In a light so dim, it is uncertain to an unaccustomed eye to see what is ahead. It was unlikely that he would have another encounter with the living in these corridors, yet there was a possibility of it. So each step had to be a careful one; when there was an intersection or a doorway, he would slowly approach it. Listen ahead, and always be prepared that there might be something that could attack.
But every time he did so, there was nothing—just an empty room or the continuation of an empty corridor. There truly were no more people around here, at least not alive. At times, he would hear something and even see something ahead; he'd slowly approach it, just to find out that it was a mouse or a rat.
After an hour of endless roaming in seemingly endless corridors and rooms, he felt like he could relax. He could spend some of his time having a closer look at the walls and their inscriptions. Here, below, there were no words like there were above on the columns. The engravings below seemed to be mostly a stylistic choice made at the time of building.
It didn’t say much about the people who had built these ruins, only that they too enjoyed the beauty and had an understanding of aestheticism; perhaps they had a need for it. Perhaps there was a deeper meaning related to the engravings and even to the material of their choice and the architecture in general.
As he went ahead, one question kept ringing in his head; it swam around looking for an answer, but it was left unanswered as the surroundings gave no answer to it. What was the purpose of these ruins? Not those that were above, but those that were below.
It was unlikely that they were meant as living quarters, nor was their purpose to store things. The corridors and the subsequent rooms had nothing in them that indicated such possibilities. And if, according to his own theory, the ruins above were a temple, then one could only imagine that these seemingly endless corridors and rooms served a purpose related to that.
Usually beneath a temple, there might be a mausoleum or catacombs where they might bury the dead. But there was nothing that suggested such a thing. The purpose remained an uncertain question as he went ahead with only dim light as his company.
The corridors and the rooms kept the same, unified style: bricks of marble garnished with similar engravings as if none of the rooms were supposed to have their own personality or their own characteristics.
Dust, mold, and web covered the floors, walls, and ceilings of the corridors, that he explored, but it was clear to see that each direction, each corridor, and each room had had visitors more recently. Most likely, the three huntsmen regularly walked these corridors, and the diary left by Petyr suggested as much.
Their reason for doing so was mostly to keep the way open and to make sure that the corridors and rooms would not cave on them or those who were below. Perhaps they did so also to see if they could find their brethren who had "entered."
The ruins, as Kanrel started to understand them, formed a circle if one would observe them from above—not the ruins that were above, but those that were below. They formed a massive circle, where each corridor and room tried to lead the person away from the middle.
It was practically a maze of rooms and corridors, forming a circle that tried to keep people from entering its center. He could, at random, try to reach that circle, but that would take more time than the solution. Why not just measure how large the circle was and then figure out where its center would be based on that? Of course, it would not “solve” the mazelike structure of the ruins, but it would help him map them out.
So he spent perhaps more than an hour walking around in circles, marking different parts of the ruins and numbering them so that he could first calculate the circumference of it all and then figure out which corridor led to which room and where might be the center of it all.
He was unaware of the time, but he could feel his hunger rising and the exhaustion caused by the events of the day taking its toll on him. He could not do this all night; at some point, he had to eat. At some point, he had to go to sleep. Thus, after an unknown amount of time, he decided to return above—find something to eat and then sleep. He could also go through the belongings of the now-deceased huntsmen and find a map.
Perhaps there was already a map, and he had wasted practically the whole day on a mission that had no point, for the answer to it would have been easily available. But he did not wish to go back up. He had no wish to return. Going back up meant making contact with the deeds that he had committed.
Three bodies. Three separate actions led to the deaths of three humans. Why would he want to witness the outcome of his own deeds? Why would he torment himself with such things? Such visions would taint his memories for the rest of his life. No one should witness something akin to that. And no one should have to commit murder, even in self-defense.
Yet as he walked back, slowly battling this thought altogether, he chose against it. He would not go back up; he would not set foot above. He would not claim those actions, for if he did not see them, then have they truly happened? Had he truly set a man on fire and then proceeded to watch as he screamed in agony and soon fell to his own death? Had he pierced those men with shards of ice? Had he just left them outside with no one to attend to them? Was this who he was? Was this what a man was? Is this who I am?
A hundred and many more questions lay claim to his mind, yet he answered none of them. There’d be regret either way. If he killed, or if he did not kill, either way, he would regret the action or the lack of action. He would always suffer; there was no other option. Everything leads to suffering. Everything and all caused him pain. Everything and all that had happened had brought him here.
Here.
The center.
Here.
At the doorway to a massive room. He walked forth with no thought. He took a step inside to see what it was about. Over the doorway, the floor began sloping down, as did the walls, and so did the ceiling.
It was all around. It was a sphere in the middle of it all. The dim light he carried wasn’t enough to light the whole room, so he formed multiple little fires, which he then let out into the room ahead of him.
The fires lit the room; they lit that, which was a sphere. A sphere with one singular door, and at the center of the room, a rope hung from the ceiling, with a noose at the end of it. It hung there freely, with no movement at all. Underneath, it was a pit. A pit which was at the floor of it all. He peered down, even took a step toward it; a few more, and soon he was at the edge of it.
There was darkness, nothing to be seen, yet when he let the little fires descend, the darkness swayed, it ran away, it was gone from the way of the light, and the sight was one to behold.
At the bottom of the pit, there lay bodies. Mostly with no flesh left to cover them, some surely without their skulls, some with their ribcages broken, mauled and ripped apart. They lay at the bottom of the pit.
There were other things as well. Things of those who lay at the bottom; things that were once owned by those who now lay among them.
From his bag, Kanrel took out a rope, and he formed a code with which he would connect his own rope to that of the noose that was above. He made sure that the knot was tight enough and would hold the weight of a grown man. He braced himself and slowly climbed down with the help of the rope.
Corpses, shoes, boots, clothing, books, pens, empty pouches, even coins—so many things lay at the bottom of the pit. And when one got down, it became apparent how foul the stench of death truly was. How it had been allowed to live and grow down in the pit.
As he looked around, it was certain that it was not just a pit. From above, it had been one, but at the bottom, he could see that it was a cave, and the pit was nothing more than an entrance to this cave. From the bottom of the pit, there went a narrow staircase; in the darkness, it was so difficult to say where except down.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The stench was unbearable, and he was forced to lift his robes so that he could cover his face so that most of the stench would not be allowed to enter his nostrils. He went ahead and began inspecting the many fleshless corpses that lay on the ground.
He counted at least twelve skulls; that, in itself, was tragic, but there were far more hipbones than there were skulls. Most corpses weren’t intact; either there was a skull missing, or if not, their ribcage was in shambles, presumably so that the bastards could dig out the heart of their poor victim.
There were no words to describe it. There would never be just one word to describe deeds that should never be committed. Here he was, trying to find one specific body from a pile that had at least fifty different people in it.
He was no different from those who had birthed this grave. The only difference was that he hadn’t had the shame to hide it, to bury it beneath. At least he felt no pride in his deeds, yet here there was more than enough cause to be proud of murder. He had put an end to this.
This would not continue, and there wouldn't be a single body that would find its way here.
A realization that gave no solace. His own judgment of his own actions would remain the same. He was no better, but at least he wasn’t worse. But that, too, was to be seen.
A corpse that lay atop another wore familiar robes; although the chest of it was ripped apart and his ribcage and sternum were both shattered and broken into many pieces, the corpse still grasped at something against its stomach.
At first, when he tried removing the bony hands from that which they held, they would not budge, so he lifted the corpse from the pile with his magic and moved it nearer to the staircase. There, with force, he removed the item from its hands: an old and very dusty book that had been left otherwise untouched.
There was no blood on it, even when the robes were soiled and dirtied with it. There was no blood on it, even when the owner had his heart ripped out of his chest. There was no blood, even when those who had done it showed no respect or regard toward the one who had held it.
Kanrel’s hands shook as he carefully dusted the book and soon opened the first pages, the pages that held the name of the person who had owned it: Boran Walden, a member of the Priesthood and one who once loved the taste of tea.
He felt a sudden sense of loss. This is what he had come here for, truly. Everything else was more or less a side mission, even the one that his mother had given him. For him, it was more important to figure out and understand what had happened to this man.
This corpse, which now lay at his feet... Dead.
These words. These simple words—a memory—had such power in them. This corpse had become a man; before him lay not a nameless corpse but a man—a human—who had a name, an occupation, and something that he had once enjoyed and had once loved.
This man was no more. And in his hands were the only vivid memories of the things that had happened to this man before his unfair passing.
So he braced himself and read further, and it read as follows:
For reasons behest to most, and specifically myself, I, a collector of tales and stories, find myself here—in this little village with nothing much to offer.
On a mission, which apparently is quite important, yet I can’t seem to see it as such myself... Either way, I was assigned by my superiors to hold this journal to keep track of all the things surrounding my investigation regarding the “Masked Believers” (as I have duped them myself), a somewhat secretive “terrorist” organization that has no other mentions by those given to me by my superiors.
And, as the command regarding this journal mentions “to keep account of all the things surrounding my investigation,” I believe it is only fair that I am as direct as I can, and for me to be as direct, I have to confess that all of this will most definitely be a waste of my precious time.
I have arrived, and I can already tell, after a few conversations, that there is no such presence here. No one has ever heard of things like “true magic," “true god," or whatever nonsense I was briefed about.
So, when my superiors (Hello!) get their hands on this journal, do not be afraid of my shown dismay here, for I will go through with the given mission as I always have: to the end...
Such was the first entry of many in a journal designated for the investigation of the very same thing that Kanrel had been sent here for.
The first half of the entries mostly shared things about his daily life and the people of the village, whom he investigated one way or another. For each person, he had a dedicated page; it would describe the person, his occupation, his personality, his wealth, his beliefs, his family, and his friends. Everything that was there to be known about this specific person, he would have written on these pages.
On Ulken Raven, he wrote: A man with great desire, someone who will one way or another find his way to become part of the delicate system of governance in our Kingdom. Apparently, the tea he brews has a magnificent taste.
And on Rant Jenkse, he wrote as follows: A curious man, who I have not much to say about; other than that, he likes to pretend to be more uneducated than he actually is. He is married to Betty, and they have one son, Isbit.
There’d be something written about everyone, and this just showed how hard Boran worked on this investigation. Yet he found nothing suspicious of the people that lived in the village; even Rant seemed nothing more than a “curious man” to him. Thus, he was not a suspect.
The last entries read as follows:
According to the information I’ve gathered about the village thus far, it is apparent that there are unverified ruins northwest of the village, somewhere near the mountains. Because of the ongoing winter, which has been much harsher than previous winters, if I may add, I will begin the hunt for these ruins as soon as spring begins.
- - -
The ruins are of unknown origin, for they do not match any of the previously found ruins around the kingdom. The only way to describe them is "alien," but I must theorize that this new finding is of human origin, possibly of a civilization now long gone—one where human architectural abilities reached a peak. It is possible that the great war against extinction, i.e., the genocidal Wildkin, was possibly the cause of this civilization's end.
I will return to the ruins another day so that I might explore them further; there are signs that the ruins continue further below.
- - -
I’ve found it beneath the ruins. It calls for me to enter... I do not know how... There must be a way to enter.
- - -
A voice beckons me to return, for me to open it, for me to enter...
I must return.
- - -
No matter how much I try not to go, I know that I must go; it calls for me; it begs for me; it wishes me to enter... I’ve tried again and again; why can’t it just open for me? Let me enter.
I will not leave until I succeed.
- - -
It is an entrance to my dreams, yet there is no door. There is an entrance, but it won't open. Why doesn’t it let me in if it wishes me to do so?
Let me enter.
- - -
Do not try to enter it. Do not approach it, lest the whispers come to you. They would come with their demands; they beg you to come back to it; they beg for me to enter. I don’t want to, but there is a desire.
Let me enter.
Let me enter.
Let me enter.
Let me enter.
The last few pages are filled with writings that make no sense; they resemble no known language; they’re mostly just random dots, dashes, and lines; they form no picture that would make sense. They have no reason, as far as Kanrel could tell.
He read the last few entries over and over again and tried to figure out from them which entrance he meant, but Boran had not been specific. The last entries were not of the same quality as those written before he found the ruins and the entrance.
He packed the journal and turned toward the stairs. With the many dim lights that he now had with him, he traversed further into the caves. All around him was darkness; below him, there was more of it, and above was just the ceiling and nothing else.
As he went down, carefully taking each step, a lonely sound echoed. His steps and dim lights were now his only company, as the darkness was all around—it was all-encompassing. Here it was, everything... Sanity would tell any man to return to the light that awaited those who lived under the sun. And he would return, but he just wanted to seek out this entrance to at least confirm its existence. Then he could return above, and then he could bask in the light. So he continued the descent, and the staircase seemed to not have an end.