Chapter 25: Ninth Fortress

It was six in the morning.

An He rose right on time, arriving at the Training Field even earlier than Asta. She geared up on her own.

For the next two hours, she had to complete a full-equipment fifteen-kilometer dash around the interior of the Ninth Fortress.

She carried two guns: a small-caliber assault rifle and a Glock pistol for emergencies. There was also her long military knife, a concealed dagger, a communicator, a flashlight, two button bombs, two grenades, two lighters, and a small can of gasoline.

The weapons and gear weighed over five kilograms in total, distributed smartly across her body for quick access.

Though An He hadn’t yet learned to use many of them, Asta had said she needed to get used to their weight and the feel of carrying them.

Yesterday, Asta had explained the route. It was straightforward: start at the Training Field, skirt around the Iron Smelting Plant in the eastern district, follow the Iron Wall, and run fifteen kilometers—half the fortress. The path passed the exchange market, the production materials factory, the Mines, then looped past the Church and the central district’s main road back to the Training Field. The terrain was tricky, especially through the Mines, with hills to climb and ridges to cross.

Every new Thorn Lamp recruit went through this training, so the ground bore clear footprints from predecessors. An He just had to follow those “footprints” to avoid getting lost.

Asta wouldn’t run alongside for the drill, but she’d track An He’s time. Too slow, and she’d be deemed unqualified.

Too many fails, and Asta would recommend to Ide that An He stay in logistics rather than join the Vanguard Team. The Vanguard bore the heavy responsibility of protecting the fortress—no room for the incapable. It was accountability to both the individual and the fortress’s people.

So Asta enforced the rules strictly, showing no leniency even though An He had saved her life.

“You’re eager today,” Asta said personally as she adjusted An He’s gear. “I figured muscle soreness would make you balk.”

An He felt no resistance. She stood calmly at the starting line, her face grave, eyes burning with intensity—even craving the training to begin.

Her goal went beyond the drill.

She needed to detour to the Mines for reconnaissance, so she had to run fast, saving time elsewhere to slip into the mine shaft.

Best case: deal with that skeleton before Lola knew, neutralizing it on the spot. Worst case: ensure it posed no further threat.

Plus, she had to grow stronger fast to protect Lady Heli from being taken by Gu Xianqing. She still didn’t know what Gu Xianqing wanted with Lady Heli, but it felt like bad news.

Gu Xianqing hung over her like a sword, filling her with crisis at every thought—and fueling the drive to fight back.

“Muscles might ache at first, but they’ll loosen up once you’re moving,” Asta said, patting her shoulder. She counted down from three and hit the stopwatch.

An He broke into a run, her figure vanishing beyond the Training Field’s edge.

Asta’s voice crackled from the wireless communicator on her left shoulder: “An He, start slow to pace your stamina—that’s part of the lesson. Don’t crawl back with nothing left.”

An He knew, but she had no time to dawdle.

As Asta predicted, the ache faded once her muscles warmed. She adapted to the intensity.

The rifle strap was cinched tight; An He was glad she didn’t have to run while aiming it yet. She secured all the loose gear as she ran, legs pumping, arms swinging to keep rhythm.

Breathing too.

She focused on nasal inhales and oral exhales. The Iron Smelting Plant’s unique scent—machine oil and sulfur—filled her nostrils. She glanced up: the blast furnaces and feed systems gleamed in crude, cold iron tones, the backbone industry anchoring the Ninth Fortress like a steady weight on this land.

An He picked up speed.

It took forty-five minutes to reach the Mines. Her breathing was a wrecked mess from the high intensity, her brain feeling like mush, dizziness hitting hard. She paused at the Mines’ edge, catching her breath, steadying her heart rate.

Asta radioed: “Where are you at?”

An He thumbed the button. “Still at the production materials factory.”

In truth, she’d shaved fifteen minutes off schedule. After a brief stop at the Mines, she slid down into the pit.

It was just past seven, sky barely lightening into a mix of blue and rock-gray chill. This was Pit Three: a circular depression plunging downward, massive equipment looming at center, ringed transport roads spiraling layer by layer.

No workers yet.

Sunrise lagged here, dust blocking it till eight. Operations started at nine.

Perfect for An He.

Lola’s coordinates: workface 39210—third level, ninth stratum, second mining zone, tenth tunnel. The skeleton was in the tenth tunnel’s midsection, left wall crevice. Markings were precise; she found the entrance effortlessly.

She unslung the rifle, slung it across her chest, chambered a round. Full gear gave her the confidence to move.

Per Lola, a immobile skeleton was wedged inside, laced with mycelium. Even if things went south destroying it, her arsenal sufficed.

An He hadn’t reported to Ide. Exposure would drag in Lady Heli’s injury; under Su Ling’s grilling, Lady Heli might spill on Lola—and that would implicate An He herself.

She and Lola were bound together now, grasshoppers on the same string. Neither gained from exposure.

She also couldn’t destroy it in front of Lola—after all, she’d called it a time bomb poised to wreck the Ninth Fortress.

So An He came alone. She’d defuse the “bomb” solo.

Oddly, in this peaceful fortress, she still walked a tightrope. Lola, Gu Xianqing, Su Ling, Ide—each knew a slice of her facade, threads converging on her, blind to each other’s existence or aims.

An He thrived in it. It drove her forward relentlessly, no gentle pauses.

The tunnel’s ore cart was mechanical, hand-cranked forward or back. Ninth Fortress prioritized utility; controls were dead simple.

An He fiddled briefly, released the safety, hopped in a small cart, and reached the tenth tunnel’s midsection.

Midsection spanned three hundred meters fore and aft. She needed that crevice fast.

Leaving the cart’s light, she flicked on her flashlight, probing the left wall.

Thanks to three years of nightmares, solitary darkness barely fazed her. Endless gloom and a skeleton? Cut from the same cloth as her dreams. She adapted.

An He realized she feared conscious foes more than Bone Eaters or husks.

Cracks abounded—abandoned exploratory paths, natural caves. Flashlight caught useless ores glinting in the rock.

This would take forever. She sifted clues.

Lola said normals wouldn’t enter, so not an obvious dead end; entrance smallish.

But Lady Heli got infected, so passable—not too narrow for her sturdy laborer build.

Finally: a skeleton jammed immobile.

Narrow at top/bottom, wider inside, or sloping down.

That filtered most. One candidate left on the left wall: a natural cave, fifteen meters from the cart. An He readjusted gear, bit the flashlight sideways in her teeth, gripped the nimbler dagger, and sidled in.

Smooth going—roomier than for Lady Heli. She even rebound gasoline and lighter to her waist for ease.

Only worry: time.

Yet the narrowing fissure plunged deeper than expected.

Strange. How’d Lady Heli get in here?

An He pressed on over hard rock, flashlight sweeping walls, tallying distance and time. Five minutes in; if too long, abort and return later.

As she neared quitting, the floor ended—a deep pit.

A kicked pebble tumbled twice, hit something, rattled.

Thud. Stone on stone.

Thud-thud… Echoes.

Thud-thud… thud-thud…

An He froze.

Not stone echoes—heartbeats.

Dull throbs rose from the pit, resonating with her. She glanced down; her pulse synced in a daze.

Darkness shifted like surging tides.

She yanked the flashlight to her feet.

A two-man-high natural stone pit, jumbled rocks—not too deep. Light pierced bottom.

A badly rotted skeleton hugged the wall, head thrown back, arms outstretched as if clawing out. Legs jammed in a crevice. Tattered clothes clung; dead decades at least.

Vibrant mycelium crawled from bone gaps up to its waist, pinning it fast.

Fresh-grown, not fully formed. At the hub: dried but recent blood.

Lady Heli’s? She’d been cut.

An He assessed when her mind buzzed—tangled mutterings burrowing like mycelium. Identical to yesterday.

This time, she caught it: something spoke. From the skeleton’s skull.

A raspy low voice called: “My people, come to me.” Silence amplified the terror, deafening in her ears.

Summoning. Luring. Script eerily like Gu Xianqing’s old lines.

Had it drawn Lady Heli?

The faithful hadn’t lied.

An He didn’t hesitate. She braced the left wall, unclipped the waist gasoline.

People? My ancestors trace to some nameless she-monkey. Billions of generations back, we’re all single-celled prokaryotes. Who’s nobler?

Mycelium on the skeleton spasmed wildly, tips rearing like worms, surging upward. An He impassively drew her lighter.

Flame bloomed orange-red—and warped into an eye. A blood-red orb with slit pupil stared from her nose-tip.

She dropped it. Lighter and “eye” tumbled pitward, mycelium-swarmed.

Flame died; clarity snapped back. Hallucination—not real.

It pollutes the mind.

In that blink, mycelium crested the pit, latched her ankle, snaked up her calf inside pants. Lady Heli’s bloodstain vanished, absorbed.

It constricted viciously—unlike prior strands, brimming strength. Boot deformed; An He stumbled. Falling, she whip-gripped the dagger, slashed like cloth.

Shing! Forged edge sheared effortless; taut strands snapped, some arcing midair. But more swarmed, exploding unbound.

Chopping like this was too inefficient. An He stopped swinging her dagger and let them coil around her calf. She wasn’t Lady Heli—even if parasitized, she wouldn’t contract Bone Erosion Disease. An He decisively freed up a hand, yanked open the tab on the gasoline can with one pull, and poured it unhesitatingly right onto her feet.

The gasoline, reeking with its sharp stench, trickled along the mycelium’s patterns. An He had already pulled out her second lighter. Always have a backup—that was the Thorn Lamp’s habit on missions.

Snap. An He pressed the ignition button. I’ve got to think hard about how to explain to Asta that I just went out for a run and my pants caught fire.