The flame in the lamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls of the dormitory room.
Arthev stood by the open window, the cool night breeze ruffling his black uniform. He didn't activate his spirit. Against the person sitting in his chair, he don't want any meaningless troubles.
Crown Prince Xue Qinghe sat comfortably, legs crossed, holding the porcelain teacup with elegant, manicured fingers. His golden eyes were warm, but the warmth was merely a surface reflection over a terrifyingly deep ocean.
"You smell like poison," Xue Qinghe said softly, taking a sip. "Like the poisonous miasma of the Sunset Forest. And you have been missing for three days."
The Prince set the cup down. The ceramic clicked against the wooden desk, a sound loud as a gunshot in the silence.
"I gave you a key to the Library, Arthev. I expected you to be reading. Instead, I find you have been visiting the Poison Douluo. A man who, historically, stands against me."
Xue Qinghe tilted his head. The pressure in the room spiked. It wasn't the brute force of a Titled Douluo, it was the suffocating, holy pressure of the Seraphim, leaking just slightly through the disguise.
"Are you defecting, Arthev? Did Prince Xue Xing offer you a better deal?"
Arthev turned from the window. He walked calmly to the foot of his bed and sat down, facing the Prince. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear.
"Defecting implies I was ever loyal to a faction, Your Highness," Arthev said calmly.
"I told you. I am a researcher. I go where the information is."
"And what information does Dugu Bo have?" Xue Qinghe asked sharply.
"Besides how to murder people with green fog?"
"He has a disease," Arthev said.
"A disease?"
"The Jade Phosphor Serpent is flawed," Arthev explained, keeping his voice clinical.
"It poisons its user. Dugu Bo was dying. His granddaughter, Dugu Yan, was suffering. I diagnosed them."
"You... diagnosed a Titled Douluo?" Xue Qinghe laughed, a sound of genuine disbelief. "And let me guess. You cured him?"
"I treated him," Arthev corrected. "I performed a surgery to filter the toxins from his marrow. He is now stable. And because he is stable... he is grateful."
Arthev reached into his pocket and pulled out the Green Jade Token Dugu Bo had given him. He tossed it onto the desk. It spun and settled next to the teacup.
The Poison Douluo's personal token. A promise of a life-debt.
Xue Qinghe stared at the token. Her mind raced. Dugu Bo was the strongest supporter of her rival, Prince Xue Xing. But now, this boy... this student... held Dugu Bo's favor in his pocket?
"He owes you a life debt," Xue Qinghe murmured, looking at Arthev with renewed interest.
"He owes me," Arthev emphasized. "And since I am currently holding your Library key... does that not mean his debt is, by extension, an asset to you?"
It was a bold move. Arthev was flipping the narrative. Instead of being a traitor, he was presenting himself as a double agent who had compromised the enemy's strongest piece.
Xue Qinghe picked up the green token. She saw the calculation in Arthev's black eyes. He wasn't scared of her. He was negotiating.
"You are dangerous, Arthev," Xue Qinghe said softly.
"You disappear, you befriend monsters, you rewrite history with your soul rings. But... having a leash on the Poison Douluo is useful."
She stood up. The suffocating pressure vanished.
"I will accept your explanation. But Arthev... do not disappear again without telling me. I get worried."
"Understood, Your Highness," Arthev bowed his head.
Xue Qinghe left. Arthev waited until the footsteps faded. He exhaled, slumping slightly.
'Smoothly done, kid,' Matatabi purred. 'You lie with the grace of a seasoned politician.'
'I just want to sleep,' Arthev mumbled mentally.
The darkness of the room washed over him. The exhaustion pulled him down, deep into the black water of unconsciousness.
He slept.
But the world did not.
-------
Somewhere else.
The air tasted like rotten eggs and wet iron.
The Devil Spirit Sea lived up to its name. The sky was a bruised purple, choked by perpetual storm clouds that never rained, only rumbled. The ocean below wasn't blue. It was a boiling, violent grey, bubbling as if the world beneath the waves was running a fever.
A small, rusted metal boat bobbed on the waves, looking pitifully fragile against the swells.
On the deck, a figure wrapped in a grey, oil-stained cloak was fiddling with a large, intricate diving pod. The pod looked like a coffin made of brass and reinforced glass, covered in gauges that twitched erratically.
"The pressure differential is fluctuating," the figure muttered, his voice jittery and fast.
"Thermal vents are active. Too active. It's not a natural cycle. It's a purge. If we drop now, the heat shielding might hold for... forty minutes? No, thirty-eight. Thirty-eight if we don't hit a rock. Or a fish. I hate fish."
He tapped a gauge with a metallic finger.
"Are you done talking to the dials?"
The second voice was deep, rough, and tired.
A tall man sat on the prow of the boat. He was sharpening a long, heavy black rifle with a whetstone. The weapon was wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from the damp, but the exposed barrel gleamed with a dull, menacing light.
"I am calibrating, you troglodyte," the first man snapped, not looking up.
"This isn't a walk in the park. We are diving into a boiling pot. If I miss a calculation, we'd be cooked. Poached eggs. That's us."
"Just get us down there, Lens," the tall man said, sliding the rifle onto his back.
"The Compass is vibrating. The signal is strong."
"I know it's strong, Verdict," Lens hissed, turning around.
Lens was a scrawny man with messy hair and thick, goggle-like spectacles that constantly spin as they adjusted focus. His most striking feature, however, was his right arm. It wasn't flesh. It was a skeletal construct of brass and metal, twitching with restless energy.
"The signal is coming from the mantle," Lens said, pointing a shaking finger at the churning water.
"Deep. Deeper than any Soul Master should go. The heat down there... it's enough to melt armor."
Verdict stood up. He towered over the nervous researcher. He adjusted his coat, checking his ammo pouches.
"Then it's a good thing we aren't relying on armor," Verdict said.
He walked over to the diving pod and kicked the hatch open.
"Get in."
Lens groaned, gathering his tools. "I hate this job. I hate the water. Why couldn't it be a nice, dry desert tomb? Why is it always the places that want to kill us?"
"Because the Rot hides deep," Verdict recited, his tone flat, rote.
"Yeah, yeah, cut the rot," Lens muttered, climbing into the cramped pod.
"Just try not to shoot the glass when you see a shadow, alright? This isn't the forest. If you miss in here, we will implode."
Verdict squeezed in behind him, sealing the heavy brass hatch. The air inside instantly became stale and metallic.
"Drop," Verdict ordered.
Lens pulled a lever with his mechanical arm.
CLANG.
The clamps released. The pod plummeted from the boat, smashing into the grey waves.
Foam and bubbles engulfed the viewport. Then, darkness.
They simply sank.
Down into the heat. Down into the Boiling Sea.
To be continued...