Chapter 154: Beneath the Surface
The cast iron plate emitted a mournful metallic screech as it slowly slid to the side, releasing an icy breath laden with putrid humidity that escaped from the dark bowels of the tunnel. The stale air, saturated with mold and decay, rushed into their lungs like a morbid caress. Mordred, his face sculpted into a mask of impassivity but his eyes blazing with a determination that bordered on obsession, exchanged a look heavy with implications with Ygdrasyle before crouching at the edge of the gaping abyss.
His feet found the first rungs of a metal ladder eaten away by rust, whose slippery surface was coated with a film of viscous moss that stuck under his fingers. He began his descent with calculated slowness, each movement precise despite the tension that contracted the muscles of his shoulders.
As he sank into the darkness, the dull beating at the heart of his soul intensified, like a spectral drum marking his progression toward an inescapable destiny. The pulse of his other identity resonated within him like a magnetic call, increasingly clear, increasingly imperious.
Ygdrasyle followed him in this descent into hell with the feline grace that characterized him, his fluid movements contrasting with his companion’s nervous rigidity. His breathing remained perfectly controlled, a true antithesis to Mordred’s short and irregular breath. When their feet finally touched the ground, they discovered cracked concrete paving, partially submerged under stagnant water of ink-black darkness.
The icy liquid, probably the result of infiltrations following the destruction of the city above, lapped sinisterly with each of their steps.
They now moved through a charcoal gray concrete corridor, dimly lit by failing neon lights that crackled sporadically, casting dancing and nervous shadows on walls stained with suspicious brownish streaks. Before them stretched an oppressive and silent labyrinth, remnant of a high-security prison abandoned during the draconic invasion.
The atmosphere was saturated with a heavy and nauseating stench, a sickening mixture of mold, metallic rust fumes, and coppery traces of dried blood that clung to their throats like a funeral veil.
Gaping armored doors opened like shadow maws on the flanks of the corridor, revealing former cells gutted and abandoned. Each bore the stigmata of panic that had marked the hasty evacuation of guards, urgently requisitioned to face the draconic threat. Here and there, prisoners’ bodies lay huddled in the darkness, mummified by hunger and thirst, their hollow sockets forever fixed on the void of their ultimate despair. Neither Mordred nor Ygdrasyle paid the slightest attention to these silent witnesses of tragedy; their minds were entirely focused on a much more personal quest.
Mordred progressed with almost magnetic determination, guided by a force that transcended simple intuition. It was a visceral, primitive call of almost painful power that pulled him inexorably forward.
His steps resonated with mechanical cadence, rapid and impatient, while Ygdrasyle followed him in vigilant silence, all his senses on alert, watching their backs while scrutinizing the hostile environment with his analytical gaze.
- "Faster," Mordred murmured through his clenched teeth, the words escaping like a hoarse breath.