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 distant 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 brick seams, pooling into droplets hanging from the damp, arched ceiling, tinted a murky yellow by dissolved earth ash, appearing under limited light like slowly growing, pulsing egg sacs.

This load-bearing brick structure extended thirty to forty steps deep, utterly monotonous—no inscriptions, no carvings, no decorative intent—only pure 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 touching; beyond it, a wider, square passage replaced the arched brick tunnel.

It wasn't because someone suddenly mastered cement technology to directly bond the bricks. "Excavated" was a better word than "built"—the passage had already pierced through thick earth and continued onward into the rock layer.

The geometrically precise rock walls retained straight 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 vast aboveground construction drove people to continuously mine stone underground, expanding the space within the rock layer. Here, the stone appeared solid, with no serious 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 doodles by stonecutters during idle moments.

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

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

Strange structures emerged: stone niches parallel to the ground, roughly rectangular, with messy, blunt, rounded corners—utterly unlike the clean, straight cuts of quarrying, hastily chiseled, producing only fine gravel.

They were arranged like a honeycomb, embedded in the rock wall, stacked in several layers, resembling wall shelves for storing items—only wider and more numerous, uneven in size like worm-eaten holes in hardwood, extending from the reach of the light deep into the passage.

Krapft followed Kraft into the section flanked by these "wall 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 bar-like objects formed the shelves, draped with brittle, weathered remnants of textile, like spiderwebs; some decayed and adhered to partially intact rib fragments, tangled into the empty gaps 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, shook their jointed limbs out of sponge-like, diseased bone sinuses and scurried into another darkness.

Even though his experience kept his heart from racing—only tightening for an instant before steadying—he still instinctively rubbed his face, trying to dispel the phantom itch.

"Bring the light closer." Kraft waved casually, adjusted his mask to better cover his nose and mouth, and leaned close to the skeletal remains in the niche—exactly like an experienced tomb raider who'd stumbled upon some rare funerary item.

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

Krapft studied it carefully, then realized Kraft was referring to a vertebra with damage unlike weathering or impact—something had spread and gnawed along one side of the bone, creating a defect that had infiltrated the intervertebral space.

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

"But isn't tuberculosis in the lungs?" Krapft's understanding was limited—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 casual 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 anything like it. 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 fairly simple decision, Kraft chose to temporarily bid farewell to this tuberculosis victim and continue his aimless search.

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

Seeing someone pass, they froze, gripping the holy symbol pendants at their collars, murmuring prayers; only after recognizing their new, polished clothing 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 the two continued inward did one call out a warning: don't go too deep into the side passages.

"Thank you, don't worry—I won't get lost." Kraft smiled warmly—but the remark had no calming effect; instead, it heightened 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 storage, with neatly arranged skulls placed on top. It wasn't that the builders didn't want to pile them carelessly—it was simply 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: something indistinguishable from any other substance in the world.

Piled like bricks, without distinction. After the initial shock passed, numbness—or perhaps a 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)