The tunnel on the far side of the chasm offered a different kind of darkness. Less oppressive than the Maw's sanctum, yet somehow older, heavier. The air remained cool and damp, carrying the amplified roar of the subterranean river somewhere far below and the persistent scent of wet stone and ancient dust. Gregor held the torch aloft, its light carving hesitant shapes out of the gloom, revealing walls that seemed less naturally formed and more… worked. Faint, geometric patterns, almost entirely eroded by time and moisture, could occasionally be glimpsed beneath layers of grime and mineral deposits.
"This place…" Lyra murmured, running a tentative hand along the cold stone. "It feels… different. Older than the Labyrinth proper. Like ruins built atop ruins."
Gregor nodded, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. "Aye. Some legends speak of civilizations beneath the earth, before the Age of Shadows, before even the oldest kingdoms on the surface. Never put much stock in 'em myself, but…" He trailed off, gesturing with the torch. "This ain't natural cave formation. Someone built this."
Saitama, walking behind them, peered at the faint markings on the wall. "Looks like old wallpaper. Kinda faded. Needs an update. Maybe something floral?"
Renn, despite his fear, managed a choked laugh. "I… I don't think it's wallpaper, Saitama."
"Hm. Shame," Saitama replied. "A nice floral print really brightens up a subterranean death tunnel."
They proceeded cautiously, the tunnel floor remaining relatively level. It snaked gently, following what might have once been a deliberate architectural path. They passed side passages, dark and choked with debris, hinting at a larger complex now lost to time and neglect. The silence, apart from their own sounds and the distant river-roar, felt profound, as if the very stones were holding their breath, weighted down by forgotten millennia.
Suddenly, Gregor stopped, holding up a hand. He lowered the torch slightly, listening intently. "Did you hear that?"
A faint skittering sound echoed from the darkness ahead, accompanied by a wet, chittering noise. It wasn't the sound of rats. It was larger, heavier, and carried a distinct undertone of predatory hunger.
"Something's coming," Gregor whispered, pulling a rusty, but still sharp, short sword from a sheath hidden beneath his tunic – likely salvaged from a fallen guard or adventurer. Renn fumbled for a crude dagger, his knuckles white. Lyra instinctively stepped closer to Saitama, her eyes wide with fear.
Saitama just tilted his head. "Sounds crunchy. Hope it's not more rocks."
From the gloom ahead, multiple pairs of phosphorescent green eyes ignited, floating in the darkness like malevolent swamp lights. The skittering intensified as several creatures emerged into the torchlight. They resembled giant centipedes, each easily ten feet long, their segmented bodies covered in slick, chitinous plates the color of obsidian. Their legs, dozens of them, ended in sharp, hooked claws that clicked menacingly on the stone floor. Mandibles, dripping with a viscous, acidic-looking saliva, gnashed open and closed beneath their glowing eyes. Cave Crawlers, nasty subterranean predators known for their speed, armor, and paralyzing neurotoxin.
"Crawlers!" Gregor hissed, recognizing the threat. "Four… no, five of them! Stay back!" He positioned himself between the creatures and the others, his sword held ready, though his face was pale. A single Crawler was dangerous; five was a death sentence for anyone not heavily armed and armored.
The Crawlers surged forward, their movements unnaturally fast, their segmented bodies undulating across the floor like armored snakes. They fanned out, clearly intending to surround their prey.
"Uh oh," Saitama commented, watching their approach with mild interest. "Looks like the welcoming committee. Still no snacks, though."
Before Gregor could even attempt a desperate, likely futile, defense, Saitama stepped forward, moving past him with casual speed. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't adopt a stance. He just walked towards the oncoming tide of giant, acid-dripping centipedes.
The lead Crawler lunged, its fanged mandibles snapping open, aiming to inject its paralyzing venom.
Poke.
Saitama extended a single finger, his index finger, and poked the charging Crawler squarely on its armored head.
The effect was instantaneous and profoundly anticlimactic. The ten-foot monstrosity, a creature that could chew through leather and corrode metal, stopped dead. Its glowing green eyes flickered. Then, with a faint crack sound, its entire chitinous exoskeleton seemed to… shatter. Not explode. Not break apart violently. It just developed millions of tiny hairline fractures simultaneously, like stressed glass. The Crawler sagged, its legs buckling, its form collapsing into a disjointed heap of broken chitin and inert goo. It didn't even twitch.
The other four Crawlers, operating on primal instinct rather than complex thought, didn't seem to register their leader's instantaneous demise. They continued their charge.
Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke.
Saitama, with the same nonchalant air, delivered four more quick, precise finger-pokes, one to each remaining Crawler as they reached him. Each poke resulted in the same silent, instantaneous shattering of their exoskeletons, the same collapsing heap of defunct monster parts.
Within seconds, the deadly threat was reduced to five piles of motionless, fractured chitin littering the tunnel floor.
Saitama looked at his finger, then wiped it absently on his jumpsuit. "Huh. Kinda like popping bubble wrap. But messier." He turned back to the others, who were frozen in place, staring at the carnage with expressions of utter disbelief. Gregor's sword hung limply at his side. Renn's dagger clattered from his nerveless fingers. Lyra just stared, her mouth slightly open.
"Okay," Saitama said, stepping carefully over one of the Crawler carcasses. "All clear. Let's keep moving. Maybe there's a vending machine up ahead?"
Gregor swallowed hard, forcing himself to move. He nudged one of the shattered Crawler segments with his boot. It disintegrated into fine powder. "Incredible…" he breathed. He looked at Saitama, truly looked at him, trying to comprehend the scale of power hidden behind that blank expression. "Who are you, Saitama?"
Saitama just shrugged. "Just a guy who's a hero for fun." He patted his stomach. "And currently, a guy who's really hungry."
They continued on, leaving the remains of the Cave Crawlers behind them, the incident serving as yet another baffling testament to their companion's impossible nature. The tunnel began to slope gently upwards, the air growing perceptibly fresher. Faintly, very faintly, they could hear something new – a low, sighing sound, like wind moving through distant trees. Hope, stronger now, surged anew.
The Chasm Wall…
Pain lanced through Kristoph's shoulder as his hand slipped on a patch of treacherous, slime-coated rock. He grunted, catching himself with his other hand, his fingers straining against the minuscule hold. Below him, the abyss yawned, a dizzying vortex of darkness filled with the hungry roar of the unseen river. Elara, positioned just above him, murmured a quick strengthening enchantment, a faint warmth spreading through his aching muscles, reinforcing his grip.
"Status, Zenon?" Kristoph called down, his voice tight, careful not to dislodge any loose stones.
Zenon's reply came from about twenty feet below, his voice strained but steady. "Ledge sighted, Commander! Narrow, but looks stable. Ten more feet. Handholds are poor here… move carefully."
The descent was brutal. They were clinging to the sheer rock face like desperate insects, using tiny cracks and precarious protrusions as handholds and footholds. The darkness was near total, relieved only by the faintest ambient glow from below and the carefully controlled pinpricks of light Elara occasionally summoned to illuminate the path immediately ahead. Every movement was precise, calculated. A single mistake meant a fatal plunge into the roaring dark.
It was a world away from Saitama casually hopping across the seventy-foot gap. Kristoph couldn't help the comparison. The sheer disparity in navigating this simple obstacle hammered home the alien nature of the Tempest's power. Their own skills, honed over years of rigorous training and perilous missions, felt like children's toys compared to his effortless reality-bending.
Elara paused, clinging to the rock face, her eyes closed. "Commander… I sense… faint magical residue here. Very old. Fused with the rock itself. Not the Maw's energy. Something… different. Protective wards, perhaps, but eroded almost to nothing by time."
"Protective wards?" Kristoph grunted, finding a slightly better handhold. "Protecting what? Or keeping what in?"
"Impossible to say," Elara replied. "The signature is too degraded. But it confirms what the captive woman suggested – this area predates the current… occupants."
Suddenly, the rock beneath their feet vibrated. A deep, low groan echoed up from the abyss, resonating through the stone, more felt than heard. Loose pebbles skittered past them, disappearing into the darkness.
"Tremor!" Zenon shouted from below. "Hold fast!"
Kristoph pressed himself flat against the rock, his muscles screaming as he maintained his grip. Elara clung tightly, her staff scraping against the stone. The vibration lasted only a few seconds, a deep, unsettling shudder from the bowels of the earth, before fading away, leaving only the roar of the river and the pounding of their own hearts.
"Report!" Kristoph called out once the shaking stopped.
"All clear here, Commander!" Zenon replied. "Ledge is intact! Just a few more feet!"
"Elara?"
"Secure, Commander," she breathed, her voice shaky. "That felt… unnatural. Not a typical earth tremor. It felt… resonant. Like the aftershock of a great impact, but from deep within the Labyrinth's structure." Could it be related to the damage the Tempest inflicted on the Incubator? she wondered. Was the Maw itself reacting?
Carefully, painstakingly, they resumed their descent. Finally, Kristoph felt his boot touch solid ground. He swung himself onto the narrow ledge Zenon had reached, collapsing against the rock face for a moment, catching his breath. Elara followed a moment later, her relief palpable.
The ledge was barely three feet wide, slick with moisture, clinging precariously to the chasm wall. It offered little comfort, but it was solid ground. Zenon was already examining the rock face further along the ledge.
"The ledge continues, Commander," Zenon reported, pointing into the darkness. "Seems to follow the curve of the chasm. And look." He indicated faint markings on the wall at knee height – notches, deliberately cut into the stone, spaced evenly apart. "Old steps. Or anchor points. Someone used this path regularly, long ago." He knelt, examining the ledge floor. "And… faint impressions here. Relatively recent. Dirt, scuff marks. Someone came up this way not long ago. Maybe days."
Kristoph's eyes narrowed. "Shadow Walkers? Or other escapees?"
"Possibly," Zenon conceded. "But the marks are furtive. Careful. Not the heavy tread of Guardians, or the panicked flight of raw captives." He pointed downwards. "The ledge also seems to continue downwards, but the path looks even more treacherous. The main route seems to be horizontal, following the chasm."
Kristoph looked across the vast emptiness. They were still far below the level of the tunnel entrance where Saitama and the others had disappeared. They needed to find a way back up on the other side. Following this ledge seemed the most logical path.
"We follow the ledge horizontally," Kristoph decided. "Stay alert. Whoever made those marks might still be nearby. Or whatever they were fleeing from."
They started moving along the narrow path, the roar of the river below a constant reminder of the deadly drop. The ancient, eroded wards Elara sensed seemed fainter here, offering little comfort. They were deep in the abyss now, shadows tracking a paradox, guided only by faint marks and the echoes of what fell long ago.