A Waste of Time

Chapter 156: Buried Secrets

Daemon staggered, every step threatening to drive him flat into the mud. His body quaked under the crushing weight, sweat streaming down his back, breath rasping in his throat. He wasn’t even halfway. The vast metal gate loomed ahead, impossibly distant — as though whole worlds stretched between him and its surface.

Inside, the Grey-Palace strained against its own limits. The ten colorful layers beneath it spun furiously, feeding torrents of power upward, yet the palace itself groaned in protest. Its walls vibrated, its pillars creaked as though on the verge of implosion, unable to contain the surging weight pressing down on its foundations.

Junior.

The voice rang suddenly in his mind — clear, melodious, like the sound of a zither plucked in the heavens. It was the voice of a woman, angelic and soothing, but beneath its beauty lingered something fragile. Vulnerability. Weariness. Yet also kindness, slightly strict, carrying the calm authority of maturity.

You’ve done enough to prove your courage and willingness to test yourself, the voice continued, flowing through his consciousness like a river of light. But pushing any further would only result in self-destruction.

Are you perhaps one of the Grand Elders… or one of the Chiefs of this Mountain?

Daemon’s question flowed easily into the link, his tone steady and almost casual. Using thought to answer came as naturally to him as breathing — he was already an expert at weaving mental threads, having done so countless times with Ippo and Kai across vast distances.

Hmm…

The voice hesitated. For the first time, the calm, angelic tone wavered. A faint ripple of shock colored the words, as if the woman had not expected him to reply — let alone to use the very link she had forged to send his own thoughts back through it.

Humph.

The sound cracked across the link like a whip. Whoever was on the other side clearly didn’t appreciate his words.

To compare a Heavenly Lotus to a bunch of beasts… truly disgraceful, she said, her voice sharp, the earlier kindness now edged with indignation.

Daemon’s eyes shifted to the mural etched across the vast metal gate. The image of the brown turtle squaring off against the swordswoman on her lotus seemed to gleam faintly in the green glow of the stone he carried. A crazy idea sparked in his mind.

Instead of forcing himself forward, he lowered himself to the ground. Legs folded, back straight, he sat cross-legged before the gate.

The crushing pressure bore down on him, heavier with every heartbeat. He let it wash over him, rinse through him, repeat endlessly. His body endured, but at a cost — his Stamina burned like a furnace, protecting his Vitality from being drained to shield his flesh in such brutal circumstances.

So… are you the swordswoman who fought that brown turtle?

He waited. Silence answered him, thick and deliberate.

Then, at last, a sigh.

It rippled through his mind with the weight of years, heavy and tired.

Yeah. It happened many, many, many years ago. I can’t believe I actually lost to that damn old turtle. Betrayal isn’t an excuse. I was weaker than my opponent in the end.

The woman’s voice carried no hesitation, no attempt to sugarcoat the truth or twist it into something softer. Her words rang with honesty, raw and unflinching — a swordswoman’s pride bound as much in admitting failure as in claiming victory.

Daemon gave a curt nod and let his attention drift inward, tracking the changes unfurling through his body and the Grey-Palace as the invisible weight ground him down. Each breath was a battle; each breath fed the ten spinning layers beneath his Formation as they whirred faster, carving detail into the palace like a lathe cutting stone.

A cold humph came through the link, edged with a sudden heat. Tsk. You must be gloating deep inside, be careful, junior… you might be strong, but pride can be your downfall. Her voice carried a thread of anger beneath the restraint.

Daemon opened his eyes and stared at the iron mural on the gate. Why would I gloat? he asked, though the thought slid straight into the link as well. Why do you think I’m proud? Proud of what, exactly?

Her reply arrived slower this time, the words reluctant. Because your ancestor was the victor in our battle… and now I am a prisoner within your Mountain.

There was a pause; shame softened her voice so plainly that Daemon heard it like the scrape of silk against stone.

He let a small grin ghost over his mouth before he sent the reply back into her mind. Well then — good news. I’m a prisoner too. He opened his palms slightly and imagined the rough weave of bondage cloth. Can’t you see I wear the Slaves’ Attire? The thought went out calm, almost bored.

She did not answer immediately. Around him the pressure kept mounting, ribs burning; inside, the Grey-Palace’s gardens pulsed brighter, fish darting faster, vines uncurling as if answering drums only it could hear. Daemon closed his eyes once more and folded his will back into watching — into the slow, furious business of keeping his vitality safe, of letting Stamina burn so that the core would not be consumed.

He focused on the palace, on the way each decorative relief now seemed to thrum in time with his heartbeat, and let the world outside — the gate, the link, the voice of the swordswoman — recede into the steady, essential work of survival.

Silence hung between them for a long while. Neither voice nor movement broke the stillness; only the faint thrumming of the tunnel and the pressure at his back marked the passage of time. Daemon could sense, without surprise, that she had not severed the link between them — whether it was a mental thread or something older and more soulful mattered little to him. She could not harm him here and now; that knowledge made her presence tolerable.

Junior, the woman’s thought came at last, close and careful. Are you really a prisoner of the Mountain?

Yeah, Daemon sent back, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even. He did not open them.

What did you do to deserve the punishment of prison? Are you even sure you’re a prisoner? Because you don’t look like one to me, she pressed, skepticism threading through curiosity.

He sighed inwardly. He could ignore ordinary speech; he could not ignore words forced straight into his mind. The link tugged at his focus, stealing the edges of concentration he needed to tend the Grey-Palace and hold his vitality whole beneath the crushing weight. For that reason he kept his answers tight, measured — and, where necessary, false.

I beat one Outer Disciple back in my village, he replied. He was scheming against me and used despicable means… I almost crippled both his arms. A few days later the Sect sent Inner Disciples and an Outer Elder to capture me. He let the story land without the truth of everything that followed.

How did it go between you and them? Her curiosity coaxed more from him.

He felt the impatience as a press at the back of his skull. My two servants beat two Inner Disciples each, while I beat six in a row before I exhausted myself against the Outer Elder. She captured me and brought me back. When I woke, I found my servants and my flying-mount dead. So I struck a deal with them. He kept the terms blunt and simple — the lie tidy enough to satisfy curiosity without exposing the true threads.

Oh? And what deal would that be? she asked, the tone suddenly lighter, almost gossipy.

To behave for a while in exchange for the identities of the ones who killed my friends, he sent. He felt the hesitation in her, the way her mind circled history like a wary animal.

What will you do afterwards? she prodded, amused now, as if leading him toward some inevitable confession.

Daemon let the words go loud this time, abandoning the mental link for the single, sharp sound:

“Kill. Without. Mercy. Or. Die. Trying.” After a pause, as if to give his words a chance to ring and echo in that tunnel, a place that witnessed his perfectly portrayed false conviction when he added: "At least I would get a second chance at the bastards as a vengeful spirit or a haunting ghost."

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