CHAPTER 23 — THE DEPTHS THAT SWALLOW LIGHT
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Behind the old wooden door they had just opened, darkness did not merely wait—it ambushed them. Like a black ocean that had never known the sun, like the earth's womb that had forgotten the meaning of light. The air emerging from the passage below was not warm, nor was it ordinarily cold. It felt damp in the wrong way—not damp from water, but damp from something else. Something that made the hair stand on end for no clear reason.
Kyoichiiro stood at the threshold, one foot on the first step, one hand still on the cold door handle. The wood beneath his boot creaked softly, complaining at bearing weight after years untouched. Behind him, Amura and Aetheria waited in silence. The fireball in Amura's palm flickered restlessly, as if it too sensed the strangeness of this place.
No one spoke. There was no need.
Kyoichiiro stepped down.
The first step felt fragile beneath his feet, but it didn't break. He exhaled softly, unaware that he had been holding his breath since the door opened. The air here was different—heavier, denser, like walking through invisible water. He could feel this passage on his skin, on the hairs of his arms standing up, on the back of his neck growing cold even though there was no wind.
There's no wind underground, he thought. But why does it feel like someone is breathing on my neck?
He didn't turn around. He just kept walking.
Second step. Third. Fourth.
The wood beneath his feet creaked in different pitches each time—some high, some low, as if these planks were singing with their own voices. Aetheria followed behind, one hand holding the hem of Kyoichiiro's robe, the other clenched in front of her chest. She wasn't trembling—not anymore—but her breath came in short gasps, like someone trying to stay calm but not entirely succeeding.
Amura walked at the rear, his fireball held high so the light fell from above their heads, casting long, swaying shadows on the earthen walls. He didn't speak, but his eyes kept moving—observing every corner, every gap, every place where shadows didn't behave as they should.
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Kyoichiiro: (After twelve steps, his voice low, almost a whisper) "How many?"
Amura: (Understanding the question without needing explanation) "Twenty-three so far. Still counting."
Kyoichiiro nodded. Twenty-three steps. And they still hadn't reached the bottom. This passage was dug deep, deeper than it had looked from outside. He imagined how much earth had to be moved, how many hands had worked, how much sweat and blood remained on these walls. Not the work of one or two people. Not casual labor.
This was planned, he thought, his eyes sweeping the wall beside him. The soil here isn't loose—it's compacted, smoothed, and in some places there are even traces of wooden molds, as if this passage was cast, not dug with shovels. Professional. Organized. This isn't an ordinary thug's hideout.
Step thirty. Thirty-five.
And finally, at step forty-two, Kyoichiiro's foot touched level ground. Not wood, not stone, but earth compacted until it was as hard as cement. He stamped once, twice, making sure there was no trap beneath. Safe.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering back without turning) "Bottom. Be careful coming down."
Aetheria stepped off the last step, her feet touching the ground hesitantly. She shifted her soles slightly, feeling the surface texture beneath her shoes. Smooth. Too smooth. Like a path often traveled. She bit her lower lip, saying nothing.
Amura descended last. His fireball still burned, but its light now felt inadequate—not because the flame was weakening, but because the darkness here was thicker, more voracious. As if this place didn't want to be illuminated.
They stood in an earthen passage stretching straight ahead. The walls were of compacted soil, glossy with moisture, the ceiling about two meters above their heads—high enough for an adult, but feeling narrow because of the swaying shadows all around. At the end of the passage, nothing was visible. Only darkness.
And sound.
From afar, from deep within that passage, came the sound of dripping water. Drip. Drip. Drip. Steady. Rhythmic. Like a clock made of water and stone. But there was another sound too—a fainter sound, harder to catch. Like whispers, but not forming words. Like sighs, but not sounding like breath.
Aetheria: (A whisper barely audible) "Kyoichiiro-san... I hear something."
Kyoichiiro: "Me too." He didn't try to reassure her that it was only water. He didn't lie to comfort. "It might just be natural sounds from an underground passage. But stay alert."
He stepped forward. One step. Two steps. His simple boots made no sound on the compacted earth—or perhaps the sound was too small to be heard over the incessant dripping. Amura followed a few steps behind, his fireball now held to the side, so the light came from an angle, casting longer, stranger shadows on the walls.
The walls were moving.
No, not moving. Their shadows were moving. Because the light was moving. But for a moment, Kyoichiiro could have sworn he saw silhouettes of long fingers on the wall—silhouettes that didn't match the shape of his own hands. He blinked. The silhouettes vanished.
Just fatigue, he thought. Or lack of light. Or the air being too heavy.
But he didn't fully believe his own rationalizations.
---
They walked for perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten. It was hard to measure time in a place where the only markers were the monotonous dripping water and their own nearly silent footsteps. The passage didn't turn. Didn't branch. Just a straight line stretching ever forward, as if this passage wasn't designed to hide, but to direct—to direct whoever entered toward somewhere. Some purpose.
And finally, that purpose appeared.
Light.
Not natural sunlight—they were too deep underground for that. But a faint, greenish light, like the glow of rotting stones or fungi shining in the dark. That light came from the end of the passage, not bright, but enough to make Amura's fireball seem excessive here. Amura缩小 his fireball to the size of a marble and tucked it into his pocket—not extinguishing it, but hiding it.
Amura: (Whispering, his voice nearly lost beneath the dripping) "There's a room ahead. I can see a door."
Kyoichiiro: "Not a door. A gate."
Correct. At the end of the passage, where the greenish light originated, stood an iron gate. Not very large—perhaps two meters wide, two and a half tall—but made of pitch-black iron that didn't glint even when struck by light. The bars were spaced about ten centimeters apart, wide enough to slip an arm through, but not enough for a body to pass. Beyond the gate, the greenish light glowed from some unseen source.
Kyoichiiro: (Approaching, his eyes narrowing) "Locked."
He touched the iron bars. Cold. Very cold. Like touching ice in the middle of winter, but there was no condensation on the surface. He pulled his hand back quickly.
Aetheria: (Noticing) "Kyoichiiro-san?"
Kyoichiiro: "This iron is strange. Aetheria, don't touch it."
Aetheria nodded, stepping back half a pace.
Amura approached, examining the gate carefully. No visible lock. No removable hinges. The iron bars seemed fused to the frame, and the frame seemed fused to the earthen walls—as if this gate had grown from this place, not been installed.
Amura: (Frowning) "How do we open it?"
Kyoichiiro didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at the ground before the gate. There were marks—footprints, many of them, walking back and forth, like people pacing before this door. Not just one or two pairs. Dozens. Perhaps more. Some prints were deeper, some shallower, but all pointed in the same direction: toward the gate.
Not outward. Inward.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering, more to himself) "They never came out."
Aetheria: (Hearing him, her voice trembling) "What do you mean?"
Kyoichiiro: (Sighing, standing up) "It doesn't matter. Let's find another way."
He began walking along the wall to the right of the gate, his hands feeling the compacted earth. Maybe there was a gap. Maybe another door. Maybe—
His fingers touched something different.
Not earth. Not stone. But wood. Small, square, hidden beneath a thin layer of soil deliberately plastered over it. He cleared the dirt with his fingertips, revealing a small wooden box attached to the wall. On the box, a carving—a circle symbol with a vertical line through its center.
Amura: (Approaching, looking at the symbol) "I've seen this before. Where... where was it?"
Kyoichiiro: (Not waiting for Amura to remember, he opened the box)
Inside the box, there was no key. No lever. Only a rectangular depression, empty, like a place to put something. Something rectangular and thin.
Kyoichiiro: (To himself) A card? Or... He took something from his pocket. Not the blue crystal the mysterious merchant had given him—that crystal was irregularly shaped, wouldn't fit this rectangular slot. But he took out a coin. An ordinary Zeyn coin.
He tried to insert it. It didn't fit. Too wide.
Amura took something from his own pocket—a small circular medal, a gift from his family in Caelvire. He tried to insert it. It didn't fit. Too round.
Aetheria: (Biting her lip, hesitant) "Kyoichiiro-san... if there's no key, maybe the key isn't an object. Maybe the key is... something else."
Kyoichiiro: (Turning) "What do you mean?"
Aetheria: (Speaking softly, unsure of her own words) "In my village long ago, there was an old door that couldn't be opened with ordinary keys. You had to use a code. Or touch certain spots in a certain order."
Kyoichiiro fell silent. He stared at the rectangular depression again. Then at his own hands. Then at the iron gate before him.
Not a physical key, he thought. Maybe magic. Or maybe... He reached out his hand, not toward the wooden box, but toward the gate's iron bars. He touched one bar. Cold. Another bar. Also cold. A third bar. A fourth.
And on the fifth bar—which looked no different from the others—his hand felt something warm. Not warm like fire, but warm like being touched by human skin. He pressed the bar.
Click.
A sound from the wooden box. Not a mechanical sound, but more like a sigh—like something exhaling after holding its breath for a long time.
And the rectangular depression changed. It didn't produce a key, but it produced light. A pale blue light that formed a pattern—a hand, not very large, but clear enough to show where to place a palm.
Amura: (Silent, observing with narrowed eyes) "That's... a palm print? Technology like this exists in this world?"
Kyoichiiro: "Apparently so. But not casually." He didn't place his hand immediately. "Maybe only certain registered people can open it. Or maybe..."
He didn't finish his sentence. He placed his right palm on the blue light pattern.
Cold. Nothing happened.
He withdrew it, switching to his left hand. Still cold.
Aetheria: (Whispering) "Let me try." She extended her small hand, palm open, and placed it on the pattern.
Cold.
Amura: (Sighing) "I thought so. Maybe only those with certain authorization—" He didn't finish. His hand rose, but he didn't place it. Because something happened.
The blue light pattern changed color. Turned red. Then flickered. Then—went out.
And from beyond the gate, from inside the room that had been dark all along, came a sound. Not dripping water. Not whispers. But the sound of footsteps. Many footsteps. Approaching.
Kyoichiiro: (Reflexively gripping his katana's hilt, his body lowering slightly) "Amura. Put out your fire. Now."
Amura didn't ask. His palm clenched, and the small fireball in his pocket went out instantly. Total darkness enveloped them—only the faint greenish glow from beyond the gate remained, now seeming brighter in contrast with the darkness around them.
Or perhaps it wasn't brighter. Perhaps the light was moving closer.
Aetheria: (Whispering, her breath caught) "There's... there's something there."
Kyoichiiro looked. Through the gaps in the iron bars, he could see shadows moving beyond the greenish light. Not one or two. Many. Too many. They walked with irregular steps—some fast, some slow, some limping, some so smooth they seemed inhuman.
And among those shadows, one voice sounded clearer than the others. A voice he couldn't place—not male, not female, not old, not young. A voice that sounded like it was made of shattered glass and choked breath.
Voice from Beyond the Gate: (Echoing, even though there was no room large enough to create an echo) "Visitors... new visitors..."
Aetheria: (Covering her own mouth, her body trembling)
Amura: (His hand already on his sword hilt, ready to draw at any moment)
Kyoichiiro: (Silent, not moving, not breathing. His eyes pierced through the darkness and the greenish glow, trying to see who—or what—was speaking)
But nothing was visible. Only shadows. Only a voice. And the black iron gate, which now felt colder—not from the iron, but from something beyond it.
Voice from Beyond the Gate: (Now closer, as if from the gate's very lips) "It's been so long... since anyone came... empty-handed..."
Kyoichiiro felt something touch his fingers, still resting on the iron bar. Not iron. Not wind. But something soft, cold, and wet—like rotting fingers, but not shaped like fingers.
He pulled his hand back quickly.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering, firm, showing no fear even though his heart was pounding) "We're leaving. Find another way."
Amura: "But—"
Kyoichiiro: (Cutting him off) "Now."
He turned, grabbed Aetheria's cold, trembling hand, and began walking quickly back toward the dark passage. Amura followed behind, occasionally glancing back, his fireball not yet relit—they walked in darkness, relying only on memory of the straight, unbranching passage.
Behind them, the voice didn't chase. Didn't shout. Didn't call.
Only whispered, softer, farther:
"Come back... next time... with something... more precious..."
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They didn't stop until Kyoichiiro's foot touched the first step again. There, at the foot of the creaking wooden stairs, he finally stopped. His chest rose and fell—not from physical exhaustion, but from adrenaline beginning to subside.
Aetheria: (Still holding Kyoichiiro's hand, her voice breaking) "What... what was that?"
Kyoichiiro: (Closing his eyes for a moment, regulating his breath) "I don't know. But it wasn't human."
Amura: (After a moment, his voice steadier) "I didn't feel any magical aura from that voice. Not ordinary magic. Maybe... maybe it was a curse. Or the remnants of something already dead, but unable to leave that place."
Kyoichiiro opened his eyes. He stared into the darkness of the passage below, where the greenish glow was still faintly visible in the distance. And beyond that glow, beyond the iron gate, there was something that shouldn't exist in this world.
This place doesn't just hold slaves, he thought, a chill spreading from his fingertips to his shoulders. This place holds something older. Darker. And somehow, I feel... it recognized something in me.
He clenched his fist.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice calm, decisive) "We're going back to the inn. We need more information before descending again. I won't take you somewhere I can't guarantee your safety."
Amura: (Slightly surprised, but not objecting) "You're... giving up?"
Kyoichiiro: (Shaking his head) "Not giving up. Just retreating temporarily. There's a difference."
Aetheria: (Sighing in relief, her grip on Kyoichiiro's hand loosening slightly) "I agree. That place... was terrifying. I don't want to go back there anytime soon."
Kyoichiiro nodded. Slowly, he began climbing the creaking wooden stairs. One by one. Behind him, Amura lit a small fireball again—not as large as before, only enough to illuminate their feet. Aetheria still held his hand, not letting go.
They ascended in silence. Forty-two steps. The wood creaked in the same pitches as when they descended, but this time it felt different—faster, lighter, as if this passage didn't mind them leaving.
Or perhaps, as if something down there was satisfied for today.
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The wooden door above opened with a shove. The afternoon sunlight—because it was now afternoon, and they had spent more time below than they realized—greeted them with warmth that felt almost foreign after the cold of the underground passage.
Kyoichiiro stepped out, standing in the dusty living room of the empty house. Dust motes danced in the orange light, swirling slowly as if unconcerned with what had just happened beneath the floorboards.
Amura: (Behind him, closing the wooden door gently) "Are we going back to that merchant?"
Kyoichiiro: (Nodding) "Not tonight. Tomorrow morning. We need rest and to rethink our approach. We went in without preparation, without enough information. That was a mistake."
Aetheria: (Still holding his hand, but more relaxed now) "You... don't usually admit mistakes."
Kyoichiiro: (Glancing at Aetheria briefly, his expression unchanged) "I'm not admitting a mistake. I'm acknowledging that we could have been more prepared. That's different."
Amura: (Laughing softly—the first laugh since they entered the underground passage) "You're always like that, Kyoichiiro-san. Never wanting to lose."
Kyoichiiro: "It's not about not wanting to lose. Losing is expensive. I can't pay that price with your lives."
Silence followed his words. Not an awkward silence, but a full one—as if all three were processing the same thing, the same feeling: that they had survived. And that next time, they might not.
Aetheria: (Releasing her hand from Kyoichiiro's grip, looking down slightly, her cheeks flushed) "I... I'll wait outside. The air in here is stuffy."
She walked out of the house, passing through the still-open front door. Her silhouette disappeared into the golden afternoon light.
Amura watched Aetheria leave, then looked at Kyoichiiro.
Amura: "She's scared. Not just of that place. But of... of the idea that she might lose us."
Kyoichiiro: (Sighing, not answering immediately) "I know."
Amura: "And you?"
Kyoichiiro: (Staring at the wooden door that sealed the passage underground, his eyes unblinking) "I'm scared too. But fear isn't a reason to stop. Just a reason to be more careful."
Amura said nothing more. He just nodded, then walked outside to join Aetheria, leaving Kyoichiiro alone in the dusty, empty house.
Kyoichiiro stood still for a while. His eyes remained fixed on that door—the dark wooden door hiding something beneath. He remembered that voice. The voice that had touched his fingers. The voice that had said come back with something more precious.
What are they looking for? he thought. Not money. Not slaves. Not gold coins. Then what?
He didn't know. But he knew one thing: next time they descended, he would not return empty-handed. And he would not return alone.
He turned, walked out of the house, and closed the door behind him. Outside, the afternoon sun was slowly sinking at the edge of the forest, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that felt too beautiful for a world that hid such horrors underground.
Aetheria stood near a tree, gazing toward the west. Amura sat on a large rock, examining his sword carefully. Kyoichiiro walked toward them, and without a word, they began walking back toward the town—slow steps, unhurried, like three friends returning home after a long adventure.
But they knew this wasn't over.
The real adventure was only just beginning.