Chapter 211: Echoes

"So what are you looking for?" The heat of the flame rose with the black smoke of cheap oil, faintly stinging his fingers through the thick cocoon; Krapft pulled his hand back, holding the flame high above his shoulder in a grip as far from the fire as possible, so the light could reach the steps beneath Kraft's feet.

"To be honest, I don't know."

Kraft walked slowly down the spiral passage; its front half was built of small stone bricks, arched to support a small cavity within the earth—taller people had to stand in the center and watch their heads to avoid hitting the ceiling.

Slight, unavoidable seepage oozed from the cracks between bricks, pooling into droplets hanging from the damp, curved ceiling, stained a murky yellow by dissolved earth ash, appearing under limited light like slowly growing, pulsing egg sacs.

This stone load-bearing structure extended thirty to forty steps deep, utterly monotonous—no inscriptions, no carvings, no decorative intent—built only for utility.

At the bottom of the descent, a large brick engraved with a holy symbol was set into the wall, polished smooth by moisture and repeated touch; beyond it, a wider, square passage replaced the arched brick tunnel.

It was not due to any sudden mastery of cement technology allowing direct bonding of bricks. "Excavation" was a more accurate term than "construction"—the passage had already pierced through deep earth and continued onward into bedrock.

The rock walls bore straight, geometric cutting lines, running vertically or horizontally, slightly recessed or protruding, segmented and advancing—revealing its former identity: a quarry.

Further ahead, the passage widened considerably, allowing two people to walk side by side; square chambers had been hollowed out on either side, perhaps once used for transit or stone processing.

The demand for building vast aboveground structures drove people to continuously mine stone from below, expanding the space within the rock layer. Here, the stone appeared solid, with little risk of collapse—free rein was possible.

Among the aligned cutting lines, faint patterns could still be found carved into corners and edges, seemingly casual sketches made by stonecutters during idle moments.

Most of this underground space was meaningless. Poor air circulation and severe lighting limitations crushed any imaginative use for the quarry—any sane person would refuse to stay here longer than a day; the damp, chilly environment also ruled out storage.

Yet proof existed that nothing in this world was entirely useless.

Strange structures emerged: stone niches parallel to the ground, roughly rectangular, with uneven, blunt corners—utterly unlike the clean, straight cuts of quarrying, hastily chiseled in haste, yielding only fine debris.

They lined the rock wall like a honeycomb, stacked in several tiers, resembling wall shelves for storing items, but wider and more numerous, uneven in size like worm-eaten holes in hardwood, stretching from the reach of the light deep into the passage.

Krapft followed Kraft into the corridor between these "shelves," curiously gazing at the long stone hollows. Their depth was less than an arm's length; under the lamp's glow, the piled contents were easily distinguishable.

Yellowed, rotted, dirt-grayish slabs formed the shelves, draped with brittle, weathered remnants of textile, like spiderwebs; some decayed fragments clung to partially intact ribs, tangled into the empty seams where padding had vanished.

Skulls without cervical support rolled among shattered bones, their open cavities revealing dark, hollow interiors; multi-legged worms, startled by sound and light, wriggled their jointed limbs out of sponge-like, diseased bone sinuses and scurried into another darkness.

Even though his experience had hardened him enough that his heart only tightened for an instant before steadying, he still instinctively rubbed his face, trying to dispel the phantom itch.

"Bring the lamp closer," Kraft said casually, gesturing as he adjusted his mask to better cover his nose and mouth, leaning close to the skeletal remains in the niche—like an experienced grave robber who'd stumbled upon a rare burial treasure.

He pointed to a scattered vertebra. "Look at this—it was there in life, and the position is typical."

Krapft studied it carefully before realizing Kraft meant a vertebra marked by damage unlike weathering or impact—something had spread and gnawed along one side of the bone, creating a defect that had seeped into the intervertebral space.

"A case of spinal tuberculosis. Very typical. Most buried here were patients with infectious diseases; tuberculosis would be common. This location, this shape—it's unmistakable."

"But isn't tuberculosis in the lungs?" Krapft said, slightly beyond his usual understanding—he'd only ever heard of it from patients coming in with coughs.

"Mostly, but not always. It can go anywhere—it just usually stays in the lungs." Kraft rubbed his hands excitedly, fumbling in his pockets—but his civilian clothes held none of the tools he needed.

"So this is what you're looking for?"

"No, not at all." He pulled his hand out of his pocket, disappointed, suppressing the urge to touch it further. "I've never seen it before. Today's the first time."

Then why does it look so familiar? Krapft swallowed his question, choosing not to press the contradiction in Kraft's words. "You don't plan to take it back, do you?"

"This isn't what I'm looking for."

Considering the suspicion already raised by funding the gravekeepers, taking anything away would be indefensible. After a brief, not difficult decision, Kraft chose to temporarily bid farewell to this tuberculosis victim and continue his aimless search.

Light and the sound of hammering came from a stone chamber ahead—the group ahead were trying to widen a niche to fit in a corpse they'd brought.

Seeing others pass, they froze, gripping the holy symbol pendants at their collars, murmuring prayers; only after recognizing their new, polished attire did they relax slightly—yet they never released the symbols.

Attempts at greeting received only reluctant responses; encountering unfamiliar strangers in such a place inevitably evoked a chilling, ghostly unease. Only when they saw the two continue deeper did one call out a warning: "Don't go too far down the side passages."

"Thank you, don't worry—I won't get lost," Kraft replied with a kind smile. The words seemed to have no effect, only heightening their tension.

By the time he realized what he'd said that was inappropriate, he'd already walked far down the passage.

The niches had expanded to cover entire walls; bones no longer lay as individual bodies, but had become building material themselves.

Remnants of the Great Plague.

Strong, long limb bones were stacked like firewood in a castle's winter storehouse; upper layers held neatly arranged skulls. It wasn't that the builders didn't want to pile them randomly—it was impossible to fit such vast quantities without maximizing space.

The underlying meanings—worldly dignity, fear of death, religious belief, human sentiment—had all been stripped away, reduced to their material essence: nothing fundamentally different from any other substance.

They were stacked like bricks, indistinguishably piled. After the initial shock passed, numbness—or some kind of ethereal detachment—took hold.

Ahead, Kraft suddenly turned and gripped Krapft's shoulder; the latter understood at once, slowing his pace to listen. Footsteps echoed—not his own. To anyone experienced and attentive, they were unmistakable.

(End of Chapter)