Chapter 107

“William, I think we need to talk.” Kraft pushed open the door, bathed in the dim twilight; Kup followed close behind, and as Yin Feng stepped inside, he swiftly barred the door.

“About those mines… uh?”

The room was unlit; faint patches of light from the narrow high window were slipping away from the lowered head. For the sake of private conversation, the original owner had been asked to move next door, leaving the entire house temporarily to them—now only Peter lay slumped over the table.

He had truly been exhausted these past days, chasing elusive targets alongside people who never seemed tired, with no end in sight. It was rare to have this quiet afternoon to catch some sleep.

Hearing the voice, Peter lifted his head, wiped the drool from his lips, and after a moment of adjusting to the dim light, said, “Mr. Kraft, you’re back? Didn’t you go with William and the others?”

There was a dangerous implication in those words—this village had no taverns. Where else could he possibly have gone?

“Where?”

“You don’t know?” Peter’s face paled at Kraft’s accusatory tone—he realized William had left him behind as a messenger, meant to be used as a decoy. “Mr. William found someone to guide him. He said they’re heading to the mines.”

“Damn it, of all times to go wandering!” His voice rose involuntarily, breathless as if being chased. They’d just begun to uncover some leads, hadn’t yet sorted them out—and now someone was willing to lead the way. At first glance, it seemed like Murphy’s Law in action; but upon reflection, he sensed non-accidental forces at play.

Kup’s expression was even darker. He pressed himself against the wall, hand resting on his waist—he’d clung to this gesture since entering, clinging to a fragile sense of safety. The gloom stirred his fear, as if something might emerge at any moment from the poorly lit shadows.

The missing party, the looming sense of impending disaster—this scene carried an eerie familiarity.

“Who led the way? When did they leave?”

The dazed guide rummaged through his foggy memory and described what little he knew of William’s whereabouts: “An old man came to the door himself. They left before I went to bed.”

“I can’t believe William would do something like this!” Kraft snatched up his cloak and began checking his pack. Too many oddities here—it was hard to fathom why a seasoned, prudent captain would make such a decision. Was it confidence in the offered payment? Or did he think even if the guide meant harm, a few armed crewmen were enough to handle it?

His original reasoning was unknown, but the fact that he hadn’t returned by dusk spoke volumes. Locals never stayed overnight in the mines, nor did they risk treacherous mountain paths at night. How urgent could it be that he couldn’t wait until morning?

The only plausible answer, hard to separate from heresy, was old Gory himself.

“Shouldn’t we wait a bit longer? Maybe they’ll be back soon?” Peter glanced at the light beam now crawling up the high wall—sunset was near. But if William had already started down that rocky trail, he might still make it back before needing torches.

“I’m going to check.” Kraft grabbed two more torches, shoved them into his pack, and bound them tightly with cloth. If something had gone wrong, now was the last good time to climb up. Worst case, he’d meet William returning on the way—wasting some effort, but better than waiting until nightfall and having to climb the whole way with torches.

Kup grimaced and began gathering his things, reluctantly pulling on his clothes. He didn’t know what “psychological trauma” meant, but he knew with absolute certainty he did not want to step outside now—especially not to hike a mountain path.

As a retainer, he had no right to refuse. Strictly speaking, his status wasn’t mere hired help—it bordered on vassalage. Kraft had saved his life and trained him as a direct subordinate; emotionally and morally, he had to follow—whether from battlefield to a night path entangled with unspeakable things, there was no exception.

Correspondingly, as in many legendary tales, he simultaneously enjoyed the privilege of becoming a de facto vassal.

As Kraft had said, they were a “whole”—and the emphasis of that phrase clearly wasn’t Yin Feng, but him, Kup.

Realizing this, some things lost their terror. He should’ve accepted this truth when he chose to train in martial arts. “Shall we depart now, sir?”

“Kup.” Kraft gripped his hand, pulling it away from the hammer’s hilt. “You stay here.”

It felt like throwing a punch into empty air. Kup stepped aside from the door, awkwardly mumbling, “I thought I’d done well in training.”

“No. Precisely because you did well, you must stay here.”

Kraft half-opened the door; the evening valley wind and sinking sunset light poured into his cloak. He assessed those left behind: Peter, a lifelong cart driver; Yin Feng, clutching a small notebook as if trying to do something but powerless; and Kup—the sole one among them with any combat training, barely matching the crewmen’s amateur level.

“Remember what I told you. This place is now beyond my reach.”

He closed the door and walked away.

Kraft quickly began to thank his timely decision.

Lighting the torch, he entered the mine—nightfall fell behind him, sealing off the exit.

Following the mine passage he’d traversed by day, he descended until reaching the mining zone’s edge. A chill seeped through, making him pull his cloak tighter. The deep cavern showed no stable temperature—it cooled faster than the outside air.

Thanks to the crushed rock from mining, amidst the chaotic footprints, Kraft still discerned several trails extending deeper.

After a brief hesitation, his boot crossed the blurred boundary.

“Alright, half my fault for coming here.” Kraft muttered, drawing his sword. He spoke to calm his trembling heart, stepping slowly into the cold, dark depths. Right or wrong, responsibility aside—he couldn’t leave William to die down there. Not from friendship, not from conscience.

As he descended, Kraft sorted through the information he had.

The elongated ring-like object was called the “messenger.” A messenger, of course, carries things—from here to there.

The rock wall’s murals showed two contrasting colors, representing the human world and another concept. According to the boy, the messenger would bring his father back from “another place” to see him in his current world.

No matter how he thought about it, it felt obscure and chilling. Kraft couldn’t help recalling absurd legends whispered in rural tales and horror stories: the dead, bound by lingering attachments, returning from the underworld—here called Hell—to walk among the living. The boy’s mention of his father’s smile in the mine now seemed grotesque.

By his experience, he’d never seen Hell or the Underworld. Even if he had, he’d likely have forgotten it after drinking the soup. But “another world”—he did know one. The heavy geometric object nestled against his skin inside his sleeve, “Worst case, it’s just another deep-layer thing. What else could it be…”

The self-reassuring words never left his lips.

Speckles of grayish-white rock appeared in the torchlight, covering the walls, sharply dividing the space. Terrifying cracks, lightning-like, spread across the stone; shattered rocks littered the ground, testifying to the power that had shattered the mountain in this world.

If the messenger’s role was to carry the dead from the gray realm of Hell, then he stood now at the very threshold of a real Hell—only lacking an inscription on the wall: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

“...Maybe we should just let the Heavenly Father save him?”