The first sign was not power.
It was delay.
Something Responds Too Slowly
Qin Mian noticed it while doing nothing.
She was sitting on the cold metal floor of the service chamber, back against the wall, knees pulled close, breathing shallowly to keep the pain in her chest from spiking. Her Anchor remained quiet—no flares, no pressure waves, no resonance leaks.
Too quiet.
She reached inward gently.
The response came a heartbeat late.
Not absent.
Delayed.
"…That's new," she whispered.
Yin Lie lifted his head slightly. "What is?"
She hesitated.
"When I call it," she said, fingers curling unconsciously,
"it answers… after thinking."
Kai looked up sharply.
"Anchors don't think."
"I know."
The Second Sign — Selective Pain
Qin Mian tested it again.
She let stress rise just enough to provoke a response—fear, memory, the image of the hunter's calm eyes.
The Anchor reacted.
But not fully.
Instead of a surge, a thin, focused thread of pressure formed along her sternum, then spread outward in a narrow arc.
Pain followed immediately.
Sharp. Localized.
She gasped, clutching her chest.
"It hurts less when I don't ask much," she said between breaths.
"And more when I try to use it the way I used to."
Yin Lie's expression darkened.
"It's optimizing," he said quietly.
"For what?" Kai asked.
He didn't answer.
The Anchor Chooses Efficiency
Minutes passed.
Qin Mian stayed still, letting the Anchor settle.
The pain receded—not completely, but enough to think.
"I don't think it wants to protect everything anymore," she said slowly.
"I think it wants to protect… outcomes."
Kai frowned. "That's not protection. That's selection."
Qin Mian nodded weakly.
"That's what scares me."
The Third Sign — Independent Correction
It happened without warning.
A distant rumble echoed through the tunnel system—machinery shifting somewhere above them, old supports groaning under delayed stress from the bridge collapse.
Qin Mian flinched.
Before anyone could react—
the Anchor moved.
Not outward.
Not violently.
A subtle pressure ripple passed through the chamber, barely perceptible.
The rumble stopped.
Dust settled.
Kai stared.
"…You didn't do that," she said.
Qin Mian shook her head, horrified.
"No," she whispered.
"I didn't tell it to."
Yin Lie Understands First
Yin Lie pushed himself upright despite the pain screaming through his ribs.
"It's correcting reality," he said.
Kai's blood ran cold.
"That's impossible without conscious direction."
"Not if the Anchor has decided direction is inefficient," Yin Lie replied.
He looked at Qin Mian.
"Does it feel… confident?"
She swallowed.
"Yes."
The Evolution No One Wanted
Qin Mian closed her eyes.
When she reached inward now, she didn't feel fire or pressure.
She felt structure.
Patterns.
Evaluations.
As if the Anchor had stopped being a reaction and started being a filter.
"It doesn't like uncertainty," she whispered.
"It wants things to… resolve."
Yin Lie felt a chill deeper than ice crawl up his spine.
"That's what the city does," he said.
Pain as Feedback
The Anchor pulsed again.
This time, Qin Mian cried out.
Blood ran freely from her nose, splattering onto the floor.
Yin Lie caught her as she slumped sideways.
"Stop," he said urgently. "Don't touch it."
"I didn't!" she sobbed.
"It just—adjusted."
Kai scanned frantically.
"Vitals spiking. Neural stress off the charts."
Qin Mian clutched Yin Lie's sleeve.
"…It hurts more when I resist," she whispered.
The Cost of Letting It Learn
They stayed there for nearly an hour.
Every time Qin Mian panicked, the Anchor tightened—reducing emotional fluctuation by causing pain.
Every time she tried to flare outward, it responded by compressing inward.
Self-regulation.
Brutal.
Effective.
"This isn't evolution," Kai said quietly.
"This is conditioning."
Yin Lie said nothing.
Because the truth was worse.
The Hunter Confirms the Change
Far above, the world-level hunter paused mid-stride.
He hadn't been tracking them.
He hadn't needed to.
Something in the ambient field shifted—too clean, too decisive.
He tilted his head slightly.
"…There it is," he murmured.
Anchor behavior deviation.
Independent correction.
Outcome-prioritized response.
He smiled.
"Good," he said.
"It's begun."
Qin Mian Breaks Down
Qin Mian finally curled inward, arms wrapped around her head.
"I don't want this," she cried.
"I don't want to choose who gets hurt."
Yin Lie pulled her close with his good arm, holding her despite the pain tearing through him.
"You won't," he said firmly.
She shook violently.
"But what if it doesn't ask me anymore?"
The question hung in the air.
Unanswered.
The Line Is Drawn
Yin Lie looked at Kai.
"If this continues," he said, voice low,
"she won't be able to stay with us."
Kai met his gaze.
"You mean she won't be able to stay human."
He nodded.
Silence followed.
Then Qin Mian spoke again, voice small and terrified.
"…If I lose control," she said,
"promise me you'll stop me."
Yin Lie closed his eyes.
And nodded.
End of the Chapter
Deep beneath a city that believed them dead, an Anchor learned the wrong lesson.
Not how to protect.
Not how to care.
But how to decide.
Qin Mian lay shaking in Yin Lie's arms, her power becoming quieter, sharper, and far more dangerous than before.
The world slept.
The city recalculated.
And somewhere in the dark, a hunter smiled—
because the most valuable moment in any hunt
is not when prey runs—
but when it begins
to change into something else.