Chapter 8: The Nameless Fish

At this moment, firelight flickered within the cave. In this natural grotto, there were always roots of trees to be found. After much effort, I managed to dig some up with my short knife and finally coaxed a flame to life. I was roasting a fish whose name I couldn’t even guess; the water here was neither warm nor cold, nothing like that river where hot and cold currents tangled—a fairly ordinary subterranean stream, really.

I shook my head, determined not to dwell on the strange river, the merman, or the colossal black serpent. I focused instead on the grotesque black fish before me. It had taken me considerable trouble to catch it. Though this was an underground river, fish were abundant, but I couldn’t name this one. Ugly as it was, it filled my stomach—and in such circumstances, what more could I ask for? Especially with no seasoning, it tasted particularly foul.

I ate a few bites of the charred fish, feeling strength return to my limbs. Moving them a bit, I drank from the river, since I had nothing to carry water with; who knew if it would upset my stomach.

Gazing into the pitch-black ahead, I steadied myself. There was only one way forward unless I followed the underground river—but the memory of that eerie merman and the darkness of the river filled me with an inexplicable dread. Everything here was uncanny. Perhaps this cave was like the hollow of a banyan tree, and maybe I could find a way out.

I picked up my small flashlight, tightened the short knife at my waist. Its battery was limited, and in such darkness, the absence of light could be fatal, so I resolved to use it sparingly. While the fire still burned, I fashioned a crude torch and set off into the shadowy depths.

This tree hollow seemed harmless, devoid of lurking threats; after four or five minutes of walking, all was eerily silent, though the air was tinged with a chilly dampness.

The farther I ventured, the more uneasy I felt—a sense that human traces lingered here, though I dared not confirm it. For example, several stones bore obvious marks of chiseling, certainly not naturally formed. Occasionally, the cave ceiling revealed tiny, square openings, unmistakably carved by hand. My instincts told me these were manmade.

When I came upon a heap of bones, my suspicions were confirmed. Time had scattered them; I couldn’t tell how many bodies, but the remains were clearly human, some blackened with age.

It seemed several had died together. Raising my flickering torch, I inspected the surroundings—nothing remarkable. I examined the bones: three skulls, likely three people, but only three arms among them. That struck me as odd—were all three one-armed?

Clearly, this was more than a natural cave—its length seemed excessive. Just then, the feeble flame of my torch died; it was crudely made, not with oiled cloth, and couldn’t last. I took out my most precious flashlight and pressed onward, my anxiety mounting with every step.

I soon found a second heap of bones: four skulls, four arms, the same as before. Then another heap, and another, until I reached the seventh, where I discovered something different—perhaps I had arrived somewhere else.

Here, human traces abounded: a blackened stone slab, obviously placed by someone, its purpose unclear; tools, rusted beyond recognition, hinting at ancient origins.

Especially striking was a mural—or rather, an impromptu wall drawing, rendered in a black, graphite-like substance. The mural was faded, but some details remained: crowds laboring to excavate a mountain; the center was unrecognizable. Further along, a towering figure, devil-like, appeared abruptly, followed by more obscurity, and finally, everyone depicted lay dead.

I couldn’t decipher the mural’s meaning—its simplicity and the blurring left only three scenes barely visible.

I picked up one of the rusted tools; it shattered instantly, scattering fragments across the floor. This place seemed suited for rest, not so much a cave as a stone chamber, its origins—natural or artificial—uncertain.

Suddenly, a chill brushed my ear—a faint, cold breeze, as if someone had breathed beside me.

A cold sweat broke out; I scanned the area, but nothing was there. The sensation had been so real. With so many dead here, a shiver ran down my spine. Though an atheist, in such surroundings, wild fancies were inevitable.

I steadied myself; there was no reason to linger. Rising quickly, I continued onward. Two cave mouths lay ahead; shining my flashlight into each, I saw nothing distinctive. Leaving the decision to fate, I entered the nearest opening. Immediately, something felt amiss: a peculiar fragrance wafted out, delicate and alluring, inviting me to inhale deeply. The scent was so comforting, I nearly wished to sleep.

Sleep. My mind went blank—why was I so drowsy? In a fleeting moment of clarity, I bit my lip; the metallic taste jolted me awake. Just then, I felt a shove from behind—two hands pressing unmistakably against my back. I was certain: it was human.

But how could anyone be here, and why push me? Was I truly seeing ghosts?

Lost in anxious speculation, I tumbled headfirst into the cave. It sloped sharply downward, like a giant slide; I had no grip, tumbling and rolling, the bottom slick as polished stone.

A sharp sting hit my nose, warmth trickled down my cheek and into my mouth, metallic and sweet. In that brief interval, I couldn’t tell how badly I was hurt—it was maddening. I’d trained in martial arts since childhood; not a master, perhaps, but skilled enough. Since entering here, it had been nothing but hardship, and I’d suffered numerous injuries.

With that thought, I began to exert force with both hands, finally grasping a protrusion—a stone, it seemed. My right hand gripped it tightly, steadying myself, controlling my body, and finding a foothold with my feet. Breathing deeply, I calmed my mind and body.

Both feet found purchase along the sides; I carefully retrieved the flashlight from my pocket—thankfully, I hadn't turned it off in the chaos. The cave brightened. To my surprise, my right hand wasn’t clutching stone, but a severed hand—not human, but carved from rock, unmistakably a sculpted hand. Was there a stone statue buried here?

Peering downward, the abyss seemed endless. My god, this was underground already, and now I had fallen even deeper—how profound was this place? What lay below?

The thought sent a wave of nameless terror through me. I noticed, just below my foothold, a narrow opening, from which the same fragrance drifted—but this time, it didn’t cloud my mind.

Whatever it was, I had to press on—I couldn’t just keep falling. And what had pushed me? The unknown is always the most terrifying.

With that resolve, I carefully shifted my body, clamping the flashlight between my teeth, knees bent, searching for another secure point.

At last, my right foot found the edge of the narrow opening. Years of martial arts training proved their worth; I twisted my body in a serpentine motion, changing position, quickly sliding my upper body into the cramped hole. My right foot pushed forward, left knee tapped the edge, and I slipped inside. Without pausing, I crawled toward the interior, drawn by a faint glimmer ahead.

But as I drew nearer, I realized the light was—green.