Chapter 106

William heard a scream—a desperate, strangled cry—from the sailor behind him, scattered by the trembling rock, like a cold current snuffing out a torch and drowning out these faint sounds. The nearest cry of terror was stifled in his own throat; he realized it was his own voice, traveling from his bristling neck into his skull.

The stone passage cracked with a dry, powdery snap, then took on a wavelike motion, like jellyfish gelatin swaying back and forth. He fell to the ground as fissures burst open beneath him, fractured surfaces lifting his shoulder blades, his fingers brushing against a surface no longer recognizable as ground.

The source of the tremor was still approaching, its booming waves crashing in relentless succession, ruthlessly crushing the tunnel—solid since before humanity’s arrival, 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 plunging back down.

A ridge-like mass passed through this space—its form invisible in the dark—but the clattering, churning noises revealed a segmented, interlocking 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 had barely begun to run before losing their heat, drying and congealing along his hairline, hardening into lumps around his eyes. Fine, prickling pains spread across his exposed skin, hinting at the source of the viscous fluid. The terrifying vibrations disrupted his heartbeat and breathing, throttling his scream.

The mural could not capture this length; at speeds many times faster than a galloping horse, the sensation of suffocating dread dragged on until his consciousness nearly slipped away, yet still, it had no end.

When William finally stirred from the dark unconsciousness and chaos, his awareness returned to his body trapped in the lightless cavern—the tremor had subsided. The grid-like cracks beneath his palm warned him: what he had 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 space where Old Gori had stood, intersecting the original mine tunnel like an underground crossroads. William remembered the hunched, ancient figure had not moved an inch, facing calmly the extinguished torch before being swallowed by the roar and shaking.

He was probably dead, William thought. Had he stood even a little closer, everyone here would have vanished like the rock inside the new cavern—but now, only Old Gori himself had 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 voices from the others.

Soon, he found the leg of the first sailor; both shoes had been lost in the panic, the limbs frozen cold by the cold current, yet he could still feel the pulse in the foot’s dorsal artery—this brought slight relief. Not only had they served together for years, but even the boldest man would not wish to remain in this lightless underground with corpses.

“Wake up!” William gripped the torch in one hand and shook the leg hard; its owner groaned in half-conscious pain.

“If you’re alive, answer.”

He crawled back another body-length and saw a horrifying face—blackened and crimson scabs, fresh blood streaked across it, matted hair like demonic horns.

The eyelids fluttered open; the moment he saw William, he let out another scream and thrashed 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 away the blood—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 could faintly make out the sailor’s face beneath the blood.

“I don’t know. Wipe your face before you speak.” His legs regained a little strength; he could push himself up on his knees.

He raised the torch to reveal another man lying motionless. William stepped forward, but dull, wave-like pains along his spine prevented him from bending over.

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

Only one remained. 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 man. 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! Has anyone seen that kid Walker?”

Two sailors, just awakened, had barely risen from the ground and were 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 and followed the unnaturally precise footprints—uniform spacing, no pauses, no contact with walls. Their maker hadn’t moved blindly; he’d likely lit a torch after waking, deliberately avoiding those still unconscious, passing William’s fallen position without stopping.

The sailors instinctively followed the torch to William’s side, halting. They stood at the center of the crossroads; the footprints extended toward the new cavern entrance, steady steps stepping into it.

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 in a harbor tavern. For any trade requiring cooperation to survive nature’s cruelty, abandoning a companion was taboo. But this was different. You could share a boat in a storm; facing a moving mountain ridge underground was… beyond limits.

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

“Captain?”

William understood their meaning. One word from him, and they’d turn back immediately—not a soul would stay another moment.

“Walker…” His beard trembled; his lips, hidden behind it, repeated the name, savoring the memories. A lively, diligent lad, never lazy. Everyone on the ship knew his name—certainly these three did. That was why William had brought him.

“Maybe he just got lost. He’ll catch up soon.” He lifted his boot, heel stepping half a pace back. William heard the collective sigh of relief.

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

Then, a rhythmic sound stuck his feet in place.

Two materials were striking—one was the stone ground, stirring hope: perhaps a companion had found his way back, sparing him guilt and the crew’s whispered blame. William thought of those evenly spaced footprints—they matched this rhythm.

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

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

He imagined the boy had carelessly lost his torch and was now groping back along the wall, grateful that his 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 it 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 already round, babyish face had swollen, his features flattened, appearing like a wide, floating gourd drifting on dim water.