Jin having learned how to manipulate his intent threads under Shen's tutelage finally attempts to break through the formation. Shen and Jin seated themselves as close as they could get to each formation vein. At Shen's signal the duo starts to infuse their intent threads into the formation veins. In contrast to Jin's worries about failure the process was rather simple. It was similar to trying to pass a rope through a tube.

Jin's intent threads slowly passed through the veins, slowly dragging the qi within the veins back to the mainframe. The process was long drawn and bore down on Jin's soul, however after nearly 2 hours both Jin and Shen had reached the mainframe with the qi flowing through it. After that it was simple, simply bringing qi into a channel that is only supposed to flow outward caused the mainframe to break down from the reflux.

Shortly after the mainframe faced reflux the gates opened following a small explosion. Jin and Shen got up of the cold floors of the dungeon, and got ready to leave the cell.

The corridor was long and narrow, containing 15 cells. Slowly all the victims left their cells, looking half dazed, probably from eating the drugged bread they were feed all the time. Contrary to Shen's expectations the dungeon didn't smell like festering flesh and dried up blood, rather, it felt almost clinical. The walls were clean and the air smelt almost sterilized. Jin jokingly so said "At least they have work ethic"

After gathering all the escapees, Shen and Jin slowly explained the situation. A few were starting to regain their senses, these were the portion of the escapees that realized that the food was drugged and tried to abstain from eating. After discussing the situation with the more conscious escapees, the group forms a plan and start to make their way out.

On their way out Shen was contemplating what the goal of their captors were, as they were heading towards the mainframe in expectation to find the exit. As they were making their way towards mainframe the corridor was becoming noticeably more sterile, Jin felt as though he was in a hospital instead a dungeon.

The deeper the group ventured the colder the dungeon became. After walking for 30 minutes or so, the group reached a corridor with 10 cells in it and a large room to the end of the hall.

The large room at the end of the corridor was quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
No signs of struggle, no scorch marks from the collapsing array — just a still, cold air that stung the lungs.

Shelves lined the walls, neat and identical.
Each held hundreds of vials, organized by color and label in perfect handwriting.

The first type everyone recognized: blood essence, thick and dark red, pulsing faintly under the lantern light. Every sect used it — it was the base of medicine, of strengthening elixirs, of cultivation itself.

But beyond those, in smaller silver racks, stood a second collection.
Each vial held a pale, luminous substance that didn’t move like liquid. Wisps of light floated within, bending faintly toward anyone who came too close, as though sensing life. The labels here were different — marked with long sequences of numbers and notations Jin couldn’t decipher.

Shen could.
His voice was quiet, almost clinical.
“These are soul vials. Fragments preserved with a stabilizing reagent. They… shouldn’t exist. Soul essence dissipates the moment the host dies.”

He leaned closer to one rack, reading the etched notes below it.

‘Series Three: ingestion trials. Subjects to receive sequential soul infusion under continuous blood supplementation. Observe compatibility and coherence ratio.’

Jin frowned. “Ingestion trials?”

“They were feeding them this,” Shen said. “Making people swallow the souls of others.”

The words hung heavy.
To sustain the process, they had pumped those same victims with blood essence — enough to keep the body alive even as the soul shattered under the pressure. A way to force evolution, to craft cultivators whose strength came from devoured will.

Shen gestured to the rows of numbered rooms adjacent to the main chamber.
“Let’s check them. They wouldn’t risk the vials without active tests.”

The first small room had been cleared out — only restraints bolted to the bedframe, still warm, and a ledger open on the desk.
Each line read like a laboratory note:

Subject 12: complete rejection. Expired after fifth vial.
Subject 14: stable for 43 minutes. Intent burst uncontained.
Subject 17: marginal coherence. Retained motor function. Sample extracted.

Every page ended the same way — Failed.

In the third room, something changed.
The instruments still hummed faintly, powered by remnants of the formation. A faint pulse came from beneath the bed’s restraint bands.
Jin stepped forward and froze.

A child lay there. Small. Still breathing.
Tubes of crystal fed from her veins to a cluster of soul vials — half-empty, faint light still drifting within them. The blood in her cheeks hadn’t yet gone pale; the formation around her pulsed like a heartbeat struggling to stop.

For a moment no one spoke.

Then Shen began to cut the tubes one by one, sealing each end with a thread of intent.
“She survived the infusion,” he said, almost in disbelief. “Her body adapted to the soul load instead of breaking.”

He studied the instruments — perfect handwriting across every label, readings logged to the second.
“There was no hatred in this,” Shen murmured. “No chaos. Just procedure.”

Jin said nothing.
He looked at the girl — her breathing shallow, but steady — and at the walls, white and spotless.

This wasn’t cruelty born of madness.
It was cruelty born of method.
And that, he realized, was far worse.

There was no intent in any of the actions, incisions simply clinical. Maybe if there had been some sign of torture it would have been digestible. However, from the upkeep to the precision, it felt like those did this were far removed from the fact that they were working on people.

To some extent it seemed like they were unaware of the fact that they themselves were human.

The air was heavy, most didn't even know what to make of this, what to make of how they felt right now. Up till this point Jin was with Shen and even if they were imprisoned he didn't feel much about the situation he was in.

But in these rooms he could feel it, he could feel the cries of many. Not from pain, not from fear, rather, indignant screams. Screams claiming that they were human too.

A seething rage formed in all of the escapees, and seeing the pristine condition of the little girl only fueled it more. Pristine unlike a human, pristine like a test subject, a piece of research.

Jin carefully picked up the little girl, he felt like he was close to boiling over.

Jin carried the child in silence. Her skin was cold, her pulse a fragile echo beneath his fingertips. The others followed, half-stumbling through the narrow hall. Every sound felt too loud; even the scrape of a boot seemed to offend the sterile quiet that ruled this place.

The corridor climbed upward. The walls here weren’t stone anymore but smooth white panels etched with runes. No torches, no soot—light came from threads running through the walls, bright and cold. At intervals, plaques hung beside sealed doors, each engraved with precise script.

"Crimson Flare Sect — Department of Human Refinement."

Shen stopped long enough to read one fully. His face didn’t change, but his voice lost its steadiness.
"Crimson Flare. We were inside their research wing."

The words spread through the group like frost. Some cursed under their breath, others just stared, unwilling to believe.

They passed an open office. Inside, parchment reports sat stacked in neat piles. Jin brushed dust from the top sheet and read a line aloud.
"'Subject compatibility with external souls remains below two percent. Disposal authorized. Request further funding from the Inner Hall.'"

No names, no remorse—just numbers and logistics.

He felt the child stir, a faint whimper lost against the hum of the walls. Shen placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We need to move. If this place still draws breath, someone above already knows."

The corridor ended at a service gate. Shen forced it open with a flick of intent; the lock gave way too easily. Cold air swept in, sharp and thin. They stepped out—and froze.

The night wasn’t the open wilderness they’d imagined. Above them, tier after tier of crimson-lit terraces rose into the mist. Great forges burned along the slopes, their smoke drifting down like ash. Disciples moved along catwalks, tiny silhouettes against the glare. The smell of refined essence hung heavy, metallic and sweet.

One of the escapees whispered, "We’re still inside their sect grounds..."

Shen’s eyes traced the distant banners flapping in the wind—each marked with the same sigil that adorned the vials below: a stylized flame consuming a human silhouette.
"We escaped the basement," he said quietly. "Nothing more."

For a long moment, no one moved. The world they had hoped to reach—the forest, the sky, freedom—was right there, and yet impossibly far. The sect’s walls curved around the valley like the ribs of some enormous beast, their crimson glow pulsing in rhythm with the formations below.

Jin tightened his hold on the child. The glow caught in her white hair, turning it red.
"Then we keep moving," he said. "If this is their heart, we’ll carve our way out through the ribs."

Shen gave a thin nod. Behind them, the wind carried the faint echo of machinery starting up again, a reminder that the dungeon hadn’t died—it had only changed shape.