Darkness.
A viscous, suffocating darkness, mixed with the scent of mildew and dried blood.
In her ears were shrill, inhuman screams, piercing her eardrums, reaching the depths of her soul.
Before her eyes were swaying, distorted images—
Xiao Ling struggling frantically within invisible chains, her eyes wide to the limit,
reflecting a boundless hell of pain within,
dark red blood flowing from her seven orifices, tracing stark lines on her deathly pale little face…
“No——!!”
“Stop! I beg you, stop——!!”
Furenna heard her own torn, despairing cries, saw herself desperately crawling forward, but pinned down by an invisible force,
fingertips digging into the cold ground, cracking and bleeding.
She looked at Iris’s cold profile, at the dark silver collar being played with in the Demon King’s hand, watched as Xiao Ling’s struggles grew fainter and fainter,
until finally, the thin, small body fell softly like a broken doll,
landing with a dull, finalizing thud.
Thump.
“Hisss—”
Furenna jolted upright from the cold stone floor, the violent movement aggravating the old wound in her abdomen and every aching muscle in her body,
making her instantly grunt, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, as if trying to break free from her ribs,
each beat carrying the dull ache of post-terror.
Her breath was rapid and ragged, her throat dry and tight, as if those soul-rending cries had not been illusory.
“A dream?
Just a nightmare?”
She gasped violently, her amber pupils contracting then slowly dilating under the dim green glow, struggling to focus, recognizing the familiar surroundings—
cold stone walls, faintly glowing moss, heavy manacles, the very real, cold, skin-pressing dark silver collar around her neck…
And, the faint, barely-there sense of connection from the other end of the collar, now utterly empty and void.
Iris was not nearby, or her emotions were extremely placid.
No barrier, no chains, no floor covered in glaring blood.
Her gaze swept urgently to the spot in her memory where Xiao Ling had lain down to sleep.
In the corner, that thin, small figure was curled there, back turned to her,
covered with a tattered piece of burlap cloth found from who-knows-where,
rising and falling gently with even, subtle breaths.
The light brown braid was somewhat loose but intact, hanging by her neck.
Xiao Ling was still alive. Sleeping.
The nerves stretched to the breaking point suddenly relaxed, bringing a wave of dizzying exhaustion and a deeper, cold, fearful trembling.
Furenna raised a hand to press against her wildly pounding temple. Her fingertips were ice-cold.
The images from the dream remained terrifyingly clear: Xiao Ling’s final vacant, dead eyes, that dark red blood pool, the cold sensation…
Every detail was branded in her mind, carrying the twisted, vivid texture unique to nightmares.
That was no simple dream.
It was her deepest, innermost fear, infinitely magnified by the day’s experiences, her sense of powerlessness, and the heavy burden of responsibility, crystallized into a monstrous fruit.
It was a preview of the worst possible outcome her “refusal” could bring.
Iris had planted this seed named “price” in her soul in the cruelest way,
and the dream had allowed it to take root, sprout, and instantly grow into a towering, sky-obscuring tree of fear.
She had almost…
Just that close…
Because of that laughable, self-righteous “persistence,” turned the dream into reality.
Her gaze fell once more on Xiao Ling’s sleeping back. Furenna’s eyes became extremely complex.
As fear gradually receded, a heavier, almost suffocating sense of responsibility and protective instinct surged in her heart.
This child, because of her involvement, was already in the deepest pit of this demonic lair, living from moment to moment.
Her every choice, every reaction, could push this child into an abyss of eternal damnation, just like in the dream.
The sensation of the cold metal pressing against her skin during the day, and the humiliating connection that followed, now seemed almost bearable—
if it could serve as a fragile barrier, temporarily diverting more of the Demon King’s “teaching interest” away from this child.
This thought was not noble, even filled with the shame of compromise,
but at this moment, looking at Xiao Ling’s peaceful—at least seemingly so—sleeping face, this seemed the only clear path.
Furenna had to protect her.
By any means necessary, even at the cost of her soul being completely monitored and her emotions perceived.
This was no longer just out of a Heroine’s duty or sympathy, but an almost paranoid resistance against the fear of a nightmare possibly coming true.
She could not endure another such “loss” again; even the imagination was enough to make her soul tremble.
Furenna slowly, extremely carefully, shifted her body, trying not to make a sound,
to avoid waking Xiao Ling, and to avoid causing unnecessary emotional feedback from the collar.
She moved to a position where she could see Xiao Ling more clearly, sat down against the wall,
her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the girl.
As if by watching like this, she could confirm her existence, confirm her safety, could dispel that terrifying dream.
The dungeon was silent, only the subtle interweaving of their breaths.
Time passed in silence. Furenna’s frantic heartbeat gradually calmed.
But that heavy sense of responsibility and vigilance, as if bearing the weight of the whole world, took deep root.
The presence of the collar remained distinct, that faint connection like an invisible thread,
constantly reminding her of her situation, and reminding her that she must be even more cautious.
An unknown amount of time passed. Just as Furenna’s nerves, taut for so long, grew slightly numb, and her eyelids began to feel heavy—
Click.
In this absolute silence, the sound was no less than a thunderclap.
Furenna instantly snapped to full alertness. All fatigue and daze vanished.
Her amber eyes sharp as a hawk’s, shot towards the cell door!
Her heart leapt again, her body instinctively shifting into a guarded stance.
Though bound by manacles, she still tensed every muscle.
Was it the Demon King Iris?
Or a demon soldier?
A new lesson, coming so soon? Or…
However, outside the heavy metal cell door, no footsteps sounded, no sign of a lock turning.
A sliver of dim light from the corridor outside seeped under the door crack. Apart from that, nothing.
An auditory hallucination? Or an illusion brought by the collar?
Furenna held her breath, listening intently.
Seconds passed. Outside remained deathly still.
But that sound had definitely occurred.
She hesitated, then, with extreme slowness and caution, tried to inch forward a little, to see more clearly.
The manacles gave a faint clank, particularly jarring in the silence. She immediately stopped.
It was then that her gaze caught something.
On the edge of the narrow gap between the bottom of the cell door and the floor, faintly illuminated by the dim green moss-light, lay an object.
It was a small, dark box.
About the size of an adult’s palm. The material was hard to discern, neither metal nor wood.
Its surface seemed devoid of any decoration, only possessing a dull, matte sheen.
It lay there so abruptly, as if it had been silently slid under the door crack, or had appeared out of thin air.
No accompanying note, no markings, no energy fluctuations—or ones too faint for Furenna to sense in her current state.
Just an ordinary, yet in this sinister dungeon, extraordinarily out-of-place dark square box.
Furenna’s pupils contracted slightly.
This didn’t seem like Iris’s style.
If the Demon King wanted to “bestow” or “convey” something, her methods were never so subtle or plain.
A trap? The work of another faction among the demons? Or… something else?
Countless conjectures flashed through her mind in an instant, each accompanied by risk.
But she could not ignore it. The appearance of this object was too suspicious,
especially right after she had experienced such a nightmare, donned the collar, her heart filled with vigilance and protectiveness.
Furenna glanced at Xiao Ling, still sleeping soundly, completely unaware of all this. The string in her heart pulled even tighter.
She could not let any unknown danger approach this child.
She took a deep breath, suppressing the dryness in her throat and her accelerating heartbeat.
Furenna began once more to move, extremely slowly, bit by bit, towards the cell door.
Each movement pulled at her wounds and manacles, emitting subtle sounds amplified in the silence.
Her gaze was locked on the dark box, while her peripheral vision remained vigilantly alert to her surroundings, the sleeping Xiao Ling, and any slight fluctuation from the collar around her neck—
Fortunately, the collar remained calm. The other end of the connection was only complete emptiness and void,
indicating that at least for now, Iris was not particularly focused here, or her emotions were placid.
A distance of mere steps felt like traversing mountains and rivers.
Finally, Furenna moved close enough that reaching out would allow her to touch the box.
The young woman stopped. She did not touch it immediately.
Instead, she observed carefully. The box’s surface was indeed smooth and unpatterned, tightly shut, showing no buttons or seams.
It lay there silently, like a piece of mute black stone, yet exuding an intangible, unsettling aura.
Who? Why? What was inside?
There were no answers.
Furenna stared at the box, then looked back at Xiao Ling.
In her sleep, Xiao Ling unconsciously smacked her lips, turned over, pulling the tattered burlap tighter around herself, still asleep.
It could not be left there.
Especially not so close to Xiao Ling.
This thought overrode the fear of the unknown.
Furenna extended her hand, restricted by the manacles and short chain. Her fingers trembled slightly, but steadily reached forward.
Finally, her fingertips touched the cool, unidentified material of the box’s surface.
The texture was hard, cold. There was no reaction.
Mustering her courage, she hooked it closer with her fingertips, gathering it into her palm.
The box was light, almost weightless.
Holding it in her hand, the sense of unease seemed to grow more concrete.
Here, in a defenseless state, rashly opening a box of unknown origin…
It was no different from suicide, and could also implicate Xiao Ling.
Furenna clutched the box tightly in her hand. Its cold temperature seeped through her skin.
Then, slowly, maintaining the highest vigilance, she moved back to her original position near the wall.
She placed the box beside her, slightly shielding it with her body, and keeping it away from Xiao Ling’s direction.
Only after doing all this did the Heroine feel the back of her robe soaked with cold sweat.
The lingering fear from the nightmare, the discovery of the box—under this dual stimulation,
her spirit was exhausted to the extreme, yet her vigilance was raised to its peak.
She leaned against the cold wall, one hand unconsciously pressing against the dark box at her side,
the other hand slightly raised, as if protecting the girl sleeping soundly in the corner from a distance.
Her amber eyes, under the dim glow, flickered with complex light—
fear, responsibility, resolve, confusion, and a deep-seated unease and curiosity about that unknown box.
The dungeon returned to silence.
But this silence was already different.
It now held one more cold, silent, unknown “secret,”
pressing down on Furenna’s heart, and within this cell already brimming with despair.
And the Heroine’s guardianship had gained another heavy, unknown weight because of the nightmare.