​Morning at Castle Zero arrived as it always did. The mist still clung to the blackened trees. Lunethra walked onto the terrace, her footsteps soft, her sandals clicking against the cold stone floor. The clay pots lined the corner where she had planted the seeds from Elarwyn. The sprouts had grown tall now, tiny pale-green leaves unfurling. Lunethra stopped before the first pot. Her eyes scanned the leaves one by one—green, green, green. Still alive.

​She moved to the second pot. The same.

​The third. The same.

​Until she reached the fourth.

​A black patch. The size of a palm. It was snaking through the veins of the other leaves.

​Lunethra knelt. Her hand reached out, touching the leaf. It was cold—a cold that seeped into her bones, like touching a corpse. And it pulsed. Not the pulse of a plant, but the pulse of something else. Something sentient. She withdrew her hand sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs. The hand that had touched the leaf felt tingly—as if something were crawling beneath her skin.

​”Madness,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What is this…”

​She stared at the leaf, then at the other sprouts. They all bore the same mark. Some were still small, no larger than a fingernail. Others had already spread to the stems. The black hue was uneven—pitch black in some areas, translucent in others, like veins filled with dark ichor. Lunethra plucked a single leaf—the most infected one. The stem snapped with a wet sound, like a finger breaking. She held it with her fingertips, keeping it far from her body, and turned back toward the castle. Her pace was quick. Her sandals squeaked against the stone floor. She did not look back. She didn’t dare.

​Dayat sat in The Heart of Logic. The coffee in his mug was still steaming. Beside him, Dola sat with her eyes half-closed, her white cape draped around her. The black markings on her arm had begun to fade, but she remained weak. Every few minutes, she shifted her position, searching for a comfort that refused to come.

​”You sure you don’t want to go back to the Medical Room?” Dayat asked. He took a sip of his coffee. Bitter. But decent.

​”Bored.” Dola’s voice was faint, little more than a murmur.

​”Bored how?”

​”There is only a bed there. And white walls. And a lack of you.”

​Dayat turned. Dola was still staring straight ahead, but the corner of her lip curled slightly. Dayat didn’t answer. He simply took another sip of his coffee. But his free hand reached for Dola’s, clasping it atop the table. Cold. But not as cold as yesterday.

​The door hissed open. Lunethra entered, her face pale—paler than usual, and she was already a pale woman. She held something with her fingertips, keeping it at a distance.

​”Dayat.” Her voice trembled slightly as she realized the horror of the situation. “Look at this.”

​She extended the leaf. Dayat took it, his brow furrowing. He flipped the leaf over, inspecting the black patch on both sides. The texture differed from the green parts—thicker, harder, like desiccated skin. “This is from your plants?”

​”Yes.”

​”The others?”

​Lunethra nodded. “All of them. I’ve checked.”

​Dayat let out a breath. He turned to Dola. Dola had opened her eyes, staring at the leaf with an expressionless gaze. Her hand reached out. Dayat handed it to her.

​Dola held it. Her eyes glowed blue—dim, but sufficient. Silence followed. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. Dayat waited. Lunethra waited, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white from the strain.

​Dola continued to stare at the leaf, her eyes unblinking. The blue light in her eyes flickered unstably—like a dying neon lamp. Dayat grew restless. “Dol?”

​No answer.

​Seven seconds. Eight.

​Dola lowered the leaf. Her eyes returned to normal. She looked at Lunethra. “Anchor.”

​Lunethra frowned. “What?”

​Dola didn’t answer her. She looked at Dayat instead. “As long as these plants live, he can remain here.”

​Dayat stared at Dola. “He? You mean—”

​”Yes.”

​A single word. But it was enough. Dayat felt a cold chill snake down his spine. It wasn’t from the room’s temperature—The Heart of Logic was always climate-controlled. It came from within.

​He stood up. His chair screeched against the obsidian floor. “We clear them out. Everything. Down to the roots.”

​Lunethra lowered her head. Her hands gripped each other even tighter; her knuckles were stark white now. “I… I only wanted to plant something. So this castle wouldn’t feel so… dead.” Her voice was small, like a child confessing a mistake.

​”I know.” Dayat looked at her. “It’s not your fault.”

​Lunethra didn’t reply. She turned and left the room. Her steps were slower than when she arrived—not from exhaustion, but from a crushing weight. Dayat watched the door close, then turned to Dola. “Are you certain?”

​Dola nodded slowly.

​”Why did you take so long just now?”

​”Ensuring.” Dola looked at the leaf she still held. “The energy… it is foreign. Yet familiar. Like what I felt before.”

​”Before?”

​”When I was still the Maiden. When I first encountered Wabil.”

​Dayat didn’t ask further. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

​Kancil was training in the backyard when Dayat called him. Loy and Riri were beside him, both holding their respective pistols. They were out of ammunition—merely practicing aiming and reloading.

​”Hold on.” Dayat approached. “There’s a job for you.”

​Kancil lowered his gun. “What is it, Brother?”

​”Help clear the terrace.”

​”Sister Lunethra’s plants?” Kancil’s voice shifted—softer, more cautious.

​”Yes. Everything. Down to the roots.”

​Kancil glanced toward the back door. Lunethra stood there, watching them. Her face was hollow—not devoid of expression, but hollowed out by the weight of suppressed emotions. Kancil didn’t ask anything else. “Okay. Come on, Loy, Riri.”

​They walked to the terrace. Dayat had already prepared the tools—small trowels, empty sacks, cloth gloves. Kancil took a trowel and began digging into the soil of one pot. The sound of the trowel piercing the earth—crunch, crunch, crunch.

​”Be careful,” Dayat said. “Don’t let the roots snap. We have to pull it all out.”

​Loy took another trowel, helping Kancil. Riri pulled the smaller sprouts with her bare hands. Soil scattered—tiny grains clinging to their clothes, the stone floor, and the crevices of their fingers. White roots appeared, followed by black roots snaking downward.

​”Brother.” Kancil stopped digging. “These roots… they go deep.”

​Dayat leaned in, peering into the hole. The black roots continued downward, piercing through the stone floor of the terrace. The color wasn’t solid black—there was a gradient, from dark gray near the surface to a shimmering, oily black deeper down. “Keep digging. As deep as you can.”

​Kancil nodded. He dug again, more carefully this time. Loy helped from the other side. Sweat began to bead on their foreheads; the cold morning air offered little relief.

​Lunethra stood to the side. Her eyes were fixed on the pots. One by one. The sprouts she had tended every morning. The ones she had watered, dusted, and spoken to. “Grow well. You are my home now.” That was what she whispered every time she watered them. Now, they were being uprooted. Soil was flying. Roots were being torn from their place.

​Riri paused for a moment. She looked at Lunethra—her large eyes unblinking. Then she approached. Her small hand—still dirty from the soil, with remnants of white roots clinging to it—reached for Lunethra’s.

​Lunethra turned. Riri didn’t speak. She just held on. Her grip was warm—a stark contrast to the morning chill. Lunethra returned the squeeze. A brief, gentle pressure. Then she let go.

​Riri returned to her pot, continuing the uprooting. Soil scattered once more.

​They worked until late afternoon. Every plant was pulled. Every root was excavated as far as possible. Sacks filled with the debris were hauled to the backyard. The pile was waist-high—a mixture of black soil, white roots, black roots, and the remains of withered leaves. The scent of damp earth mingled with that same stench of rot Lunethra had been smelling.

​Dayat stood before the pile. Kancil was beside him, still gripping a trowel. Loy and Riri were behind, their hands and clothes caked in dirt. Lunethra stood at a distance, watching from the threshold. Dalgor was nowhere to be seen—likely in the control room.

​Dayat pulled a lighter from his pocket—not a manifestation, but a mundane lighter given to him by Dalgor. Its metal was worn, etched with small scratches. He flicked it. A small flame danced at the tip, orange and blue. He could feel the heat against his fingertips.

​”Brother.” Kancil spoke up. “Does… does it really have to be burned?”

​”Yes.”

​”Why?”

​Dayat stared at the flame in his hand. “Because if we don’t, it will come back.”

​Kancil didn’t ask again. He looked at the pile—plants that were alive only hours ago, now reduced to refuse.

​Dayat tossed the lighter.

​The fire spread rapidly—too fast for plants still damp with soil. Thick black smoke billowed upward, carrying a foul stench. The smell of rotting meat. The smell of death. The exact smell Lunethra had detected in the forest, on the terrace, everywhere lately. The smoke rose in roiling coils before vanishing into the fog.

​They all stood there. Kancil. Loy. Riri. Dayat. Lunethra at the doorway. No one spoke. Only the crackle of the fire and that smell remained. A smell they would remember long after the flames died out.

​Night fell. The castle felt silent—even more so than usual. Not a silence born of a lack of sound—sound was ever-present in this castle. The hum of binary panels, the hiss of the Orchid-Ether system, the sound of footsteps in the hallways. But this was a different silence. A heavy, oppressive silence. It hung in the air like the smoke from that afternoon.

​Dayat was in his room. Dola was asleep—but restless. Her body shifted beneath the covers. Her brow was furrowed. Her hands clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched. Dayat sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. He didn’t turn on the lights; the dim blue glow from the wall panels was enough.

​”What’s wrong with you, Dol?”

​There was no answer. Only a faint murmur—a sound that was almost words, but not quite clear enough.

​Dayat sighed. He stood up and walked to the window, staring at the fog outside. It was thicker than yesterday. Or perhaps it was just his imagination—after a day of inhaling smoke and rot, his eyes were playing tricks on him. Behind him, Dola moved again. This time, more violently. Her hands clenched atop the quilt, her knuckles turning white. Her feet kicked out feebly.

​Dayat turned. He returned to the bed and sat beside her. His hand reached for hers. Cold—colder than it had been that afternoon. He gripped it tight.

​”I’m here, Dol.”

​Dola stopped moving. Her breathing grew slightly steadier—longer, deeper draws. Her hands no longer clenched.

​Dayat did not let go. He remained there, holding Dola’s hand, watching her face as it slowly returned to a state of calm. Outside, the fog continued to shift. But inside the room, for a few moments, there were only the two of them.

​Midnight. Dayat jolted awake. Not from a sound, but from the silence. It was too quiet. Even the hum of the binary panels—the constant background noise—was gone. The Orchid-Ether system as well. Everything was dead.

​He sat up. Beside him, Dola was already awake. Her eyes glowed a dim blue—fainter than usual, but enough to illuminate part of her face. Her white cape fluttered gently, though there was no breeze.

​”Do you hear it?” Dayat whispered.

​Dola didn’t answer. She stared toward the door, her eyes unblinking.

​Then—the sound.

​It didn’t come from outside. It was from within the castle. From below. Like a whisper. Indistinct. But it was there. Layers of voices overlapping, as if many people were whispering in unison. Dayat felt the hair on his arms stand up. Not out of fear—or perhaps it was.

​He climbed out of bed. Dola was already standing. Her movements were faster than they should have been for someone still recovering.

​They stepped out of the room. The hallway was dark. The binary lights on the walls flickered unstably. On, off, on, off. The rhythm was erratic, like a chaotic heartbeat. Dayat raised his hand, manifesting a small flashlight. White light illuminated the hallway—but somehow, it felt dimmer than usual.

​They walked. The sound grew clearer. It wasn’t words. It was more of a hum. A vibration. Something living. Something calling. The floor beneath their feet felt colder. Or perhaps it was just suggestion.

​They reached the terrace. The door leading outside was slightly ajar—a crack no wider than two fingers. Dayat pushed it open gently. The hinges didn’t creak—they should have. They always did.

​Outside, the fog was thicker than ever. But that wasn’t what made Dayat stop. The floor where the pots had once stood—was cracked. The cracks formed a pattern—like a spiderweb, radiating from a central point in every direction. And from the fissures, tiny black roots were snaking out. They moved slowly. Extremely slowly. As if they were breathing—expanding, contracting, expanding, contracting.

​Dola knelt. Her hand touched one of the roots. Her eyes flickered rapidly—blue, then violet, then blue again, then violet. The light was unstable, like a failing bulb. She withdrew her hand and looked at Dayat. Her eyes returned to blue.

​She shook her head.

​”Morbis.” Her voice was faint—hardly more than a breath. “He is still here.”

​Dayat stared at the roots. The roots they thought were dead. The roots they thought they had burned along with the plants. They were still alive. They were still growing. And they were beneath the castle—far below, in a place no trowel could reach.

​Dayat clenched his fist. “Tomorrow. We go down.”

​Dola nodded slowly. They stood on the terrace, watching the roots move rhythmically beneath their feet. The fog around them grew denser. And down there, in the darkness, something waited.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep