Chương 440: Necropolis-Beta

Taking direct control of an [Echo of the Ashen] proxy across four sectors was a strange, non-linear sensory experience. In Bastion, my physical body remained seated on the quiet cultivation mat in my inner sanctum, my star-cores spinning in a deep, hyper-stable rotation. Yet, four sectors away in Sector K-14, my consciousness expanded through the proxy's optical cores as it descended through the thick, ash-grey necrotic clouds of Necropolis-Beta. The world below was a chilling, gothic nightmare.

There were no blue oceans, no green forests, and no vibrant quartz cities. Necropolis-Beta was a dead, shrouded planet bathed in perpetual, sickly violet twilight. The surface was a vast expanse of bone-dust plains, broken only by jagged mountain chains carved from black marrow-stone — a dense, fossilized mineral formed from ancient, uncompiled skeletal remains.

Giant, megalithic spires rose from the plains like hollowed needles, their tips wreathed in floating, pale-blue soul-flame lanterns that illuminated the mist in a cold, eerie glow. Through my proxy's [Lattice Perception], I began to decode the dark, industrial architecture of this society.

Unlike the fire-adapted covenants on Igneous-Prime who fought over liquid soulfire to keep their cores warm, the inhabitants of Necropolis-Beta had built an entire galactic civilization around the cold, systematic commerce of death and soul-weaving. Their economy was revoltingly efficient. I observed massive, subterranean trade hubs — known locally as "Sepulcher Markets" — where high-tier cultivators traded in "Preserved Vessels."

These were physical bodies harvested from dead or captured cultivators, suspended in glowing glass cylinders filled with liquid marrow-essence that kept their flesh, muscle fibers, and core-conduits preserved in perfect stasis. Beside the vessel racks stood cages of living captives — drifters, low-tier cultivators, and prisoners of war brought from neighboring sectors — being sold as raw material for soul-gate extraction and memory-lattice experiments.

Currency here was a combination of the standard Quintessence Shards and "Marrow-Slates" — dense tiles infused with the refined spiritual grease of harvested soul gates. The tiles radiated a faint, cold soul-friction that made the surrounding air feel stagnant and heavy. As I observed through my consciousness inside the proxy I felt a deep, instinctive disgust at the sight. It was a cold, industrial butchery of living souls that treated life and existence as nothing more than raw, spare parts for a factory.

However, I suppressed my distaste with cold, disciplined calculation. I hadn't sent my clone here to play the hero; I was here on a stealth recon assignment to extract information. Wreathed in my [Prime Axiom's Nullifying Veil], my proxy drifted into the lower galleries of the primary Sepulcher Market on the southern continent. The market was filled with hundreds of dark-robed cultivators — Ash-Elders, pale Necromancers, and cybernetic soul-weavers whose forearms were replaced with runic bone-needles.

As I walked through a gallery of glowing Soul Incubators, a tall, thin man standing behind an array of ancient memory-slates suddenly stopped. The man wore tattered, velvet-black robes lined with silver runes, his face pale as chalk, his eyes glowing with two spheres of unnatural, milky-white light. He held a bronze caliper used for measuring soul-gate density, and the moment my proxy walked within ten yards of his stall, his caliper began to vibrate violently.

The pale man turned his head slowly, his milky eyes locking directly onto my veiled proxy. I paused, my star-cores spinning up into a defensive posture. Instead of shouting for the market guards or casting a hostile spell, the pale man's mouth slowly opened in sheer, breathless wonder.

"By the Pale Threshold…" the man whispered, his voice sounding like dry parchment dragging across stone. He stepped out from behind his stall, shuffling toward my proxy with trembling, ravenous curiosity.

"A proxy... A physical shell forged from compressed basalt-steel, carrying a zero-friction spatial density... yet wreathed in an uncanny soul-reflection! I could barely tell the Soul was purely a manifestation!" He raised his bronze caliper, his hands shaking as he scanned my proxy's aura from three feet away.

"Who forged this vessel?! It carries no systemic soul-gate stitches! It is conceptually seamless! Who is your master, traveler?" I looked at the eccentric archificer, realizing instantly that his specialized soul-perception or perhaps a unique Soul ability had allowed him to see through my clone's stealth — not because my veil was weak, but because his entire life had been devoted to measuring the subtle density of soul-vessels.

"I am my own master," I answered through the proxy, my voice level and calm.

"And you have sharp eyes, scholar."

"Master Krin," the man introduced himself with a quick, awkward bow, his milky eyes burning with intense academic obsession.

"I am a senior archificer of the Fourth Sepulcher. Please, traveler! Allow me to scan the spatial-density of your proxy's core! I will pay you whatever you desire, Marrow-Slates, Quintessence, mana, you name it! I will give you anything in my stall!" You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"I don't need Marrow-Slates, Master Krin," I replied, leaning against a stone pillar.

"I need information. Answer my questions, and I will allow you to record a non-invasive diagnostic scan of my proxy's spatial shell." Krin's face lit up with hysterical joy.

"Agreed! Ask! Ask anything! The archives of the Fourth Sepulcher are open to you!"

"Who governs this world?" I asked, pulling up my [Lattice Perception] to record his micro-expressions.

"And why are you harvesting so many living captives and Soul Incubators?" Krin pulled a bone-chiseled slate from his robes, whispering in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

"This world is governed by the Arch-Cabal of the Pale Threshold — seven ancient Grand Necromancers who survived the ancient eras. They hold absolute authority over all seven Sepulcher Markets." He gestured to the rows of glowing Soul Incubators lining the gallery.

"As for the vessels... the harvest has increased ten-fold over the last three cycles. The Arch-Cabal is purchasing every high-grade physical vessel and living hybrid soul-gate brought to the planet."

"Why?" I pressed.

"What are they building?" Krin looked around nervously, his milky eyes twitching before he leaned closer to my proxy.

"No one knows the complete blueprint, traveler. But the rumors among the senior archificers are chilling. The Arch-Cabal isn't purchasing vessels for their own immortality."

"They are fulfilling a massive, secret contract," Krin whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

"They are using Bone-Looms to weave extracted memory-lattices together, stitching multiple soul fragments into composite vessels. They are delivering thousands of these clean, un-systemic soul-vessels to an off-world client — a client who resides far outside the Sector." A sharp, cold spark flared in my consciousness back on Bastion. An off-world client purchasing thousands of clean, composite soul-vessels?

"Who is the client?" I asked, my voice dropping into a subterranean rumble.

"Is it an Arch-House from the High Courts, perhaps? At the mention of the Courts, Krin's pale face turned completely white. He recoiled backward, his bronze caliper rattling in his hand as he pressed a finger to his lips, making a sharp shushing sound.

"Do not speak that name aloud in the open market!" Krin hissed in a panicked whisper.

"They are not some mere faction you name lightly! They have many members who were ancient ancestors of the Pale Threshold — the grand architects who wrote the original soul-weaving slates before the System was ever compiled!" He looked at my proxy with newfound, terrified suspicion.

"The Arch-Cabal's primary research vault sits beneath the central cathedral. They say the Factions own emissaries arrive through an un-mapped deep-void portal at the center of the vault to inspect the harvested vessels."

"What are they doing to the harvested souls inside that vault?" I asked.

"No one who enters the Marrow Vault ever returns to speak of it," Krin said, shaking his head.

"They say... they say the client is trying to build a massive, synthetic soul-gate array. A vessel large enough to host something ancient... something that cannot enter standard System space without destroying the local Lattice." My mind immediately began assembling the clues, but every answer only birthed three more terrifying mysteries. Are the High Courts using this necromantic Arch-Cabal to forge clean, un-systemic proxy bodies for their Transcendent Judges to enter quarantined sectors?

Or is the Onyx Choir, while working independently under false pretences, using the harvested soul-vessels to complete the Sanctum Master's failed resurrection research on a galactic scale? What is the "synthetic soul-gate array" truly designed to host?

"Our agreement is fulfilled," I told Krin, extending the proxy's gauntleted hand.

"You may take your diagnostic scan." Krin eagerly raised his bronze caliper, recording the non-linear spatial density of my [Echo of the Ashen] shell for thirty seconds, his mouth agape at the sharpness of my foundation. I made sure he could only detect the faintest, most organic leylines and basic essence weave of my proxy, hiding anything else that may lead him to become suspicious.

"Magnificent... conceptual perfection…" Once the scan concluded, my proxy turned around, melting into the dark shadows of the Sepulcher Market. I navigated through the subterranean tunnels, using my [Prime Axiom's Nullifying Veil] to slip past the heavy guards and thermal-suppression barriers guarding the approach to the central cathedral. An hour later, my proxy stood hidden on a high, black marrow-stone gantry overlooking the entrance to the Marrow Vault. Below, a massive, silent procession was taking place.

Dozens of dark-robed Grand Necromancers were escorting a long train of iron cages into the yawning, runic jaws of the Marrow Vault. Inside the cages were hundreds of living captives — their eyes wide with drug-induced stupor, their soul gates bound in heavy necrotic suppression chains. Beside the cages, floating anti-gravity sleds carried thousands of glowing, crystal Soul Incubators filled with preserved physical vessels, being wheeled directly into the dark depths of the subterranean cathedral.

Guarding the vault doors were ten-foot-tall Skeletal Sentinels carved from black marrow-stone, wielding massive soul-cleaving scythes that hummed with necrotic energy. Their hollow eyes scanned every shadow for spatial anomalies. I wove a rapid [Micro-Glimpse], calculating the exact shadow-vectors between the sentinels' patrol rotations. My proxy dropped from the gantry like a silent ghost, passing through the sentinels' guard sweep without creating a single ripple in the air.

I slipped through the yawning runic archway of the Marrow Vault, blending seamlessly into the trailing procession of necrotic sleds. The entire operation hummed with a cold, terrifying purpose. I stood in the shadows of the vault's inner corridor, watching the endless train of captives move deeper into the subterranean cathedral. Back on Bastion, my physical body sat cross-legged on my cultivation mat, my star-cores spinning in a deep, hyper-focused tempo. The lead Kasian had given me was far from stale.

I had stumbled onto a massive, dark, galactic conspiracy that connected ancient pre-Shattering necromancy, the High Courts' secretive movements across the sector and potentially the Onyx Choir itself. My proxy adjusted its dark cloak, its optical arrays burning with a starless black and arterial crimson fire as it prepared to slip deeper into the Marrow Vault's hidden chambers. The questions were piling up, and the answers were buried deep in the dark.

I took a deep breath through my proxy, stepped off the corridor ledge, and followed the procession into the heart of the cathedral.