Chapter 8 - A New Life? - VIII
"Glenn Carborex," he said, without any preamble. "Follow me."
His tone left no room for discussion. A chill ran through my stomach. That lingering sense that something was coming, the unease that had been gnawing at my chest since I woke from the dream, intensified. I swallowed hard, trying to control my anxiety. My eyes flickered to the empty wicker basket beside the bed—one last glimpse of that brief respite. Taking a deep breath, I followed the guard without a word, stepping once more into the dark corridors of the mountain, marching toward the unknown. With each step, the tightness in my chest grew, as if bracing for something dreadful, something my instincts screamed for me to avoid.
The silence was suffocating. The only sound was the echo of our footsteps against the stone floor, a grim prelude to whatever lay ahead.
The path we took was unlike any I had traveled inside the volcano before. Instead of descending deeper into the mountain's core, the route wound upward, climbing staircases to a higher level. After a few minutes, the guard escorting me joined six others, each leading their own captive.
'Thirty in total,' I calculated in my head.
Observing the situation, I concluded that we were the thirty survivors of the pink gas experiment. The faces around me confirmed it—haggard, malnourished, deep hollows under their eyes. Some had lost all their teeth; others bore missing body parts—fingers, hands, even entire arms.
'Did they not receive the same treatment as I did these past three days?' I wondered. 'Or is this what they look like even after being fed?' A possibility I couldn't ignore.
I recognized a few faces from Glenn's original memories—fallen nobles reduced to wretched figures, former politicians who once wielded influence when their families still had prestige. Most, however, were complete strangers to me.
I wanted to speak to someone, but I decided to keep my head down. The aura emanating from the six guards was unlike anything I had encountered in the mines before—majestic, commanding, and above all, dangerous. It felt as though a single glance from them could incinerate anyone on the spot.
Apparently, the other three captives who seemed to be in better condition shared my unease. We exchanged brief glances, forming an unspoken agreement: Better keep quiet.
The guards led us to an alcove in the wall, where a corridor stretched ahead. Judging by the deep tracks on the floor, it was heavily used—wheel ruts and footprints were scattered through the dust. The passage was wide enough for us to walk side by side without brushing against the walls.