The blighted leaf pulsed a dull verdigris in Miroslav’s palm. Borislav’s warning lingered in the cold air: “Strip the blight. See what remains beneath.” Purging the rot required a fresher reservoir than the stale silt coating the Grand Archive. He took the transit shaft down to Solum 1.
The descent chute’s hum vibrated through his bones, a familiar prelude to the stench of rust and decay. Solum 1 greeted him with its usual brutal tableau: a vast, petrified tundra of ochre ice and jagged rock, perpetually under a sky the color of old bruises. The air hung thick with metallic tang, a signature of the Rust-Lich’s presence. Miroslav ignored the few scavengers picking over sheared metal husks near the boundary wall. His attention stayed fixed on the oily sheen staining the ice.
He set each boot with tailor-shop care, skirting the brine pools and the brittle slag that signaled deep rot. The Rust-Lich seeped oxidation wherever it dragged its bulk. He followed the trail of red flakes toward the ridge.
He found it in a deep fissure, nestled amidst a cluster of iron-rich stalagmites that wept corrosive fluids. The construct sat like a slag heap come alive, iron cogs grinding wetly against calcified bone. An orange silt seeped from its central spindle, hissing as it ate into the bedrock. Here lay an unmediated conduit of the Adjudicator’s culling.
Unfurling the vellum leaf, Miroslav advanced. The Lich sensed him, its singular, glowing red optic swiveling. A raspy growl, like grinding tectonic plates, vibrated through the air. Miroslav wasn't here to fight. He was here to clean. He knelt at the edge of the corroded pool, placing the parchment flat on the ground, just shy of the liquid metal. Then, he pressed both hands onto the page, feeling the faint, hostile heat radiating from it. He steadied his hands, calling up the exact muscle memory he used when setting a canvassed lapel under heavy iron.
“*Cleanse, purify, restore.*” The silent mantra began. He focused his compulsion for order onto the soiled leaf. The skill engaged like a siphon valve cracking open under pressure. The vellum flared, pulling the Rust-Lich’s corrosive discharge straight into its fibers. Pain lanced through Miroslav’s fingertips, then up his forearms. It felt like liquid fire, then brittle frost, then a thousand needles driving into his bones. His teeth gritted, a low groan escaping his throat.
[Perfect Housekeeping Activated – Targeted Cleansing: Corrupted Grimoire Page (Rank: Minor Artifact)]
[Energy Drain: 15 Vitality/second]
The system message flashed, indifferent to his agony. The construct shrieked, sheared plates chattering as its joint-pins shook. It tried to heave forward, but the draw held fast, bleeding its foulness into the sheet. He held on, sweat beading on his forehead, his vision blurring. The green light intensified, becoming blinding, then abruptly, violently, imploded. The pain vanished, replaced by a dull ache and profound exhaustion.
[Corruption Purged. Artifact Signature Detected.]
[New Skill Fragment Acquired: Arboreal Armor (0.01%)]
Miroslav gasped, falling back onto his haunches. The vellum, now clear of rot, shed a faint chalk-white hue. Fine ink lines of braided bark and rootwork emerged across the vellum grain. He had not merely scoured the filth; he had salvaged an underlying pattern. Then a boot scraped granite behind him.
A deep, resonant chuckle echoed from behind him. “Well, well. Look what the filth dragged in.”
Miroslav’s head snapped up. Stellan the Carver stood at the fissure’s edge, his hulking frame casting a long, skeletal shadow. He was flanked by two heavily armed Irregulars, their faces impassive beneath their visored helmets. Stellan’s eyes, cold as glaciers, were fixed on the now-shrunken, whimpering Rust-Lich.
“I’ve been tracking this blighted thing for cycles,” Stellan mused, his voice a low rumble. “Figured it’d yield decent stock. Didn’t expect to find you scrubbing down its droppings.” He took a step forward, glance dropping to the illuminated scrap in Miroslav’s grip.
Stellan ignored Miroslav, his focus returning to the Lich. He raised a hand, his fingers splaying unnaturally wide. The air around him shimmered, distortion rippling through space. “Waste of prime sinew, letting it rust into dust.” A dark filament uncoiled from Stellan's palm, snaking straight for the shuddering construct. The automaton recoiled with a choked click.
[Flesh Sculpting Activated – Targeted Absorption: Rust-Lich (Tier 3 Monster)]
The tendril fastened to the core. Plating buckled inward, iron teeth crushed to powder, and the sludge flashed to steam as the construct collapsed into Stellan’s palm. The mass liquified into an ochre slurry that sank through his pores. Ropes of corded muscle bunched along the Carver’s forearm, the skin turning slate-gray before the flesh smoothed over. Stellan let out a measured breath.
“Ah, much better,” Stellan said, flexing his newly augmented arm. “A fresh infusion of strength. Always invigorating.” He turned his glacial gaze back to Miroslav, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips. “You know, Miroslav, there’s a principle to this tower. A fundamental truth. It’s not about saving everyone. It’s about cultivating the strongest. Only the strongest can ascend, can change anything. And to do that, the weak must be culled. Their essence, their very being, becomes fuel for those capable of wielding it.”
Miroslav straightened his collar, refusing to drop his chin. “You call it culling. It is butcher’s work, feeding the very machine that caged you.”
Stellan showed teeth filed flat at the edges. “Bold talk for a custodian. Others harvest dominion while you wipe up grease.” He took another step, towering over Miroslav. “Tell me, tailor, what good is your scrubbing when the entire world is stained? What good is your pride when it only hastens your demise? I could end you now. A quick, painless assimilation. Make you useful, even in death.”
“I would sooner dissolve in this brine than be stitched into your meat-pile,” Miroslav said, keeping his tone flat.
Stellan laughed, a dry rattle against the cavern walls. The two guards never shifted their weight. “Not worth the thread, then.” He lowered his arm, the filament dissolving into his wrist. “You’re too far gone in your delusions to be salvaged now. But mark my words, Miroslav. This tower breaks everyone, eventually. And when you are truly broken, when your precious pride lies shattered and bleeding on the ice, I will find you. And I will make you useful.”
Stellan turned on his heel, his escorts matching his stride over the scree. Miroslav stayed motionless until their crests vanished past the trench. Frost crunched beneath his boots as he shifted his weight. The Carver took him for scrap; he would show the man that unpicking a seam ruined the whole coat.
He looked down at the parchment scrap, warm against his fingertips. *Arboreal Armor.* A foundational layer. He stared at the crushed rock where the automaton had stood. Stellan stole flesh; Miroslav peeled the rot to uncover what lay underneath. To counter an abomination who grafted slaughter into his own hide, he required more than scrapings. Borislav held the index to these remnants. Miroslav folded the vellum into his breast pocket and turned back toward the lift.