The iron doors groaned open not to release them, but to receive them.
"Line formation," a voice droned. It belonged not to a skeleton, but to a functionary in gray robes, his face devoid of any expression. "The Collection begins. All units, proceed to the nodes."
Along the walls of the Cold Hall, thick cables made of twisted crystal and metal had descended from the ceiling like frozen vines. They pulsed with that familiar, hungry blue light. The air grew heavy, thick as water, pressing against Yoshiya's chest before the process even started.
The Mana Tax.
They moved in a trance of fear. There was no shouting, no threat of swords, yet refusal was unthinkable. The system demanded its due, and to deny it was to cease being useful.
Yoshiya was pulled aside early. "High capacity signature," the functionary muttered, pointing him to a thicker, darker conduit. "Front of the line."
He placed his hands on the cold crystal.
Engage.
It did not feel like emptying a bucket. It felt like being drunk from.
With his Enhanced Mana Sense active, Yoshiya saw the truth in screaming colors. The flow wasn't just magic—it was everything. It pulled at the warmth in his blood, the sharpness of his thoughts, the memory of his wedding day, the hope in his heart. It was a vacuum that didn't just want power; it wanted life.
And at the other end of the pipe, he felt it. A presence. A vast, churning hunger that recognized his own reserves and licked its metaphysical lips.
Zentake, he realized with a shudder. This wasn't just mechanics. This was his Greed, institutionalized. The man who collected coins had built a system that collected souls.
Yoshiya grit his teeth and erected his mental shields, layer upon layer, fighting to keep his core intact. He gave what he had to give, but he held onto himself. When they finally disconnected him, he stumbled away, his skin ashen, his hands shaking violently. He felt like a dried sponge, hollowed out and left brittle.
"Yoshiya!"
Omina was next.
She stepped forward, her jaw set, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword as if it were the only anchor keeping her in this world. She placed her palms against the conduit.
The reaction was immediate and violent.
The crystal flared bright red, fighting against the blue. The machine recognized what she was made of. It didn't want just her energy; it wanted the fire in her blood. It wanted the Berserk State. It wanted the rage, the passion, the will to destroy and protect.
It felt like being flayed alive.
Omina gritted her teeth so hard she heard bone grind. She felt her drive being sucked out of her, thread by thread. The will to stand, the will to fight, the will to care—it was all flowing away, leaving a cold, gray numbness in its wake.
She looked sideways. An old man two stations over simply folded at the knees. He didn't fall with a crash; he just collapsed like a sack of stones, his eyes rolling back. The flow didn't stop. The crystal didn't care. It continued to drain from his limp form until the gauge was full, and only then did a skeleton step forward to tag the body as "Depleted" and drag it aside.
No one screamed. No one rushed to help. To do so would be next.
When Omina was released, she didn't stumble. She fell.
Yoshiya caught her, his own strength nearly gone, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her upright. They were two shadows moving back toward their corner, leaning on each other because the world had suddenly become too heavy to stand in alone.
At the far end of the hall, standing amidst the pulsing cables, stood Zentake.
He held a small ledger, his golden eyes scanning the glowing numbers floating in the air. He nodded once, a sharp, satisfied jerk of the chin. The harvest was good. The numbers were high.
Omina's hand twitched at her side, fingers curling into a claw, reaching for a weapon she no longer had the strength to lift. Her eyes burned with a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful.
Yoshiya gripped her wrist, his grip weak but desperate. Not yet, his eyes told her. We are empty. We are weak. Not yet.
She breathed out, a ragged sound, and let her hand fall.
They reached their corner and sank to the floor. The silence of the hall was now heavier, filled with the sound of ragged breathing and the soft whimpers of those who had given too much.
A few feet away, the elderly man who had collapsed began to gasp, his chest heaving, his face turning blue. He was dying, right there on the cold stone.
Yoshiya looked at his own hands. They were empty. His mana pool was a dry well. But there was still a spark. A last ember of White Magic, the instinct that was woven into his very being.
He reached out, pressing his palm against the man's chest.
Heal.
It was weak. pitifully so. Just a trickle of light, enough to soothe the pain, enough to let the man breathe easier, nothing more. Yoshiya slumped back, exhausted to the very marrow of his bones.
Then, the click of boots.
A skeleton stepped into their space. It did not stop the magic. It did not punish him. It simply stood there, holding a small crystal tablet. A beam of light scanned Yoshiya, then the patient, then the fading aura of the spell.
Data recorded.
Resource expenditure noted.
Compassion audited.
The skeleton turned and marched away, updating the ledgers of the gods who watched them.
Yoshiya stared at its back, then at his own hands.
They owned everything. Even the good things they did. Even love. Even mercy.