The darkness within the newly opened passage was absolute, a stark contrast to the faint, pulsating purple glow of the Incubator cavern or even the flickering orange of the single torch Gregor now held aloft. The air tasted thick, ancient, and blessedly free of the sulfurous rot that clung to the lair of the Slumbering Maw. A faint draft, carrying the scent of damp earth and something vaguely metallic, perhaps distant water, whispered from the unseen depths ahead.
"Alright," Gregor breathed, his voice tight but filled with a desperate resolve. He hefted the sputtering torch higher, its light carving a small, trembling bubble of visibility in the oppressive blackness. "Stick close. This tunnel… it's not on any of the Labyrinth maps the Walkers carried. Could be unstable. Could lead anywhere. Or nowhere."
Renn, the younger man, practically glued himself to Saitama's side, his eyes darting nervously into the shadows beyond the torchlight. Lyra was close behind, her hand gripping the frayed edge of Saitama's tattered cape as if it were a holy relic – a bizarre anchor of impossible power in a world designed to crush hope. They looked at Saitama not just with awe, but with a kind of bewildered reverence usually reserved for gods or madmen. Maybe both.
Saitama, for his part, seemed largely unconcerned with the theological implications of his cape. He peered into the tunnel revealed by the torch. "Looks like… more rocks. And darkness. Seriously, does nobody believe in interior lighting in this place? Track lighting, maybe some nice sconces? Would really liven it up."
"L-lighting?" Renn stammered, glancing up at Saitama's impassive profile. "Stranger… Saitama… the creatures here… they thrive in darkness. Light draws unwanted attention."
"Huh. Like cockroaches," Saitama mused. "Except probably bigger and less likely to be scared off by turning on the kitchen light. Still annoying, though." He sniffed the air. "So, this tunnel definitely doesn't lead to a food court, does it?"
Lyra managed a weak shake of her head, her grip tightening on his cape. "We pray it leads to the surface. To escape."
"Right, escape. Then food," Saitama clarified his priorities. "Let's get going then. My stomach's starting to compose angry protest songs."
Gregor nodded grimly and started forward, picking his way carefully over the uneven floor. The tunnel was narrow, forcing them into single file. It twisted and turned, descending gradually. The silence was broken only by their footsteps, Gregor's ragged breathing, the hiss and pop of the torch, and the faint, ever-present drip of water somewhere ahead.
They walked for several minutes, the oppressive silence stretching thin. Suddenly, a low rumbling sound echoed from above. Dust and small pebbles rained down from the ceiling.
"Cave-in!" Gregor yelled, instinctively shielding his head with his arm, hunching over the precious torch. Renn yelped, stumbling back against the tunnel wall. Lyra cried out, burying her face against Saitama's back.
Saitama looked up. A large section of the ceiling, a jagged slab of rock easily the size of a cart, was detaching, groaning under its own weight, threatening to crash down and seal the passage, burying them alive.
Before Gregor could even shout a warning or Renn could fully succumb to panic, Saitama acted. He didn't leap away. He didn't brace himself. He simply reached up with one hand, palm flat.
THUD.
The sound was solid, final. The multi-ton slab of rock stopped its descent instantly, landing squarely in Saitama's palm. It didn't even wobble. The rumbling ceased. A fine shower of dust settled around them.
Gregor, Renn, and Lyra slowly lowered their arms or looked up, staring in utter, dumbfounded silence. Saitama stood there, one hand casually raised, holding up several tons of rock as if it were a misplaced hat. His expression was one of mild annoyance.
"See? This is what I mean about shoddy construction," Saitama commented, effortlessly supporting the weight. "Seriously needs inspection. You guys go on ahead. I'll just… hold this for a second. Don't want it falling on anyone."
Gregor stared, his mouth agape. He couldn't form words. He just numbly nodded, his eyes reflecting the impossible sight in the torchlight. He gestured frantically for Renn and Lyra to move. They scrambled past Saitama, casting terrified, awestruck glances back at the man holding up the ceiling with less effort than they'd used to lift the lever earlier.
Once they were clear, Saitama looked at the slab above him. "Okay, stay," he instructed the rock, then gave it a gentle upward shove.
CRUNCH. WHOOSH.
Instead of falling, the slab shot upwards with surprising force, wedging itself back into the ceiling cavity with a solid, grinding crunch. A few more pebbles rained down, then silence. The ceiling was, for the moment, secure again.
Saitama dusted off his palm. "There. Good as new. Probably." He rejoined the others, who were huddled together, looking back at him as if he were a celestial being who'd just rearranged the constellations for their convenience.
"H-how…?" Lyra whispered, her voice trembling.
"Hm? Oh, just pushed it back up," Saitama said simply. "Gotta have good leverage. And watch out for your fingers."
Gregor just shook his head slowly, then turned and continued walking, the torch trembling slightly in his hand. There were no words for what he had just witnessed. Their bizarre, yellow-clad savior operated on a level of reality so far removed from their own that trying to comprehend it felt like trying to grab smoke. All he knew was that they were still alive, and the way forward was still open. That was enough.
The tunnel began to widen slightly, and the dripping sound grew louder. The air felt fresher, damper. Hope, fragile but persistent, began to flutter in the chests of the three escapees. Maybe this tunnel really did lead somewhere.
Back in the vast, desecrated cavern of the Incubator, Knight-Commander Kristoph surveyed the scene with a stomach-churning mixture of horror and professional detachment. The flickering light from Elara's softly glowing staff cast long, grotesque shadows, supplementing the sickly purple pulses from the damaged crystal heart.
The air hung heavy with the lingering stench of ozone, decay, and the indescribable psychic residue of terror. The silence was profound, broken only by the faint, viscous dripping sound from the cracked Incubator high above.
"Zenon, analysis," Kristoph ordered, his voice low.
The tracker had finished his circuit of the cavern floor, his movements precise and economical. He knelt beside the pile of rubble that had once been the Chasm Guardian. "Pulverized, Commander. Not cut, not blasted by magic… shattered. Like it hit something infinitely harder than itself." He picked up a shard of the dark crystal that had formed the Guardian's claws. It crumbled to dust in his fingers. "The binding energies are completely dissipated. Utterly neutralized." He rose, pointing towards the base of the throne-altar. "Boot prints. Same ones we followed. They lead directly to this pile of debris, then away, towards that fissure." He indicated the narrow passage Saitama and the escapees had entered.
Elara stood near the base of the throne, her hand hovering over the crystalline structure, her eyes closed. The locket around her neck pulsed steadily now, its protective energies working against the ambient wrongness of the place. "The central Incubator… the 'Heart,' as the captives likely call it… it's damaged," she reported, her voice strained. "The crack emanates from the apex. The energies within are… unstable. Leaking. Whatever residual power held that Guardian together, it seems intrinsically linked to this Incubator. The Guardian's destruction caused a feedback loop, damaging the source." She opened her eyes, looking troubled. "But the damage isn't total. The Tempest… he didn't destroy the Incubator itself. It seems almost… incidental. As if he dealt with the Guardian, then simply walked away."
Kristoph processed this rapidly. The Tempest possesses power sufficient to shatter a Guardian and damage the core artifact of this dark cult, seemingly without effort. Yet, he didn't finish the job. Was it ignorance? Did he not understand the significance of the Incubator? Or was it… indifference? A being so powerful that the machinations of cosmic horrors and their cults were beneath its notice, unless they directly impeded its path?
"He faced down a Guardian, destroyed it with pure physical force, possibly caused this damage to the central artifact as a side effect, and then just… walked into that side passage?" Kristoph mused aloud, finding the scenario difficult to reconcile with any known form of combat or strategy. "Why? What's in that passage?"
Zenon sniffed the air near the fissure's entrance. "Fainter stench here, Commander. A slight draft. Different air. And… fear. Old fear. Humanoid. More than one."
"Survivors? Other captives?" Kristoph speculated. "Did the Tempest go to rescue them? Or pursue them?" His instinct warred with the evidence. The sheer casualness Elara described didn't fit the profile of a rescuer or a pursuer.
He looked at the fissure. It was a black, uninviting maw. Following the Tempest deeper into the unknown felt like willingly stepping into the jaws of a leviathan. Yet, their mission was to observe, to understand. And the Tempest was the mission.
"Zenon," Kristoph decided. "Scout ahead. Ten yards into the passage. Quick look, soundings, immediate return. Go."
Zenon nodded curtly. Melting into the shadows near the entrance, he drew two short, wickedly sharp knives and slipped into the fissure as silently as smoke. Elara raised her staff, murmuring a soft enchantment to enhance Zenon's senses and provide a subtle warning ward.
They waited in tense silence, Kristoph keeping his gaze fixed on the fissure entrance, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The only sounds were the dripping from the Incubator and the faint, almost imagined hum from the damaged crystal. Seconds stretched into an agonizing minute.
Then, just as Kristoph was about to call him back, Zenon reappeared, emerging from the darkness as silently as he'd entered. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held a flicker of something Kristoph recognized: profound confusion.
"Report," Kristoph snapped quietly.
"Passage twists, Commander. Narrow. Descends," Zenon reported in a low voice. "Saw torchlight ahead, maybe fifty yards down. Heard voices. Definitely humanoid. Sounded… terrified. But also… hopeful?" He paused, frowning. "And I heard his voice."
"The Tempest?"
Zenon nodded. "Distinctive. Calm. Almost… bored. Complaining about the lack of lighting, I think. And asking about… food."
Kristoph stared at his scout. Elara lowered her staff slightly, equally bewildered. Complaining about lighting? Asking about food? After shattering a Guardian and nearly breaking the heart of an eldritch abomination's power source?
"He is… conversing with survivors?" Kristoph asked, struggling to make sense of it.
"Seems so, Commander," Zenon confirmed. "Moving with them. Doesn't sound hostile. Sounds… oddly mundane, considering." He hesitated. "There was also… evidence of a recent ceiling collapse. A large slab. But it's… secured. Pushed up, back into place, with incredible force. No magic residue. Just… force. The Tempest's boot prints are right beneath it."
Kristoph felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. This 'Unknowing Tempest' was less a storm and more a walking paradox wrapped in an enigma, wearing a ridiculous yellow suit. Powerful enough to terrify ancient evils, yet preoccupied with snacks and interior decorating. It defied categorization.
"He's leading them out? Or deeper in?" Kristoph pressed.
"Can't be certain from the sounds, Commander," Zenon admitted. "But the draft suggests the passage might lead somewhere. Perhaps an old escape route? Or a forgotten section of the Labyrinth."
The decision rested on Kristoph again. Turn back now, with fragmented, almost unbelievable information? Or follow this bizarre entity and the desperate souls accompanying him, deeper into potentially lethal territory? Their mission was observation. They couldn't observe if they retreated.
"We follow," Kristoph declared, his voice firm despite the unease coiling in his gut. "Maintain maximum stealth. We stay well behind them. Listen. Observe. Learn what we can about this… Saitama." He used the name Zenon had possibly overheard, testing it. It sounded utterly ordinary. Dangerously ordinary. "If he is leading them to safety, perhaps we can find our own exit as well. If he leads them into another trap… we will have gained valuable intelligence. Move out."
Silently, the three knights melted into the narrow fissure, the soft glow from Elara's staff carefully shielded, their senses straining in the darkness. They followed the distant, fading sounds of Gregor's torchlit progress and the occasional, utterly baffling comment from the bald man in yellow, unaware that their own quiet footsteps were now adding another layer to the echoes in the labyrinthine dark.
Ahead, Saitama suddenly paused, tilting his head slightly. Gregor, seeing him stop, halted immediately, holding the torch steady.
"What is it?" Lyra whispered, her voice tight with renewed fear. "Did you hear something?"
Saitama frowned faintly, listening. He thought he'd heard… something. Faint footsteps? Way behind them? Or maybe it was just the echo of their own passage in the winding tunnel. Or perhaps his stomach rumbling again, performing an avant-garde percussion piece.
"Nah," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "Probably just rats. Or maybe my stomach again. Seriously, I could eat a horse. Or one of those giant glowy beetles, if I get desperate enough."
He started walking again, oblivious to the three highly trained Royal Knights now shadowing his every move, their minds reeling from the sheer, unbelievable reality of the Unknowing Tempest. The strange convergence in the depths of the Tenebris Labyrinth continued.