Warlock of Oceans: My Poseidon System-Chapter 344: The Holy City of Rebelkin (18)
Cyrus clutched at his chest, his fingers digging into his clothes as if trying to physically pull away the source of his torment. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing before his eyes as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, the droplets trickling down his face in stark contrast to the burning pain within.
"Hey, you okay?"
"Give me a second," Cyrus choked out.
His voice, which had been poised to articulate the word "dungeon," faltered into a strangled gasp. He could taste the metallic tang of fear and desperation on his tongue, the word he had intended to say now trapped in his throat, unable to escape. Every attempt to speak only intensified the sensation, as if the act of uttering the word was somehow amplifying the torment he felt.
Cyrus’s mind raced, trying to understand the source of this sudden, inexplicable pain. It was as if some dark force was punishing him for daring to speak, a malevolent presence that had lain in wait for just this moment. The room around him seemed to dim, the faces of his men and the noble-looking man blurring into indistinct shapes as his consciousness narrowed to the pinpoint of agony in his chest.
As he struggled to maintain his composure, his knees buckled slightly, and he had to fight to stay upright. The pain was relentless, each second stretching into an eternity of suffering. His lips moved soundlessly, his body trembling with the effort to withstand the invisible assault.
In the midst of this agony, a part of Cyrus’s mind recognized the insidious nature of what was happening. This was no ordinary pain; it was an attack, a deliberate infliction meant to silence him and bend him to its will. The realization sparked a flicker of defiance within him, a stubborn refusal to be cowed by whatever dark force sought to control him.
Just as abruptly as the pain had struck, it vanished, leaving Cyrus gasping for breath in stunned silence. One moment, the invisible hand had been squeezing his heart, nails stabbing into his chest with brutal force, and the next, the agony was gone, dissipating into nothingness as if it had never existed.
Cyrus blinked, disoriented by the sudden absence of pain. His chest, which had felt like it was being torn apart, was now perfectly fine, with no lingering discomfort or soreness. The intensity of the moment left him breathless, the echo of the torment still vivid in his mind even as his body felt miraculously untouched. He instinctively touched his chest, half-expecting to find some evidence of the attack—bruises, blood, anything to validate the excruciating experience—but there was nothing. His heart pounded steadily under his hand, its rhythm normal and strong.
The cold sweat that had broken out across his forehead began to cool, and his breathing gradually returned to a steady pace. He looked around, meeting the eyes of his men and the noble-looking man, searching for any sign that they had witnessed his ordeal. But their expressions were a mix of concern and confusion, indicating that they had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Experience more on novelbuddy
Cyrus’s mind struggled to process what had just happened. The pain had been so real, so visceral, yet now it was as if it had been a phantom, an illusion that had gripped him only to vanish without a trace. He felt a wave of relief, mixed with a profound unease. The memory of those nail-like appendages stabbing into his chest lingered, a haunting reminder of the invisible threat that had momentarily seized him.
He straightened, regaining his composure with a determined effort. His expression hardened, masking the residual fear and uncertainty. Whatever force had tried to silence him, it had failed. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs without resistance, and squared his shoulders.
The noble-looking man continued to stare at him, eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Cyrus met his gaze with renewed resolve, the inscrutable look replaced by one of steely determination. The ordeal had shaken him, but it had also ignited a fire within, a burning desire to understand the forces at play and to confront whatever malevolence had sought to harm him.
"I believe we should take a break. It’s clear the gods have not allowed us to speak at this current moment," The man spoke.
Cyrus exhaled a deep breath of agreement. "Then, at least, what’s your name?"
"Sylus."
"We’re quite similar. I’m Cyrus."
"Interesting…" The man smiled and as Cyrus got up and left, Sylus beckoned for one of his servants to come towards him.
…
As Cyrus walked through the underground city, a sense of wonder and confusion gnawed at him. The place was unlike anything he had ever seen, a sprawling metropolis hidden deep within the earth, yet it bustled with life just like any city above ground. The people he saw as he moved through the winding streets were unmistakably human. They looked identical to those he had known all his life: their faces were familiar, their expressions varied and animated, their bodies moved with the same fluidity. They smelled identical, too, carrying the scent of sweat, food, and the distinct aroma of the underground that mingled with the familiar human scent. Their voices filled the air with a symphony of chatter, laughter, and daily life sounds, each tone and cadence perfectly human.
Yet, the incongruity of their existence here, in this dungeon-like realm, was unsettling. Cyrus couldn’t shake the questions that churned in his mind. How did these people come to live in such a place? Did they just magically appear here, fully formed and adapted to this subterranean world? Or was there a deeper, more complex story behind their presence?
The more Cyrus observed, the more he questioned the reality before him. These people seemed perfectly at ease in their environment, as if generations had passed in this underground city, molding their lives to its unique rhythms and constraints. But the sheer scale and complexity of the civilization hinted at something more profound than mere adaptation. There were schools where children learned, markets bustling with traders and buyers, and workshops where skilled artisans crafted goods. Everything operated with the efficiency and familiarity of a well-established society.
Cyrus pondered the possibilities. Perhaps there was an ancient catastrophe that forced these people underground, away from the surface world. A natural disaster, a war, or some other cataclysmic event might have driven their ancestors to seek refuge in the depths of the earth. Over time, they could have adapted to their new environment, developing ways to grow food, create light, and sustain a community. The bioluminescent plants and underground water sources might be remnants of those early innovations, crucial for survival in a place where sunlight never reached.
Alternatively, the city’s existence could be the result of an ancient civilization, lost to history, that had chosen to build their home beneath the surface. They might have possessed advanced knowledge and technology, enabling them to construct such an intricate and livable space. Their reasons for retreating underground could be numerous—seeking solitude, protection, or perhaps they believed the depths offered a purer, more harmonious way of life.
Another, more unsettling thought crossed Cyrus’s mind. What if these people didn’t originate from the surface at all? What if they were born of the dungeon itself, a unique race created by the mysterious forces that governed this underground realm? This idea, while far-fetched, was not entirely implausible in a world where magic and ancient secrets often intertwined. The dungeon could be a living entity, capable of creating and sustaining life within its confines.
Cyrus couldn’t ignore the possibility of enchantments or other supernatural elements at play. The dungeon might be a place where the laws of nature and reality were bent or reshaped. It could have created these people as guardians or inhabitants, designed to maintain the delicate balance of its subterranean ecosystem. Their human-like appearance, behavior, and culture might be an intentional design, meant to deceive or comfort those who stumbled upon them.
The city’s architecture was both awe-inspiring and perplexing. Stone buildings, expertly carved and reinforced, lined the streets. Homes, shops, and communal areas were intricately designed, with archways and columns that spoke of advanced engineering and artistic sensibilities. There were gardens with bioluminescent plants, glowing softly in the dim light, and water sources that seemed to spring from the very walls, providing fresh water to the inhabitants. Everything was so meticulously constructed that it seemed impossible for this city to be anything but deliberate, yet its existence defied all logic.
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Cyrus observed the people closely, searching for any sign that they were different from those above ground. But there was nothing—no unusual behaviors, no odd physical traits. They went about their lives with a routine normalcy, engaging in commerce, tending to families, and socializing just as any human community would. The children played games, their laughter echoing through the stone corridors, while the adults carried out their daily tasks with practiced ease.
