The stone door groaned, emitting a series of low rumbles. Torchlight dispelled some of the darkness, revealing a long, narrow corridor lined with countless small stone rooms. The light from the torches couldn't reach the end; darkness stretched infinitely ahead.
They advanced cautiously, checking each stone room. These cells were surprisingly similar: empty stone beds, small drainage ditches in the corners, and the same unchanging, twisted murals on the walls. Some stone beds had rust-stained iron chains scattered on them, while others were covered with moldy straw. But without exception, there was no sign of No. 5.
"What the fuck is this damned place..." No. 8 cursed under his breath, his voice echoing in the corridor. "A prison? Why build so many rooms here?"
No. 7 didn't answer. His attention was drawn to some carvings on the wall—crooked symbols, as if someone had gouged them out with their fingernails or a piece of stone. Some were blurred and indistinct, but others were still legible:
"Third day, they took No. 12..."
"God, save me..."
These desperate messages sent a pang of anguish through No. 7's stomach. He remembered what the guard had said that night: "These are all brats brought over from Terra..." It was clear they weren't the first batch, but why? Why lock up people they had spent so much effort cultivating here? Were they out of their minds? Question after question assaulted No. 7's brain; he couldn't figure out the reason.
After they had checked at least twenty cells, No. 6 suddenly grabbed No. 7's arm. "Is No. 5 really here?" she whispered, her voice tinged with unease. "These cells all look the same, and there's no fresh blood in them."
No. 7 stopped and looked back. Indeed, the corridor seemed endless, the cells on either side repeating infinitely, and the ground was also clean.
The torches they had lit earlier had now disappeared into the distant darkness, either extinguished or the corridor was much longer than they had imagined.
No. 8's face grew increasingly grim. He had originally thought the Church above was bad enough; he hadn't expected this damn place below. Suddenly, the sound of clanking chains came from behind them, startling No. 8 so much he stumbled back, raising his sword.
No. 6, behind him, stuck out her tongue apologetically.
"Sorry, I was looking at this." She weighed the iron chain in her hand; it still had a greasy, sticky feel and marks of wear.
The further they went, the colder and damper it seemed to become, but the air also grew fresher. A faint sound of wind came from ahead, as if they were approaching an outdoor area.
"Let's find a place to discuss a plan first," No. 7 decided, pushing open the door of the nearest cell. This cell was slightly larger than the others, with a few moldy wooden barrels piled in the corner, possibly for storing water.
The three of them squeezed into the cell. No. 8 immediately leaned his greatsword against the wall and sat down on the floor with a thump. "Fuck, if only there was some wine..." he muttered, wiping the sweat from his face, his tightly wound nerves relaxing slightly.
No. 7 paused, then suddenly remembered something. He took out the metal flask from his pocket—Cyrus's flask, which he hadn't had a chance to return. The surface of the flask was already warmed by his body heat.
"Here." He tossed the flask to No. 8. "Be careful, the stuff in here is strong. Don't drink too much."
No. 8 raised an eyebrow, caught it, unscrewed the cap, and took a large gulp. He immediately coughed violently, almost spraying the alcohol out. "Is this fucking rubbing alcohol?!" he cursed hoarsely, tears welling up in his eyes.
No. 7 forced a weak smile. "This is Cyrus's prized collection. You keep it for now."
No. 8 carefully took another small sip, managing to swallow it this time, his face contorting. "What the hell is this stuff?" he muttered, stuffing the flask into his pocket.
No. 6 had been standing by the door, her ear pressed against the stone. "Listen..." she suddenly whispered. "Is that a sound?"
The three of them fell silent immediately. At first, there was only the sound of distant dripping water, but gradually, a faint voice came from the depths of the corridor:
"Help... me... is... anyone... there..."
It was No. 5's voice! But it sounded unusually hoarse, as if something was choking his throat, each word squeezed out.
No. 8 immediately jumped up to open the door, but No. 7 pressed him down, his other hand clamped firmly over No. 8's mouth. "Don't make a sound!" he hissed in No. 8's ear, his voice so tense it almost cracked.
The voice came again, still with that choked quality, but it sounded slightly more normal than before.
"Help... No. 7, No. 8..., save me."
No. 6 had quietly pressed her eye to the crack in the door. Her body suddenly stiffened. No. 7 could see her back tensed like a fully drawn bow.
"What is it?" he mouthed silently.
No. 6 didn't answer, only trembling as she moved aside. No. 7 carefully approached the crack and peered out.
In the corridor, the distant torches had been relit at some point. In the flickering firelight, a huge, distorted shadow was cast on the wall—a grotesquely swollen humanoid figure, its head abnormally large, its body writhing like melting wax. The shadow seemed to be dragging something, leaving a dark trail on the ground.
Blue light instantly flared at No. 7's fingertips, Tidal Force spreading out like a spiderweb. The torches in the corridor extinguished simultaneously with a "phut," and darkness engulfed everything once more like a tide. His pupils contracted violently—that bloated silhouette, those triple-stacked chins, it was clearly the Cardinal Sin Bishop!
In the darkness, footsteps drew closer. No. 7 held his breath, feeling No. 6's icy fingers dig into his arm. When the figure finally came into view, his stomach lurched violently.
The Bishop's obese body moved like a mountain of flesh. In his left hand, he dragged No. 5's limp corpse. The corpse's neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, while the Bishop's right thumb was thrust deep into No. 5's throat, his knuckles wriggling as if exploring something. No. 5's purplish lips were actually parting and closing, emitting intermittent pleas for help:
"Help... me... No. 8..."
The Bishop himself remained eerily silent, his murky eyes scanning the darkness. Every three steps, he would stop, make No. 5's corpse whimper, then tilt his head to listen to the echo. A slight curve formed on his thick lips, his Adam's apple vibrating in sync with the corpse's vocalizations.
No. 7 suddenly understood—the Bishop was manipulating the corpse's vocal cords! The blue light was seeping from his fingertips inserted into the throat, controlling the dead muscles like a puppeteer. This realization almost made him retch; No. 6 bit down hard on her fist to keep from screaming.
"Where... are you..." No. 5's voice suddenly became clear, carrying his living intonation. "I... it hurts so much..."
The Bishop walked slowly down the center of the passage, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. He would occasionally check the surrounding cells, his eyes full of anticipation, like a child waiting to open presents on a holiday. No. 7 could almost smell the rancid perfume emanating from him, see the fresh bloodstains on his gold-embroidered robe. If they waited any longer, they would surely be discovered. No. 5's corpse was dragged carelessly, its toes leaving a winding trail of blood on the ground.
"What do we do? Where can we hide? Why is he here? Does he live here or something?" They looked around. There was no place to hide. Where could they go? Where else could they possibly go?
The repeated calls were like a death knell, each tone stabbing into their hearts.
"He's alone. Let's fight him."
No. 8 forced out a few words in an extremely low voice, his eyes bloodshot. He couldn't bear to see his friend's corpse being dragged around like that. His breathing became exceptionally heavy, the flask clinking softly in his pocket. The Bishop immediately turned towards the source of the sound. No. 5's head suddenly snapped around 180 degrees with a "crack," his empty eyes "staring" straight at them:
"...Save me..."