But now… he was simply himself. A boy. Weak, thin, under ten springs of age. Just another helpless child.

And this child now stood in the middle of a forest whose name and place he did not know.

'Huh.'

'Hmm…'

“I’ll be damned.”

Three voices rang out at once, each wearing the same startled expression.

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