Chapter 102 102
Chapter 102 102
The soldier named Baron walked lethargically, dragging one foot after the other across the rocky floor in a slow, rhythmic, and tedious manner, while guiding Clayton and his team into the dark depths of the mine. His dejection had nothing to do with the horror of the slaughter he had just participated in; it stemmed entirely from his frustration at being barred from the "loot-gathering" festivities with his comrades. In the custom of these soldiers, every minute spent escorting civilians was a minute lost from the pursuit of plunder and quick profit. Clayton had seen countless men like Baron during his long military service, particularly among the infantry—those poor souls forced to march endlessly, facing death face-to-face every day until their very humanity eroded under the relentless psychological pressure.
Clayton recalled a soldier who had served with him during a brutal campaign in the Loren region, a man who had lost his mind to such an extent that he once tried to skin a fallen comrade simply to make a pair of boots, driven not by malice but by a morbid curiosity regarding human skin’s durability. Through years of slaughter and the repeated breaking of moral boundaries, the once-noble youth who had joined the army filled with nationalistic dreams of glory had long since vanished, replaced by something hollow, cruel, and devoid of empathy. Clayton felt a genuine, deep pity for Baron and his ilk; he himself had stood on that same dark precipice, pulled back only by the tragic death of his friend Olun. It was a moment of bitter clarity—realizing that war takes a man's soul long before it takes his life. It is a moment of enlightenment where one realizes that a spirit, when stripped of its earthly anchors and devoid of mercy, finally sees its own naked reality in the mirror of death.
As they descended deeper into the cavernous tunnels, the scent of blood grew heavier—cloying, suffocating, and nauseating; an iron-like odor mingling with the smell of damp earth and human sweat. Along the path, they encountered the victims of the purge led by Major Dolon. The killing had ended only moments ago; the blood was still warm, leaking steadily from bullet holes and jagged blade wounds into the thirsty earth. The attackers had stripped the coats off the dead, leaving the bodies clad in blood-soaked undergarments as they hunted for any scrap of metal or wool. Their mouths were agape in a final, unheard cry, eyes glazed and staring at the living, gazing into the unknown abyss they had fallen into.
Clayton realized the bitter truth behind those open mouths; it wasn't the rigor of death, but the mark of soldiers who pried gold or silver teeth from the jaws of the fallen to sell to dentists as dentures. The attackers had forced the victims' jaws open to check for valuables. While some of these victims were poor, the act itself confirmed that Major Dolon’s men possessed the hardened, predatory instincts acquired in distant colonial wars where death was merely another form of currency, and corpses were transformed into mobile storefronts.
Baron knelt down to inspect a body with professional indifference, turning it left and right, then stood up and spat in disgust. "Damn, they’re clean! Nothing here worth taking. These idiots don't even have a single gold tooth."
Mary Etta felt a wave of nausea and said with visible annoyance: "We aren't here to rummage through corpses or waste time assessing the wealth of the dead. We just need a map of the mine to reach our destination and leave this wretched place as soon as possible."
Her words, dripping with disdain, clearly resonated with Baron, who wanted nothing more than to be rid of them, and he sighed with boredom.
But Clayton saw the bigger picture and spoke in a calm, firm tone: "No, Mary. Be patient. We need Baron to ensure our safe passage past other patrols. If we wander alone, we risk being attacked by any patrol squad that isn't aware of our presence, and our situation would be hopeless."
Reluctantly, they agreed. Baron returned to his dejected state, leading the way in silence, while their eyes scanned every dark corner.
The infrastructure of the mine was surprisingly well-ordered—living quarters, storage rooms, and massive halls were partitioned with an architectural precision that rivaled the fabled works of the dwarves, or so Clayton guessed as he looked at the intricate timber supports. When they reached a wide crossroads, they were met with a gruesome scene: piles of corpses stacked high, floors slick with blood, and discarded belongings strewn everywhere, while soldiers were rummaging through the debris with animalistic fervor.
Barbara turned her head, unable to bear the sight, while Folentin remained catatonic, a hollow shell of a man. Mary Etta muttered quiet, desperate prayers; no matter how hardened she was, the sheer scale of the carnage was an assault on her city-born sensibilities. Clayton, as always, remained stone-faced, his eyes unblinking as he scanned the horror, analyzing every detail.
The soldiers ignored them once they saw Baron and heard Major Dolon’s passcodes, returning to their ghoulish task. Baron explained that this was the storage area, but he found no refined whale oil, which confirmed to Clayton that the purpose of the mission might be deeper than he had expected.
Clayton seized a moment to approach Baron quietly, whispering: "I see you’re collecting those strange lamps from your comrades. Is that right?"
The soldier eyed him suspiciously: "Yeah. It's my job. So what?"
"How many of those lamps are down here?"
"Why should I tell you, man?" Baron retorted with wariness.
"I don't care for the exact number. Let’s make a deal. You’re tired of babysitting us, and I’m tired of being shadowed. Give me a map marking where the other lamp-carrying squads are, and we’ll leave you to your looting."
Baron considered the offer, his eyes widening with genuine appreciation. "Not a bad deal. You’re a sensible, accommodating man."
Clayton offered a thin, calculated smile. He turned to his own team and signaled them: "Spread out in the nearby tunnels. Search for the whale oil or Detective Bruno's body. If you find anything, report back here immediately."
Clayton walked into a tunnel with Mary Etta, determined not to let her work alone, fearing she might stumble upon a lead and keep it for herself. As they walked, she glanced at the fresh scar on Clayton’s face and asked with curiosity: "Why did you send Baron away so quickly? You were adamant about keeping him earlier."
"Because," Clayton replied, stopping to flip over a corpse, "I realized that honesty is missing among everyone here. No one wants to show what they’re really hiding, and everyone is dancing around the truth."
Suddenly, they froze before a body. It was devastatingly familiar. "Look, Mary. This body... it looks exactly like Bruno." Clayton hadn't considered the detective a close friend, but losing a man of his caliber in this dark pit was a bitter blow.
Mary called out from behind him, her voice trembling: "Clayton! Come look at this one."
Clayton approached to find something entirely unexpected. "Sanders? How did he end up here?"
The dwarf lay dead, a tragic end to a boisterous life. Clayton remembered their banter about who would pay for whose prison bail. "May God have mercy on him," Mary whispered in sorrow. She searched for clues, but the scavengers had stripped everything of value, leaving nothing but rags.
Then, Clayton’s gaze drifted to a corner. Another body, face mangled, yet the features—"Oh no... Mr. Stepan." Clayton breathed heavily. Stepan, his rival in the antique trade, a man of deceit and greed, now lay lifeless in the dark. It was a staggering blow to find his competitor here, his ambitions cut short in this abyss.
Clayton stood up, his expression hardening into a grim, dark resolve. "Mary, I need to go somewhere alone. It will take time. If the others return, tell them to wait for me here."
Mary nodded silently as Clayton vanished into the shadows, carrying the weight of the dead within his heart, pondering the mystery that grew more complex with every body he discovered.