It didn’t take long for everyone to recover fully from the paralysis. Except for the woman to his right, it appeared that there were two others who were transported here at the same time as him. He only recalled having two others lying on the same cart, so either he was wrong about that — very likely, he didn’t have his eyes to confirm back then — or that they got here by other means. Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter, since they all ended up being imprisoned here.

  As there was nothing to do, Zalanir split the time between feeding the soul and tinkering with ambient magic. Staying depressed or worried about what might come next could just be a waste of time. Better be prepared for when whatever came, he would at least be able to do something about it.

  The soul, as usual, continued to take only and give nothing back in return. Not even a signal of growing bigger or becoming more dense or something. It just simply took in his mana like a lake devouring any rocks or stones he threw into.

  For ambient magic, Zalanir still couldn’t figure out how to interact with it. He could grab an affinity for Adaptability Bolt with ease, but couldn’t use the same imaginative hand to grab a physical rock. There had to be something that he was missing.

  Thus, for the next two days, Zalanir kept on hammering into the wall of burning through his mana only to meditate to refill it again. If he couldn’t jump over or maneuver around it, then the only option was to break through it. Keeping slamming and the obstacles would be shattered in the end was such a stupid notion, but it was the best he could do for now.

  During this time, the cultists brought two additional hunters to the prison, increasing the number of hunters here to eleven. At least that was the number of voices that Zalanir could hear, including his. There might be those who didn’t want to interact with others.

  Finally, on the third day, the wall gave in, and he finally made progress in dealing with ambient magic. It came off rather simply for something that had been bothering him for so long.

  In a moment of frustration, instead of forming an imaginative hand to grab the rock, he just mimicked the method of the Gymer, which was lifting the rock by creating a pillar under it, and actually managed to make a small platform. It sat figuratively between the cold floor and the rock, which was just enough to make the rock float in the middle of the air.

  He tried again. This time, he imagined an elastic ball and succeeded on the fourth try. The rock now undulated in the air as if it was bouncing off the ball. He retried with the hand shape and immediately got the confirmation that Adaptability Bolt was ready to fire.

  That was when he finally realized what he had done wrong previously. Perhaps the System just assumed that he wanted to grab an affinity for the skill rather than just a simple hand shape with no particular usage.

  He tried one more time with an imaginative hand that had only four fingers. Didn’t work. Three fingers also failed. Zero fingers? The same outcome. All of them led to Adaptability Bolt spamming confirmation in his head that it was more than ready to go.

  Wrinkles appeared on his forehead. His eyes squinted. What was wrong?

  After an hour of experimenting with various shapes, Zalanir finally figured this out. The hand shape was indeed the problem, but in a sense it wasn’t really the cause. The size of the medium he created it with was the main culprit. Without him paying too much attention, naturally the imaginative hand he created was at normal size, which turned out to be the problem since it was simply too big for his current capability.

  Because of the fact that he couldn’t do it, perhaps the System had stepped in and assisted him with grabbing an affinity, which was the preliminary step for Adaptability Bolt. All he had to do was create a finger-sized hand and make sure that the rock was within half a meter radius, then he could grab it. It was about his own capabilities in dealing with distance and size, not the actual shape of the medium.

  I am such a dumb-dumb! Zalanir sighed.

  With this ambient magic figured out, Zalanir eagerly practiced it with full attention. It didn’t burn away his mana, so he could reserve that to feed the baby for all he could. Hopefully he would have good news on that front soon.

  After two additional batches of hunters coming in, the cultists finally did something noticeable.

  Zalanir was in the middle of floating the poor rock up when the light invaded his space. Their spaces. Intense light shot straight into his eyes, staggering him on the spot and eating up his concentration. The rock dropped onto the floor and bounced off near the wall.

  Rushing into the black bars with his arms covering parts of his eyes, at long last he got a clear look at where he was.

  This place was huge. At least double the size of the chamber where he killed the birduomera. At its heart lay a hexagram etched into the stone floor, with glowing emerald lines that pulsed every couple of minutes. Surrounding it was four cylindrical stone pillars the size and height of an EV charging station. Parts of carved symbols were hidden under the moss clothes, with some curves exposed here and there.

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  Darkness loomed above the chamber, refusing to budge an inch under the assault of the light. Protruding stalactites and stalagmites framed the edges of the chamber like the teeth of a giant monster. Faint bioluminescent fungi clung to the tips of these spikes, casting a soft yellow light that danced with the emerald pulses.

  Six cultists emerged from one of the two entrances, carrying with them all sorts of stuff, from cloths, weapons, to some glowing stones. The thing that stood out the most and immediately captured Zalanir’s attention was the tower-like structure the same height as a human. The ceramic looking surface and spiraling water stream pattern all but confirmed what it was. Seemed like a major event was right around the corner.

  While these cultists were busily setting up the summoning altar, another group entered the area with a wagon of refrigerator-sized crates. A light, rotten scent quickly filled the air and attacked his nose. Yikes! Whatever was in these crates had to be awful.

  When the cultists were done, the altar took the center spot of the hexagram. The crate wagon sat right beside it. All other stuff was distributed evenly on all the six arms of the hexagram. Based on how they moved around picking stuff, there seemed to be a rule to that arrangement.

  A cultist ran off and came back escorting a viking who had his upper half naked. The dense black beard and black trousers covering up to the middle of the shin added to the raw vibe of the boss man. Though the flail was nowhere to be seen. That was the only difference compared to the last time Zalanir saw him. Identify showed that the man had indeed crossed the line and was now a C-grade.

  [Human — Level 52]

  “Hey, you are the boss? Stop fucking around and let us out. Your little cult will be dead if this continues,” shouted a man on Zalanir’s right.

  “That’s right. You little piece of shit. Do that and apologize before it’s too late,” another one followed, still on the right.

  “Shut up, you losers! Too late for what? I am here. Come!” In contrast to Zalanir’s expectation, the boss man actually responded to the provocation. “Huh? Nothing? Who’s the coward shouting just now? Is that you?” The man pointed his finger toward one cell on Zalanir’s right.

  “If I can, what are you planning to do? Why keep us here?” The crisp voice that was often the initiator of conversations between all the prisoners asked.

  “Ha! You should be grateful. Your life will finally be worth it.” The following guffaw from the boss man didn’t make it any clearer, but the intention behind rubbed Zalanir the wrong way.

  As if it was anything good to begin with. Imprisoning would mean various things, from smuggling, reselling to torturing or even for wars. Zalanir hated all of these opportunities equally, but the mention of their life seemed like they would be involved in even more perilous activities. Sounded like there would be deaths.

  “Can I join your cult? I am strong and can be of help,” said a male voice that Zalanir hadn’t heard before.

  Though the man was ignored completely. The cultists just continued with their preparations, paying no heed to all the questions, shouts, and curses from the prisoners. Even the boss man stopped with his threats and instead guided the cultists on the placement of everything, from moving three crates to the middle to having each of his underlings sit at specific spots. As for the man himself, after that, he simply stood to the right of the summoning altar and placed his right hand on the top of the structure.

  Then they chanted. Four cultists standing on top of each cylindrical pillar acted as the opener. Following the lead, the others on the ground mumbled along. It was like a choir performing in an opera house, except that their voices sucked. Hard to hear due to low volume, repeated rhythm, no money note, static melody, and the worst offender of all, cryptic lyrics that made no sense to the listeners. What did “Supreme Gulf of Jagged Spike endorsing the Furless Two Limbers” even mean? And what about “The All Mother gazing upon the Heart of the Matter”? Who or what was the All Mother here?

  It was as if Voice Translation malfunctioned. What they were spouting was just another language compared to what they usually used. Zalanir knew that none spoke English or Vietnamese here, but the sounds they were making were like animal’s huffing or grunts. Direct, primal, and instinctual.

  If he had closed his eyes, he would’ve mistaken him for taking a stroll through a safari. Been there twice. A zoo was nice and good, but could never compare to witnessing animals hunting in their natural habitats. Nothing was fabricated. The beasts were never tame. Just them on their own playground: rest, explore, and hunt or be hunted.

  As the chant went on, the four cylindrical pillars were shimmering with faint and warm emerald light. Then it came. As if guided by invisible tubes, all the light converged to a single spot on top of the summoning altar, shaping and forming an ever-growing sphere. Even though its size was just that of a peanut, its birth dwarfed everything else, making it the center of attention.

  A force descended and pressed on Zalanir’s head, making him jerk back from the bars and squat down with his hands wrapping around his head. It wasn’t something concrete, but Zalanir could vaguely draw it like a big jelly. Flexible and adaptable. It trespassed and wrenched his mind toward the summoning altar, an action that Zalanir intercepted immediately. He wasn’t a fool to not know that this wasn’t just a simple headache. That little soul toddler had taken this out on him back then, but that was with his allowance. Now wasn’t such a case.

  Zalanir directed his mana up to where the pesky invader was and literally threw his mana at it. A grin appeared on his lips. The stupid experimentation of trying to move the cage he did back then when playing with the soul toddler turned out to be just a drill for this battle.

  The invader was ferocious and tanked the first salvo, but then its grip lessened after the sixth or seventh hit. Zalanir pushed on. Not to mention the trespassing, but just for the importance of the mind alone was enough for him to expend his resources down to the last drop if required. There was no way he could let this violation go unpunished.

  Slowly, he won out. The invader was being pushed back under his constant assault. Still 65% left. Plenty to keep this on.

  But then, he had a change of mind. They were fighting inside his mind. Wasn’t it too kind to just simply defend? No, he was never a pusher. Not back on the tennis court, and definitely not here.