Chapter 150: Footprints That Only Go In

Qi Qi didn't ask why. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, walked to the fork up ahead, and crouched down. Both hands pressed into the dirt, his face a fist's width from the ground.

A layer of loose topsoil covered the ground, and feet had crunched it into a crust. On the dead-end path, those crusts were turned up with their edges facing outward. On this other path, every upturned edge faced inward.

"On this track, every overturned edge faces inward." Qi Qi lifted his head. "Not one faces outward."

"We take this branch," Xu Yan said.

He walked to the opening and pressed the charred end of his torch against the wall at chest height, drawing a mark. This one was heavier than the marks from previous days—a black line on the gray rock, visible even from two paces back.

The path ran level at first. Twenty-some steps in, it dropped a step; twenty-some more, another. The walls opened up enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. Bai Xiaoman counted the turns silently as she walked. At the seventh, she couldn't help blurting out: "Six turns now." Qian Duoduo corrected her from behind: "Seven." Both of them looked at Xu Yan. He said, "Eight."

Past the eighth turn, another fork split into two branches. Qi Qi crouched as before, checked the left first, then the right, and reported back: "The left branch—the dirt's been trodden to a shine. People went in and came back out. The right branch—the upturned edges face inward, but there aren't many prints."

"Someone went into the left and came out again," Xu Yan said. "Whoever took the right never turned back."

He marked the right branch. Qian Duoduo, hugging the flatbread bundle, walked in. A few steps later he looked back: "If this one dead-ends too, do we lose another whole day?"

"Then we retreat."

"Retreat to where?"

"To the fork we marked with a cross."

Qian Duoduo shifted the bread bundle higher and stopped asking questions, shuffling forward. Cheng Banshan walked behind him, one hand braced against the rock wall, pausing every couple of steps. "Duoduo, don't talk over your shoulder. Watch your feet."

This branch twisted. It wound through two bends, then dropped suddenly—steeper than the steps before, loose gravel sliding underfoot. Shi Po moved up to the front, testing each step before calling back: "Solid here."

Mid-Snake hour, the group rested against the rock wall. Each person broke off half a flatbread; the water flasks made a round, one small mouthful apiece. When Cheng Banshan sat down, he first untied the medicine pouch from his waist and laid it on his knee, and only then did he settle.

"Elder Cheng, shall I rub your leg?" Du Xiaochuan asked.

"Rub what." Cheng Banshan broke his flatbread in two and shoved half into Du Xiaochuan's hands. "This leg's older than you. It knows how to walk on its own."

Shao Ming passed his water flask over. Cheng Banshan took it, drank a sip, handed it back.

"It's been going down the whole way," Bai Xiaoman said, tracing lines in the dirt with a finger. "Seven or eight turns, not a single one rising. There's got to be an open space down there."

"An open space's all we need," Jiang Wan said.

They rested half an incense stick, then moved on. This stretch ran higher; the gap overhead narrowed to a sliver, light falling in a thin line that landed on the floor, and they walked along that line. By Horse hour, past the ninth turn, the path forked again.

Qi Qi crouched—longer this time. He swept aside a layer of the loose topsoil with one hand, then touched print after print, counting.

"Left branch, right branch—same amount." He stood, both hands covered in dirt. "I've never seen a fork like this. On both sides, going-in prints face inward, coming-out prints face outward, layer stacked on layer."

Xu Yan walked over and looked for himself. The tracks were indeed identical on both sides, depth and all. There was no telling which way ran through.

"Scout it first," he said. "Take the left—no further than the second turn, don't go down any ledges. Look and come back."

Qi Qi acknowledged and slipped into the left branch. The rest leaned against the rock and waited. Qian Duoduo crouched at the opening, counting. He reached two hundred and some, then stopped. "Why isn't he back yet?"

"Keep counting," Cheng Banshan said.

"I lost count."

"Start over."

After a while, footsteps came echoing out of the earth. Qi Qi came back, wiped his face, and said: "The left runs level for twenty-some steps, then narrows a little further in. It ends at a solid wall. There's a vertical crack in it, but no draft through it. Water stains above the crack—seeping down from above."

"If wind comes from above, the crack runs up, not down," Xu Yan said.

"Then I'll go check the right."

Qi Qi slipped in again, this time longer. While they waited, Qian Duoduo untied the bread bundle and counted the packets one by one, then tied it back up. Shi Po stood without sitting, one shoulder braced against the rock, eyes on the right-hand opening.

When Qi Qi came back, his face was dirty and his eyes were bright: "The right branch goes down. Thirty-some steps to a ledge, then it starts dropping. There's a draft coming up from below—steady, not cold, the kind that blows outward."

"Wind rising from below means there's an opening down there," Xu Yan said.

He pressed the charred end of the torch against the right-side wall and drew a mark. "We take the right."

"The left was a wasted trip?" Qian Duoduo asked.

"Not wasted. Knowing the left doesn't run through tells us the right has to."

The moment they entered, the path dropped—seven or eight ledges, the route twisting through the rock until a person lost all sense of direction. The walls bore old scars: blade marks, sword cuts, but nothing fresh. Qi Qi called from the front: "Down." "Wider on the right." "Low ceiling here—everybody duck."

At the duck-through point, Shi Po's face hung a fist's width from the stone. He braced one hand upward to boost the person ahead, then went through last himself.

They walked like that for two full shichen. Cheng Banshan slowed with every step, one hand on the wall, stopping every five paces. Jiang Wan followed behind him without urging, stopping whenever he stopped. Shao Ming walked on his other side, ready to reach out at any moment.

Late Monkey hour, the wind ahead changed.

Before, in the winding passages, the air had squeezed through stone cracks—a cold draft that crawled along the back of the neck. This wind was steady, rising from below, carrying a faint smell of dry earth, and something warm.

"Sect Master." Qi Qi stopped up ahead. "Come look."

Xu Yan moved to the front. The path opened before him. The rock walls withdrew upward, becoming a sheer face; at its base lay a heap of broken stone, packed so tight there wasn't a crack, piled halfway up the wall. To the left of the rubble, stone steps descended—old moss on the treads, the moss dry.

They stood at the bottom of the collapse.

"This is the lower half," Xu Yan said. "The upper half sheared off. This half's still here."

One by one they crawled out of the opening and onto the steps. Daylight reflected up from below the stairs, washing the treads pale gray. Three days without light this bright—Qian Duoduo came out first and wiped his eyes. "Why's it so bright?"

Shi Po came out last. He paused at the mouth, looking back at the rubble behind them. From below, the mound rose to a point, its tip meeting the broken edge of the upper stairway—and on that edge, the footprints they'd left coming down.

"Senior Brother Shi?" Bai Xiaoman turned from the steps.

"Going back up'll be hard," Shi Po said.

"Hard how?"

"On the return. The climb." And with that he stepped down off the rubble.

Xu Yan understood. He filed the words away and said nothing. On the day they turned back, they'd have to scale this from below and thread the branching passages all over again—but that was for the return. For now, finish this stretch first.

These lower steps were cleaner than the upper half—no fallen rubble, the treads even. Qian Duoduo counted them down, slowly. Past a hundred, his foot hit level ground. He stopped, wanting to keep counting. Behind him, Cheng Banshan said, "We're here."

Late You hour, they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Below lay flat ground stretching beyond sight. The day was dimming, dimming toward dark. Everything ahead blurred together. The nearest few dozen paces of ground were visible—flat, gray—but beyond that, nothing. Just a sense of depth.

"Sect Master, what's ahead?" Jiang Wan asked.

"Can't see it," Xu Yan said.

"If we can't see it, we don't press forward yet."

"We rest here," Xu Yan said. "Move on at first light."

They dropped their bundles and sat. The stair mouth was wide—ten people huddled together still left half of it empty. Qian Duoduo untied the bread packets one by one, half a flatbread per person. They'd walked hard today, so he gave Shi Po an extra half. The water flasks made their round; no one drank more than a sip. Cheng Banshan crumbled his last half-piece into the cup of a flask, let it soften, and ate. When he finished, he licked the cap clean.

"Elder Cheng, get some sleep early," Shao Ming said.

"I'll sit a while first."

He sat, and as he sat he listed forward. Once, twice he caught himself with a hand on the stone. The third time, he couldn't. Shao Ming propped him against the steps. Before he dropped off, he muttered, "This bread could hammer nails," and didn't finish the thought.

He was sound asleep before Dog hour. One hand pillowed under his head, the medicine pouch by his knee.

Qian Duoduo took the You-to-Xu watch. He sat at the very edge of the stair mouth, legs crossed, water flask hugged to his chest. As the sky dimmed, fear crept in, and he counted the steps under his breath: one, two, three... At thirty-seven he restarted; somewhere in the twenties he suddenly asked, "Sect Master, you asleep?"

"No," Xu Yan said.

"You think there's something down there?"

"We'll see at dawn."

"What if dawn comes and we still can't see?"

"Then we wait another day."

"Oh," Qian Duoduo said, and went back to counting. His voice faded as he went, and he didn't dare move his feet.

At Hai hour, Huo Qing took over. He unstrapped the sword from his back, laid it across his knees, left hand on the scabbard, and sat. In the dark he sat perfectly straight, motionless. Qian Duoduo burrowed into the huddle and was snoring in moments.

After Zi hour the wind died down. At Chou hour Xu Yan rose, crossed over, and sat at the edge of the stair mouth, relieving Huo Qing. "No one's come," Huo Qing said, slinging the sword back onto his back.

"Sleep."

Xu Yan sat alone.

He knew what this place was. Late in the Fourth Month, before the mountain gate, he'd opened the inventory and seen it: three levels below their feet—this was the first. He'd told no one. Not even Jiang Wan.

He also knew there was likely something to the north. He didn't know what. The inventory gave him the levels. It gave him nothing else.

As he sat, he laid out the remaining accounts in his mind: flatbread, one per person per day—half in the morning, half at night—enough to stretch to the gate sealing if they ate sparingly; after giving Shi Po that extra half, he'd need to watch it; water flasks, ten. Sipping carefully today, seven and a half remained. Three days lost in those branching passages—lost, and let them go. The road ahead needed no more chalk marks. From here on there was only one road, going out; then one road, coming back. What truly needed memorizing was the return route: from this stair mouth back to the stone gate, through that broken stairway, up over the rubble from below, and back through all three forks. Tonight he arranged those three in his mind—which way at each, left or right—until every step was fixed.

The half-burnt torch stub lay by his knee, its charred end nearly worn away. He wouldn't need it anymore.

The sky hadn't lightened. The expanse ahead was still black. He sat with his eyes pointed north, and after a long while the darkness resolved into something: toward the north, the ground seemed lower—or higher. He couldn't tell.

Late Yin hour, light crept back in by degrees.

The far edge grayed first, a sliver of white inside the gray. The white spread nearer, spilling over the shallow hollows in the ground, and at half a li out, the first thing it picked out was a row of fire-blackened roof frames.