And so it began.
He went back into the narrow fissures, armed with a makeshift pickaxe he'd fashioned from scrap metal and wood.
He found weak points in the cave walls and attacked them with all his remaining strength, chipping away at the stone in hopes of finding a hidden cavern, a subterranean ecosystem, anything that might provide sustenance.
It was more dangerous than before.
Every swing of the pickaxe sent vibrations through the rock, and sometimes those vibrations brought chunks of stone crashing down around him.
More than once, he barely dodged a falling stalactite or a collapsing section of wall.
If he hadn't retained his sharp senses, dulled though they were by the Anti-mana, he would have been crushed long ago.
But he kept going. He had to.
Anya stayed at the entrance to whatever fissure he was exploring, holding the rope tied around his waist, calling out to him every few minutes to make sure he was still alive.
"Mika? Are you okay?"
