Abyss System The Rise of the Lord-Chapter 62 Experiment with soul chains human

Zaber continued on his way back to the inn after leaving the store. Packages in his hand, his walk calm, but his inner world was not peaceful. With each step, he observed the city, as if looking not at people’s faces but at their habits.

After walking a bit, his eyes fell on a store selling paints. The pictures hanging behind the window, the colors of the paints stood out from the gray street scene.

Zaber stopped.

He looked at his hair.

"This color draws attention," he thought.

He entered the store.

Inside, the artist greeted Zaber. He was drawing a picture near the window—the sunlight falling on the paper, enlivening the paints. Sensing Zaber entering, the artist quickly stood up and hurried toward him.

"Hello, sir. What kind of picture do you want drawn or purchased?"

Zaber looked directly at him. His gaze cold, but direct.

"I need paint. Do you have any?"

The artist thought for a moment. This question was not like those of ordinary customers.

"Forgive me, sir," he said cautiously. "We do not sell paint. If you wish, I can draw your portrait."

Zaber looked seriously. His voice low, but clearly heard:

"The choice is yours. I will leave here with paint or with your life."

The artist felt his heart tighten.

Is this a threat? — he thought.

This way of speaking is not typical of ordinary people. Let us avoid trouble.

He smiled with embarrassment.

"Sir... what kind of paint do you want?"

Zaber answered in a cold tone:

"Black. The highest quality."

The artist nodded and went inside. There was haste in his steps. After a few moments, he returned with paint stored in a bottle, deep black in color.

"Here, sir. The highest quality. It costs two gold. It can be used on anything and lasts a very long time."

Zaber took the paint, held it for a moment as if checking its weight, and put it in the package. He took two gold from his bag and handed them to the artist.

"A wise decision."

With those words, he left the store.

After about fifteen minutes, he returned to the inn again. The noise outside remained behind, the familiar environment greeted him. Zaber went up to his room, inserted the key, opened the door, and entered.

He placed the packages near the bed. He took the black paint. He remained silent for a moment, looking at the bottle.

"Black hair... will it suit me?" he thought.

Then he stood up and went downstairs.

He came to the inn employee. The same woman. As gentle as before.

"Is there a shower and a mirror here?"

The inn employee answered in a polite tone:

"Yes, sir, there is. But you pay separately for it."

Zaber looked at her.

"How much do I pay?"

"Two silver, sir. Then I will take you to the bath."

Zaber took two silver from his bag and placed them on the table.

"Move quickly."

The inn employee came out from behind the work desk.

"Follow me, sir."

After two minutes, she brought him to a door newly placed from wood.

"Inside there is hot and cold water. There is also a mirror in the changing room."

Zaber looked at the door.

"Good. You can go."

The inn employee bowed her head and left without looking back.

Zaber entered. Seeing a small cabinet for clothes, he undressed. There were a few towels in the cabinet—he took one and wrapped it around his waist. He entered the shower.

Hot water struck his body. Fatigue seemed to wash away slowly. After about half an hour, he finished washing.

He took a small tub in the corner of the room. He placed the medium-sized mirror hanging on the wall near the cabinet on the ground, leaning it against the wall. He placed the tub in front of it.

Then he took the black paint he had brought with him.

Zaber opened the bottle.

When the lid opened, the sharp, slightly bitter smell of the paint spread in the air. The color was not just black—it was deep, absorbing light, appearing bottomless black.

He poured a little paint into the tub.

The liquid spread slowly. Thick. Heavy.

Zaber looked in the mirror.

The young man staring back at him in the mirror was a stranger. Nothing remained of the previous self. The shining eyes had become dead eyes, the gazes had changed too, white hair falling to the shoulders, and on the face there was neither surprise nor fear. Only a calm, emotionless gaze.

"This color..." he thought. "Draws too many questions."

He dipped his hand into the paint.

His fingers were stained black.

Slowly, without haste, he began applying the paint to his hair. First from the forehead, then to the sides, then along the entire length. Each movement precise, as if a ritual.

The paint absorbed into the hair.

The white color began to disappear.

Black gradually dominated.

Zaber did not take his eyes off the mirror.

Drops of paint mixed with water flowed down his shoulders. He did not care. He only watched the mirror.

After a few minutes, he began rinsing his hair with water.

Hot water washed away the paint residue.

He looked in the mirror again.

Now a different Zaber stood there.

Black, long, smooth hair fell below his shoulders. The color uniform, deep, and cold. The light, attention-drawing nature of the pure white hair was gone.

Now this color seemed created for hiding.

Zaber stared into his eyes.

Still the same cold, lifeless-looking gaze. In it neither regret nor hesitation.

"Now it fits," he thought.

He dried his hair with the towel. He pushed it back, letting it fall freely to his shoulders. The movement natural, unforced—as if he had always been this way.

Zaber dressed and left the bath.

The hallway was quiet.

Without looking at anyone, he climbed the stairs upward. Reaching his room, he inserted the key, opened the door, and entered.

The room accepted him again.

He placed the clothing packages in the corner, approached the bed, and slowly sat down. He sat for a moment.

Today many things had changed.

But this was only the outer shell.

The real changes were still ahead.

Zaber lay on the bed. He closed his eyes.

The city continued living outside.

He only... closed his eyes.

And this was about the city.

In the morning, at dawn.

Zaber opened his eyes.

A good day to survey this city.

The city morning began not from high places, but from below.

The sun awoke soaking into narrow streets, damp walls, and the smell of mud before the towers and rich districts. Here dawn came not with birds, but with the creak of carts, the slam of doors, and the coughs of sleepless people.

Zaber walked in this very morning.

His appearance no longer drew attention. The white hair was gone—dyed dark, disheveled but clean. His clothes simple: wide-sleeved shirt, worn cloak, ordinary belt at the waist. No weapon visible. No mark.

He was one of the thousands the city had seen.

And this was exactly the needed state.

Zaber deliberately avoided the central streets. The market noise, merchants’ shouts, adventurers’ laughter—all this was background for him now. He wanted to learn the city from inside.

From the lower layer.

The narrow street grew narrower. Broken bricks replaced the stone pavement, water flowed, turning into mud. On the walls were old announcements, torn papers, drawings of unknown symbols. No official signs here—only unofficial warnings.

Zaber stopped for a moment.

He smelled the air.

This smell—was the smell of poverty, fear, and indifference. The most convenient environment. Because here people disappear. And no one asks questions.

He continued walking.

At the turn of the street, a group of young men appeared. There were four. Their clothes torn, but confidence on their faces. This confidence came not from strength—from not fearing punishment.

They saw Zaber.

Their gazes changed in an instant. Measuring. Evaluating. Choosing.

Zaber sensed it. But he gave no reaction. He did not slow his step. Did not run. Did not stop.

This drew their attention even more.

"Hey, you," said one of them, voice rough. "Where are you going?"

Zaber stopped.

He turned slowly.

He looked at their faces. Each one separately. The first—tall, but doubt in his eyes. The second—short, but aggressive. The third—silent, observer. The fourth—the youngest, but the most nervous.

Zaber noted inside:

No leader. This is good. Unstable.

"Did you not hear?" said the short one, stepping forward. "Walking alone here... is dangerous."

Zaber did not answer.

This silence was another test.

"Are you mute?" said the youngest, laughing. "Or do you have a lot of money?"

Zaber finally opened his mouth. His voice low, calm:

"Arrogant."

A moment of silence.

Then laughter.

"Did you hear?" said the tall one. "He is teaching us a lesson."

They approached. No people around. Both ends of the street invisible. This place seemed created for such things.

Zaber thought inside:

First experiment.

"Last time I ask," said the short one. "What do you have on you?"

Zaber narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Life."

This word angered them.

The third young man moved first. He had a short knife in his hand. Fast, but disorderly.

Zaber stepped aside.

Only half a step.

The knife cut the air.

Zaber raised his hand. His finger touched the young man’s wrist. Only touched.

But at that instant, something broke.

The young man froze. His eyes widened. His breath choked. As if something was being pulled from inside him.

Zaber made it imperceptible from outside.

Soul chain.

Invisible. Soundless. But irreversible.

The young man fell. Not to the ground—into himself.

The remaining three recoiled.

"What did you do?!" said the youngest in panic.

Zaber took a step forward.

"You chose."

The second young man attacked. From fear. This was a mistake.

Zaber placed his palm on his forehead.

This time the process was faster.

The soul was pulled. No resistance. Only emptiness.

The young man collapsed to the ground.

The remaining two tried to run.

Zaber allowed it.

Running means spreading. Spreading means rumors.

But the third—the silent observer—did not take a step. He watched Zaber. In his eyes not fear, but understanding.

"You..." he said slowly. "You are not human."

Zaber approached him.

"Wrong," he said calmly. "Right now, I am human."

And the soul chain pulled again.

This time slowly.

Deliberately.

Zaber felt the trembling in his soul, the memories, the fears. He noticed that in this process he gained not only power, but information too.

So it is possible.

The young man became an empty body.

The last one had already disappeared at the other end of the street.

Zaber looked around.

No one.

He dragged the three bodies toward the wall.

He drew a conclusion inside:

The lower layer is silent.

Here people disappear.

And the city swallows it.

Zaber set out on the road again.

No blood. No noise. Only emptiness.

In his mind, a new question arose:

If I make these imperceptible...

How long until no one knows?

He would find the answer to this question in this city.

This was—just the beginning.

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