Chapter 106: The Surface

William heard screams—desperate, shrill screams—from the sailors behind, scattered by the trembling rock, like a cold front snuffing out torches, drowning out these faint sounds. The nearest cry was trapped in his own throat; he realized it was his own voice, traveling from his bristling neck into his skull.

The rock passage cracked like dry powder sticks, then took on a wavelike rhythm, like jellyfish gelatin swaying back and forth. He fell to the ground; cracks burst open beneath him, fractured surfaces lifting his shoulder blades, his fingers touching ground that was no longer whole.

The source of the tremor was still approaching, its booming waves crashing in relentless succession, ruthlessly crushing the tunnel—solid since before humans arrived, and presumed eternal.

One wall of the cavern suddenly tore apart; the source burst through the rock into the air, slicing straight through to slam into the opposite wall, treating the strata as if they were nothing. Like a fish leaping from the sea, breaking the water's surface, then falling back in.

A ridge-like mass passed through this space—its form invisible in the dark—but clattering, churning noises revealed a linked, segmented structure, smoothing away excess protrusions on the newly formed cavern walls.

A horn from hell carried shards of stone past his nostrils and eyelids; a cold current pierced his skin like death's fingernails. Warm trickles of fluid ran down his face but lost heat instantly, drying and congealing along his hairline, hardening into lumps around his eyes. Fine, stinging pains spread across his exposed skin, hinting at the source of the viscous fluid. The terrifying vibrations disrupted his heartbeat and breathing, strangling his scream.

The mural could not possibly depict this length; at speeds many times faster than a galloping horse, the sensation of suffocating dread dragged on until his consciousness nearly faded—yet still, it had not reached its end.

When William awoke from the dark unconsciousness and chaos, his mind returned to his body trapped in the lightless cavern—the tremor had passed. The grid-like cracks beneath his palm warned him: what he had just endured was no nightmare.

His trembling hand struggled for a long time before sparking a few embers, igniting tinder, and lighting a torch. Light returned to the place.

A cavern two men tall had appeared out of nowhere, cutting horizontally through the spot where Old Gory stood, intersecting the old mine tunnel to form an underground crossroads. William remembered the hunched, ancient figure hadn't moved an inch—he faced the extinguished torch calmly, then was swallowed by the roar and shaking.

He was probably dead, William thought. If he'd stood even a little closer, everyone here would have vanished like the rock inside that new cavern—but now, only Old Gory himself seemed to have been taken.

Probably.

Dragging his trembling legs, William crawled backward on hands and knees toward the sailors. He was likely the first to wake—he heard no other voices.

Soon, he touched the leg of the first sailor; both shoes had been lost in the panic, the limbs frozen cold by the cold wave—but he could still feel the pulse in the foot's dorsal artery, offering slight relief. Not only did they share years of shared survival, but even the boldest man wouldn't want to stay in this lightless underground with corpses.

"Wake up!" William held the torch in one hand and shook the leg hard; its owner groaned in semi-conscious pain.

"If you're alive, answer."

He shuffled back another body-length and saw a horrifying face—black-red scabs and fresh blood splattered everywhere, matted hair like demonic horned crowns.

The eyelids fluttered open; the moment he saw William, he let out another scream and struggled to push him away.

William wiped his face with his sleeve, scraping off the sticky, dried blood from his eyebrows to his beard; the fine stinging pain made him worry for the first time in his life about his appearance. "Damn it, it's me—William!"

The fool let out another shriek, only falling silent after William wiped the blood away—this sluggish reaction confirmed he was one of them.

"Ah, ah… Captain? Where are the others?"

Good—he was still recognizable, not unrecognizable. Just minor cuts. William faintly recognized that beneath the blood, this was one of the crew.

"Don't know. Wipe your face before you talk." His legs regained a little strength; he could push up on his knees to stand.

He raised the torch to reveal another man lying motionless. William stepped forward, but dull, recurring pain along his spine stopped him from bending over.

He gave him two light kicks—not out of conscience, but because his knees hurt too much to exert force.

Only one left. According to their original formation, he couldn't be far. William rubbed his shoulder blades, raised the torch, and lit the path behind him, preparing to gather everyone and leave quickly. Kraft was right—they shouldn't have come here. The unknown thing revered by the mountain folk moved beneath the peaks. Now they knew—but they were already in peril.

No fourth person. Only a small patch of relatively clean ground remained, proving someone had lain there. He wasn't the first to wake.

"Damn it, why the hell wander off now! Did any of you see Walker?"

The two sailors just awakened had barely risen from the ground, carefully wiping wounds from their cheeks—they clearly didn't know. Nor did they need to speak. A clear trail of footprints marked the ground littered with crushed rock—not leading back the way they came.

William frowned, following the unnaturally crisp footprints—uniform spacing, no pauses, no contact with walls. Their maker hadn't moved blindly; he'd likely lit a torch after waking, precisely avoiding those still unconscious, passing William's fallen position without stopping.

The sailors instinctively followed the torch to William's side, halting. They stood now at the center of the crossroads; the footprints extended into the new cavern, steady steps stepping deliberately inside.

To be honest, William was terrified. That thing wasn't meant to exist in this world. He couldn't imagine anyone, after witnessing such horror, would willingly step onto its path while still conscious.

"Should we go after him?" asked the sailor behind him, his voice warped like a painted courtesan's false comfort. In any trade requiring cooperation to battle nature's cruelty, abandoning a companion was taboo. But this was different. In a storm, you shared a boat; beneath the earth, facing a moving mountain ridge—it was too… beyond limits.

The thing had probably left—but who knew? Merely recalling its terrifying power, imagining flesh torn and crushed with rock, or being sealed forever underground like a miner in a collapse, sent chills down the spine.

"Captain?"

William understood their meaning: if he, the captain, gave one word, they'd turn and flee immediately—no one would stay another second.

"Walker…" His beard trembled; his lips, hidden behind it, repeated the name, savoring the memories. A lively, capable lad—never lazy. Everyone on the ship knew his name, including the three present—that was why William had brought him.

"Maybe he just got lost. He'll catch up soon." His boot lifted, heel stepping half a pace back; William heard the audible sigh of relief.

That was enough. He cast one final glance into the darkness, preparing to leave.

Then, a rhythmic sound stuck his feet in place.

Two materials collided—one, the rock floor—filling his heart with hope: a lost companion had found his way back, sparing him guilt and gossip from the crew. He thought of those evenly spaced footprints—this step pattern matched perfectly.

But the sound was too hard. It didn't resemble the woven or wooden soles of sailors' shoes—it was something else. If he had to name it, it was like giant crab legs striking reef rock. It drew nearer, from distant to close—yet no torchlight illuminated the steps in the dark, making it strangely unnatural.

Yet William vaguely felt it didn't matter; his heart's longing for Walker's return drowned out doubt.

He imagined the boy carelessly losing his torch, groping back along the wall in darkness—and how this moment of hesitation had given the young life a chance.

A faint unease lingered—like finding a fishbone in crab paste, or suction cups on a fishbone—but vanished the moment the familiar face appeared.

The footsteps stopped. No further advance.

They all recognized it—Walker's face, wearing a faint, distant smile, hovering at the edge of the torchlight. Perhaps due to insufficient illumination, the boy's naturally round, babyish face appeared swollen, his features lacking depth, like a flat, floating gourd drifting on dim water.