Chapter 141: Father! (2)
“Yeah, somehow.” My voice is weak, my hands folded behind my head as if that can still me. My body trembles despite myself. “It’s just cold, you know.”
He doesn’t answer, not really. Maybe he nods, but I don’t look. Words aren’t necessary. Silence spreads between us, heavy but comforting.
Around us, the cave breathes with over a hundred others, each sprawled on the cold stone with their own five square meters of misery; the air is thick with the smell of dampness, smoke, and unwashed bodies.
Above us, droplets fall from the ceiling, glinting in the candlelight. One lands on my forehead, runs down my temple, but I’ve long stopped flinching at it.
The rhythm of water has become a lullaby I cannot escape.
“Good night, Frank,” I murmur, voice low, as if saying the words too loudly might shatter what little peace we’ve left.
“Night.” His reply doesn’t fit his size, a softness that slips past the scars of his soldier’s life.
The silence folds in again, wrapping me in its weight, and I curl to the side, tucking myself inward. My eyes close and my breath gets shallow, willing sleep to take me, though I know what waits when it does.
...
With heavy eyes, I force them open, a short gasp escaping me, as if something heartbreaking had unfolded in my dreams.
Only—I cannot recall it. The memory slips away before I can grasp it.
I lie still for a moment, breathing shallowly, then glance around the cave. Most are already awake; half remain inside, sprawled across the stone, while the others—the ones who managed to loot something from the colosseum, or still carry remnants from earlier battles—are already heading out.
They will trade their spoils for money, then for food, clothing, or anything else that might keep them alive a few more days, in the main hall of the labyrinth above.
Stretching out my arms, I sit up; Frank is already on his feet beside me, kicking his legs as if shaking off the numbness of sleep.
“Bad dream, huh?” His voice cuts through the dark.
The cave is still cloaked in shadow, though lighter now than before, the faint glow of morning—or whatever passes for morning here—seeping in through the open entrance.
Candles flicker along the walls, dim and unsteady, and near the opening, shards of colored light ripple inside, hues that do not belong to this world. Colorful, as if a child had found its way into hell.
“Yeah...” My voice is hoarse while cracking my neck to the side, loosening the stiffness. “...Looking for Paula again today?”
“You don’t have to stick around if it bothers you.”
I glance at the entrance, where the swirl of colors paints the air like fractured glass. Only ten meters away. My throat feels dry, but I answer without hesitation. “No. I’ll go with you.”
We stretch, pull our limbs back into motion, then slowly make our way toward the light.
The crystals dance overhead, scattering their strange hues across our skin as we step out of the cave.
I mutter a curse under my breath, the bitterness seeping through.
No healthcare. No food. No water. Nothing.
Yesterday, we managed a meal, trading a handful of fallen crystals scavenged from the colosseum floor. It was horrifying, all the flesh and blood. But it was enough for some hardened bread—not the kind from a bakery back home, fresh and soft, but the sort already rotting, and sour on the tongue. Still, it was something to fill the belly.
Others are better off. Those who bring back more loot can buy more. That is the law of survival here: trade what you steal from the dead or starve.
It takes only a minute to walk through the hollow passage; the ceiling glitters with crystals high above, like a corridor of fractured light. The path ends, spilling us into the labyrinth.
If it were possible, we would climb up there ourselves, chisel the crystals out, and barter directly. But they are impossibly high and harder than steel. Sheer strength breaks nothing. So, we walk beneath their unreachable glow instead, like beggars beneath the chandeliers of kings.