Thirty-Three: The Conduit

Lilith widened her eyes, curiosity flaring, and stared at the dark-violet conduit like a frozen vein under glass.

“Lymph node” was a metaphor the Little White Dragon tossed out on a whim. This knotted mass didn’t look alive at all.

Its surface felt like a flesh-like growth at first glance, yet the impression was inorganic, cold as kiln-fired ceramic.

That high-tech simulacrum vibe clung to it, out of place amid everything Lilith had seen on this land.

How did she know its texture? The answer was simple; she used her hands. Sight alone never tells the truth.

The fluid inside the conduit baffled her. It ran dark purple, carrying a thick scent of magic, like incense in a sealed shrine.

She couldn’t say if it was concentrated magic as she’d expected. It might be something else laced with magic instead.

It could even be like the Stellar Liquid she carried, a bottled star-glow. She wasn’t a specialist and wouldn’t pretend.

She didn’t cut the conduit. Alerting the Void Sect was a risk, and volatile poison was a worse one.

Still, her curiosity tugged like wind on a paper lantern. That purple node wasn’t a pump, so something else drove the flow.

Her hunch whispered that the source hid the Void Sect’s secret, like a pearl under silt.

Her intuition was often wrong, and she knew it. Yet she had no better path, so she followed the feeling.

If things went sideways, she still had the communication crystal from Eliza. She could call the princess for backup—or a Vampire.

She weighed words, then gave up with a little sigh. Overthinking just tangles threads.

Fine. She was the classic airhead role. No need to torture herself in a thornbush of labels.

She stowed the Shattered Ark she’d kept ready against ambush. It was a Broken Sword, so it shouldn’t weigh much.

But she was an underage White Dragon, small and not especially strong. The blade still dragged on her arms.

That’s why she disliked carrying a sword nonstop. The Astrolabe was better for her; two hands made it easy.

A new worry pricked her tail. If she repaired the Shattered Ark someday, could she even lug it around?

In battle, maybe fine. On the road, not so sure. That picture felt heavy as rain-soaked cloth.

She drifted deeper into the sewers, following the conduit like a thread through a maze, thoughts fluttering like leaves.

Surprisingly, it was easy travel. The Void Sect had laid a step beneath the pipes, a dry causeway above sludge.

The magic aura around the conduit was thick as mist and smothered the sewer stench, a mercy to her keen nose.

She wasn’t nose-deaf. If there’s a nicer scent, you pick the nicer scent. No point wrestling rancid air.

So she followed in that maze of damp stone and shadow, footfalls soft, tail tip low as a reed in wind.

She watched as she walked. The purple conduits clustered along the right, hugging the lower wall like ivy.

Sometimes grime masked them, and they vanished into filth. The Void Sect had hidden their ink strokes well.

Even unseen, she could track them by scent. Where magic was densest, the sewer reek fell back like a retreating tide.

She wouldn’t waste that rescue for her poor nose. Relief tasted like cool spring water.

She noticed one more thing. The liquids weren’t the same.

Usually, two pipes ran along the wall. At some crossings, more branched like antlers.

One side’s liquid was dimmer, thin as watered paint. The brighter side ran viscous, heavy as honey.

She guessed the flow fed arrays, burning stored power, then carried information back home. That would leave it dull and thinned.

Put plainly: arterial blood out, venous blood in.

Yet the ends looked more like lymph nodes than vessel tips. Did they swap lines halfway?

Then what was the tissue fluid here—just the ground’s dirty water?

She shelved the thought. A more important sight seized her like a bell’s strike.

A room appeared ahead, wedged in the Morris sewer like a black pearl in mud.

One glance told the Little White Dragon this wasn’t Morris-made. A huge blue-and-white cross hung on the wall.

Spuiset’s Vampires did share things with old tales—they disliked crosses and silver, and dreaded direct sunlight like a scourge.

They differed in plenty, too. They cast normal reflections, entered homes without invitations, and laughed off garlic or random holy water.

This dark-violet, round door with a blue-and-white cross wasn’t a Vampire’s handiwork.

Only one group could raise such a room under Morris—the Void Sect she was tracking.

Her guess hit true. Dark-violet conduits surged into the chamber like rivers feeding a lake.

Lilith lifted her communication crystal. She reported to Eliza, voice low as a moonlit whisper.

She’d found the target.