Color drained from Luther’s face, shame wrestling with embarrassment.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Resources were scarce, yet the Door consumes staggering amounts of soul power. Once our hideout was exposed, I couldn’t remain on level thirteen.”

“Level twelve lies in the Lower Realm,” he continued. “The cosmic gaze weakens there, and cultivators cap at the High Immortal Realm. With my strength—and the Door’s dormant force—I could operate without drawing attention.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“My plan was simple. Lure them with promises of eternal life and blessings. Let volunteers offer soul power… or harvest the spirits of the fallen from battlefields. Quietly accumulate enough energy, then slip back here without stirring a wider storm.”

His shrug carried more self-loathing than indifference.

“Malcolm, Morven, and their ilk were willing pawns—hungry for power, easy to guide.”