Chapter 108

“WALKER!” Wilhelm rushed forward, wanting to bring his returning comrade back to the group and leave this dangerous place sooner.

Flames shifted with his movement, halos flickering, shadows receding like water to reveal a newly carved cavern—its walls a patchwork of jagged, hammer-blasted fractures, forcibly shaped into a uniform, circular tunnel.

It was identical to every cavern they’d seen before, too familiar to be anything but terrifying—like the countless seemingly incidental details in a long-built story, exploding in unison at the climax with a roar of laughter, applauding the architect of the horror.

Was it the thing that disguised its path as a cave, or were all these unnatural rock formations—regardless of size—not shaped by wind, water, or geology, but crafted solely by its hand?

If so, they were walking within the footsteps of a giant, mistaking its prints for divine blessings, utterly unaware of what might pass over them at any moment.

【There has never been a “safe” mine tunnel.】

The witness could not escape this obvious truth—he stood within one such “footprint,” and the thing might turn back at any moment, burying them forever beneath foreign earth, then sealing the tunnel like an old mine, leaving behind only a meaningless rumor of “accidental collapse.”

Fear of an invincible presence slowed his steps, yet he found he had traveled far beyond his own perception.

The underground crossroads behind them were swallowed by closing darkness; they had walked at least thirty paces, pressing straight ahead through the lingering echoes of terror and ringing ears.

Even Wilhelm’s thick-skinned mind sensed something wrong, but his thoughts seemed sluggish, frozen in a single moment—like a fly trapped in amber, a bubble locked in ice, a motionless, vivid idea still driving his feet forward toward the distant, elusive companion.

The sailors followed suit—none felt anything amiss about not catching up to Walker, even though his face hung like a carrot on a donkey’s muzzle: seemingly within reach, yet forever clinging to the edge of the light, like a floating speck on the surface of black water, retreating as the light advanced.

As if sensing Wilhelm’s hesitation, the cheeks stretched further, the wider, flatter face lifting its lips slightly, intensifying the semblance of a smile.

The stretched expression was less natural than the scarred face of a former crewmate Wilhelm remembered—whose face had been slashed open yet still showed raw, living emotion. This intact face was merely forced, its surface utterly lifeless, as if frozen by a cold current, tendons hardened into blocks.

Behind the gaping mouth slit were not the yellow-white, unhealthy teeth of sailors, but a shallow void—more like a dark, light-devouring plane than a throat.

The three men’s strides were uneven; one sailor passed Wilhelm on the right, gradually moving toward the edge of the torch’s glow, reaching into the darkness to grasp Walker’s hand. He received no response, touched only air, and naturally took a few more steps—right into the broad floating shadow.

His shoulder passed through the wide jaw without meeting resistance, as if stepping soundlessly into another world.

The sound of crab legs tapping stone rose and fell; his thoughts froze, struggling to complete even the simplest logic.

Wilhelm was tired. In his youth, he’d been the kind of man who showed off his muscles on deck, though he rarely had the chance to impress the opposite sex. But that had vanished with his father, the old captain, who passed the helm and left—always drinking and boasting, the captain’s strength had long faded; even if he hadn’t sunk to the point of lifting no knife, he was clearly outmatched by the sailors.

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Once discipline slipped, the better your former physique, the more bloated you became. To maintain dignity, he cinched his belt tight around his belly, but fat doesn’t vanish because it’s hidden—it still dragged his speed down.

Another sailor gradually overtook him, walking a distance slightly longer than from church door to saint statue, then vanishing entirely beyond the torch’s flame.

The cave’s only light weakened; the flammable material wrapped around it peeled away, trembling, on the verge of extinction.

The light circle shrank; Walker’s face never left view, always clinging to the ever-narrowing edge of brightness. The flickering flame retreated until even a slightly longer step could brush his toes against darkness. The long, exhausting walk finally closed the distance—he could now see the sagging, half-closed eyelids.

Crab legs tapped stone; his sluggish mind found an alternate path, switching to a more direct description.

【Shell】

It was shell-like, hardened material contacting the rock wall—but how could Walker have a shell? And how could it be so enormous?

A ridiculous thought flashed through him; his thoughts seemed to thaw, no longer imprisoned.

The urge to advance, to retrieve Walker, shrank to a single ember; dark thoughts flooded his mind: Why had he come here? How far had he walked?

He realized he had gone too far—so far that the unchanging cave felt alien, like waking up in the captain’s cabin of another ship, identical in layout, yet the familiarity still seized his heart with sudden strangeness.

Sourness and trembling heartbeat spread together—his skin prickled with the sour taste, his tongue tasted the tremor: discomfort, alienation, the unease of leaving comfort.

He leaned on the torch and vomited; the motion caused the dying flame to fall, nearly extinguished. In the flickering, uncertain glow, a flushed, bearded face met a pale, flat one.

No, it wasn’t a gaze—beneath the sunken eyelids, no eyeballs; behind the gaping lips, no tongue or throat.

Another face drew near, then a third, rising from the encircling, drowning darkness.

Wilhelm recognized them—these two faces belonged to sailors who had just passed him, unmistakably his men, now flattened, stripped of dimension.

Once, after drunkenly crumpling a parchment log and spreading it out to dry, it had looked just like this.

“What the hell kind of thing…”—his mouth, steeped in seafaring culture, formed curses faster than his mind could catch—hard to say whether it was profanity or a statement.

Death—or something worse—loomed, yet the flood of fear wasn’t as overwhelming as he’d imagined.

The bicolored cave walls, the segmented bodies, the faces worshipped and exaggerated—structured, logically connected.

Perhaps he’d been mentally prepared—he himself found it astonishing: in the instant his hand reached for his blade, he still had the presence of mind to realize he was living through an unparalleled horror story.

The Ice Sea, the Tem River, Wenden Harbor, Comfort Harbor, clear and muddy rivers, stone-paved roads, dirt paths buried in dust…

He couldn’t remember who said it, but the things you care about most are the ones you think of only when swept into the storm.

And Wilhelm felt regret—his life’s most real, most emotionally raw moment would vanish silently, buried here with him, unable to find even the most tasteless drunk in a tavern as witness.

His blade flailed weakly against the three unmoving, floating faces. Yes, he was no longer young; his body had long since faded, and he’d unconsciously drained too much strength.

Firelight, metal striking faces, the clang of stone against steel—the blade sliced through a thin skin, then bounced off the bizarrely hardened material.

“Father in Heaven, for the sake of my donations…”

A brutal strike followed, and bright flame descended, carving into the faces before they could retreat into darkness.

The third person to pass him today—but this one carried his own torch.

“Who?!” The sudden event caught him off guard—he didn’t know if Heaven had sent an angel or a listener; Wilhelm reflexively asked.

“Father in Heaven!”