Time was relentless, and though Lanling wanted to resist it, the days flowed on. Or so he thought.
After all, there was really no sense of time in this underground hell, and the only way he could tell that a day had truly passed was through the hours of torture—and the occasional snippets of critical information he would catch amid his suffering.
He behaved the fifth time he entered the forge.
He had learned from No. 8 how he had survived for four years and, albeit bitterly, realized that what No. 8 had done was the best solution.
They were just kids.
Weak, small, and dumb.
Lanling could only try to gather more information, wildly guessing what the Kathayans were trying to do.
At least he had identified most of the liquids they were using. There were six in total, each a different color, with each having a different function. It was easy to confirm that the red liquid was simply a healing mixture.
