Chapter 7: Ninth Fortress 7

“The calluses on my hands are from hauling stones at the Third Fortress,” the assistant said unexpectedly, extending her hand to show An He. “Professor Su is used to them by now. If they bothered you, that’s my oversight.”

The assistant lowered her head calmly and gave An He a slight bow.

The implication was clear: Su Ling knew all about it, and An He was just making a fuss.

An He didn’t rush to respond. She noticed the name “Lola” on the assistant’s badge.

An ordinary name. People here, with their mixed bloodlines, had all sorts of naming conventions—every surname imaginable, just like Gu Xianqing.

And “Lola” was utterly unremarkable, matching her appearance perfectly.

Su Ling smiled. “Yeah, I brought Lola back myself. She was just an eighteen-year-old girl when she arrived. It’s been two years now.” Professor Su sounded a bit nostalgic as she recalled the past.

An He gleaned a lot from this.

She hadn’t dispelled her suspicions of Lola. On the contrary, her wariness deepened. Lola had a flawless backstory: hard labor at the Third Fortress, likely a tragic history that allowed Su Ling to bring her back and keep her close as an assistant.

Su Ling trusted Lola completely.

Too perfect.

Perfect enough to raise no red flags. That was the mark of a spy’s cover—not like An He, whose face screamed “suspicious.”

An He didn’t buy Lola’s innocence. She remembered the look in Lola’s eyes during their stare-down. Her instincts screamed that Lola was no simpleton, and An He trusted her gut—she’d learned from that one hard lesson. From now on, she wouldn’t ignore her feelings.

“Alright, I was overthinking it,” An He said, lowering her eyes. She’d play the long game.

“Professor Su.” Lola glanced at An He and spoke up unprompted. “I’m not busy lately. I can watch over An He for you. You’ve been up all night evaluating Thorn Lamp members. I’m worried you’re overworking yourself.”

Su Ling considered it. “Sure, that works. I can’t step away anyway. Just handle the data for me first, then check on her this afternoon.”

“Got it, Professor Su,” Lola replied.

An He’s suspicions solidified. She’d pegged Lola as an infiltrator.

Lola’s scheme was written all over her face. If Lola watched her, they’d have plenty of time alone. What then? Lola wouldn’t slit her throat, would she?

An He shivered, then dismissed the thought. Probably not.

If they were colleagues, there might be a scenario where one sacrificed for the other.

But they weren’t—or at least, it wasn’t certain. Lola wouldn’t kill her now; An He’s infiltrator status wasn’t confirmed. Killing her offered Lola no escape route.

That said, Lola might spare her life while crippling her ability to act or defend herself.

Then An He would be at the mercy of whatever frame job came her way.

The interrogation wrapped up. An He watched as the two rose and left. The metal door opened, sunlight from the hall narrowing to a thin slit. Lola glanced back at An He before slamming it shut with a bang.

As if sealing off An He’s lifeline.

The lab grew cold once more.

An He turned her gaze to the exam report on her lap, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights.

It was concise—just one page, no need to flip. Two conclusions: Her mental energy was highly unstable, and her Nestsoul overpowered her own capacities—a phenomenon never seen in Embedded Spirit Bodies before.

Second, the Bone Erosion Disease fungi in her body had been fully metabolized. No trace left. As expected, Embedded Spirit Bodies were immune to Bone Erosion Disease.

This confirmed she was indeed an Embedded Spirit Body. Even if she lost control and wasn’t as tall and robust as Asta.

An He tried summoning her Nestsoul to gain the upper hand against Lola later.

But whether she chanted spells or strained until her face turned red, the Ravens didn’t emerge.

“Hasten as decreed!”

“Gulnara Dark God!”

“Show me your true power!”

After confirming no cameras in the room, An He rattled off every incantation she could think of.

The lab echoed emptily with her slightly embarrassing shouts.

An He faced the truth: her Nestsoul wasn’t very obedient.

She clamped her mouth shut and recalled her state the last time the Ravens appeared.

Honestly, nothing had felt off then. The one anomaly? Her shock at Asta’s willingness to die. An He hadn’t felt such intense emotion facing death herself, but witnessing Asta and Heidi had stirred her—Thorn Lamp’s conviction and spark of humanity moved her.

She hadn’t wanted to watch Asta die, or let her comrade become part of a Bone Eater. So she’d leaped from the vehicle in a surge of raw feeling.

Emotions.

An He latched onto the word.

She couldn’t recall who’d told her this, but emotions were key—the root of unleashing power. Joy, rage, moved, fear, resentment. Positive or negative, they drove people to act.

The source of all behavior, a shield and a weapon. Primitive, sharp, even ugly—the instinct that surged to defend you when threatened.

Have emotions, An He. Resent it. Rage. Seize your weapon! An He!

She stared at the fluorescent light overhead, the voice’s owner a blur. Clearly, she hadn’t heeded the advice. For a long time, she’d shoved her emotions into a dusty corner to blend in comfortably.

So that’s it.

An He tested her theory, baring her teeth to force anger. But feigned emotions weren’t instinctual, lacked intensity. No Nestsoul.

Asta and Heidi had summoned theirs effortlessly, wielding them with control. Was that Thorn Lamp’s edge?

Mastering emotions to channel mental energy.

Incredible. An He knew how hard that was.

Was that the training Thorn Lamp members underwent?

She had to learn it.

An He gave up summoning for now and eyed the table to her left. Lola would come that afternoon. With no Nestsoul help, she needed to stack the survival odds.

The medical forceps were gone, but a pencil lay on the table—likely for log sheets—centered amid a stack of files.

A pencil could be a weapon.

Still strapped down, An He assessed quickly. The table hugged the bed, flimsy and unsteady. The metal bed itself was thin, barely thicker than a stretcher.

Situation clear, she thrashed violently. The bed creaked and rattled; steel table legs screeched against the stone floor.

Not enough. She kept shaking, wrists chafing red under the straps. Her wounds—crudely treated due to her status, not fully healed—began oozing blood again.

Still not enough!

Teeth gritted, silent, she rammed the bedframe and table over and over.

Finally, with a crash, the table toppled. Files, pencil, everything spilled across the bed and floor.

“What happened?!” The door flew open, the commotion alerting those outside.

An He glimpsed an armed guard bursting in first, then stepping back. A researcher rushed next, straight to check on her.

As the researcher approached, An He hooked the pencil fallen near the bed’s edge with her fingertips. With limited wrist movement, she shoved it up her sleeve—someone had changed her into a loose long-sleeved patient gown, perfect cover.

“I need to use the toilet,” An He said.

“You could’ve just rung the bell!” The researcher realized too late An He’s hands were bound; she couldn’t reach the side button.

“Never mind.” The researcher sighed and unfastened the wrist buckles. “I’ll take you.”

“Thanks.” An He meant it. Deep down, she admired how humane Ninth Fortress folks were. Despite her suspicious status, they let her use the toilet before confirming anything—averting the indignity of a suspect soiling herself. Too tragic.

How could anyone send a spy to destroy a place like this?

And if such a humane bastion fell, the suffering would multiply.

In a dog-eat-dog world, kindness was never as sharp as greed.

That’s why it was so precious.

An He went obediently, no resistance.

First, suspicious moves would worsen her situation.

Second, she’d spotted the corridor outside: armed guards everywhere. Someone had ordered eyes on her. No escape.

Back in the Research Lab, the table was righted, items sorted.

An He lay on the metal bed. As the researcher refastened the buckles, she subtly arched her wrists, leaving half a fist’s slack. Then she waited quietly for Lola.

…

She was right.

That afternoon, Lola entered alone, tray in hand.

The door opened; her shadow flickered across An He’s face in the sunlight. Then Lola locked it from inside with a click.

“Eat.” Lola’s face was expressionless. No one else around, she’d dropped the politeness—cold as a gleaming scalpel.

Simple fare: a hunk of dry, tough coarse-grain black bread, a small cup of water. Lola adjusted the bed to seated position and held the bread to An He’s mouth.

An He bit in. Bland, hard to chew.

But nearly two days without food—she forced it down. She needed strength.

“Lola.” An He chewed, cheeks bulging, locking eyes as she spoke deliberately: “You volunteered to watch me. What do you want to say?”

An He skipped the probing games. Straight to the point.