Chapter 54: Mountain Path

Chapter 54: Mountain Path
The first two days had been within my capacity to handle. The route followed a fixed mountain path—rough, yes, but I could still make out traces left by previous travelers. Randell walked ahead, his pace steady. The trail was harder than the stretch from the birch forest to Aethon, but it hadn't exceeded my familiar mountain experience. I could still barely keep up.

On the morning of the third day, the path changed, as if we'd crossed into another world.

By mid-morning on the third day, the path ended. We arrived at a broad rock face. Its angle of incline was treacherous, smooth as a mirror. To go up, we'd have to climb using both hands and feet.

Natural footholds were scattered across the surface, but the distances between them were completely irregular for a human's height—some too far, some too close, as if carved by a giant's careless hand, full of malice and traps.

Randell went up first to scout the route. The way he climbed made my heart sink, a nameless dread rising within me. Every handhold he reached for was precise, as if the rocks themselves bent to meet his palms, automatically providing support. Every foothold was steady, without the slightest hesitation, as though he were walking a familiar path home.

I followed silently behind him, mimicking his every move exactly, not daring to deviate once.

He reached the top and turned back to look at me. Backlit, his face was somewhat blurred, his expression unreadable, like a mask without features.

"Come on up. It's safe."

I hauled myself over the top of the rock face and sat down to catch my breath for a while. Sweat had soaked through the back of my clothes, and my heart hammered violently in my chest. "How many more of these rock faces are ahead?"

"Two sections," he said. "One longer than this. One shorter, but steeper—almost vertical."

"How do you know?"

"When I asked for directions, I asked about the conditions too."

"Someone who can provide that level of detail," I said, looking at him with sharp eyes, trying to see through his facade, "is usually someone who's walked this path themselves. Otherwise they wouldn't know it so precisely."

Randell's gaze didn't flinch, carrying a kind of fearless indifference.

"I haven't walked it," he said. "The person who told me—he walked it. He drew me a detailed map."

"Where is that person now?"

"I don't know. Stop asking." His tone grew impatient, as if my asking such questions was somehow an error.

That exchange lodged in my heart like a thin needle.

Every word he spoke screamed "wrong" at me, like a net about to tear.

On the afternoon of the third day, we reached the second rock face. Longer, steeper, like a tilted wall, nearly vertical to the ground. At the base, I tied my cloth bundle tighter, making the weight press closer to my spine, and adjusted my breathing, trying to calm myself. I still let Randell go first. But this time I kept a cautious distance. When he climbed to the midpoint, he stopped to wait for me. I climbed slowly. Suddenly, the handhold under my left hand gave way, and my entire body dropped.

I reacted quickly, grabbing a handhold below. My fingernails nearly split, blood seeping from my fingertips, but I managed to stabilize myself by sheer force.

Randell didn't come down to help. He only inquired coldly from above my head.

"Stable?" His voice remained steady, betraying no ripple of emotion, as if asking about something inconsequential.

"Stable." I pulled back my hand, concealing its tremor, and looked at the blood trailing down my wrist.

"Shall we continue?"

"Yes."

After I climbed up, I sat for a long time, watching him, trying to find some familiar shadow in his face. He was drinking water, his Adam's apple rolling up and down, the line of his profile smooth and familiar. His face—it was Randell's face. The face I'd been looking at since I was seven. But what was hidden beneath that face? A monster, or a stranger?

"Let's go," he said, setting down the water skin, his eyes cold.

"Yes," I said, suppressing the chill in my heart, following behind him.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, we reached the cliff. It appeared suddenly after a steep slope. Beyond the crest, the terrain ahead looked as if something had torn it apart from the middle—a lateral cliff stretched across the only path to the summit, like a scar on the earth. Wide, about twenty meters. Below, a valley hundreds of meters deep, wreathed in clouds and mist, bottomless, like the maw of some giant beast. The rock face was relatively smooth, allowing lateral movement. But there was nowhere to rest midway. Once you started, you had to complete it in one go. No turning back.

Randell took only about five minutes to traverse those twenty meters, as easy as taking a stroll. He reached the other side. Turned around, stood at the cliff's edge watching me, like a cold judge.

At that distance, I couldn't make out his face clearly, could only see that black silhouette, full of oppressive weight.

"Come on," he said, his voice scattered by the wind, as if coming from somewhere far away.

"Okay," I answered, my voice trembling slightly.

I began to cross. I forced myself to stay calm, checking each support point for stability before shifting my weight onto it, every step taken with utmost care.

Just a few more steps to the other side—I silently exhaled in relief, my vigilance relaxing slightly.

My left foot stepped onto a protruding rock—its shape looked stable, seemingly capable of bearing my entire weight, like my only dependable support. My right hand reached toward the next handhold, fingertips touching cold stone.

In that instant, the rock under my left foot gave way, as if someone had pulled away the support.

I didn't have time to react. That rock broke away from the cliff face, falling silently into the valley, not even leaving an echo, disappearing into the clouds. My left foot met empty air. My right hand failed to grasp the next rock point, fingertips sliding across smooth stone.

The support point my left hand was clutching couldn't bear the force of my entire body's fall. I felt the rock crumbling in my grip, searing pain shooting through my fingertips.

In that split second, my right hand struck a protruding stone at the cliff's edge. I ignored the pain, my fingers instinctively tightening, desperately clutching that thread of survival, knuckles white with exertion.

My entire body hung from the cliff's edge. My left hand had already slipped from its original hold, dangling helplessly in the air. Below my left foot, a valley hundreds of meters deep. Wind surged up from below, pouring into my collar like countless cold hands pulling at me, trying to drag me into the abyss.

I looked up, gazing desperately toward the opposite side, my eyes full of pleading.

Randell was on the other side. He was watching me. He didn't move. At that distance, if he just extended his hand or threw down a rope, I could be saved.

"Randell," I called out, my voice trembling in the wind, hoarse and broken. At that distance, I couldn't make out his expression clearly, but I could feel his coldness. "Save me."

He still didn't move.

Wind continued surging up from below, whipping my hair about, scattering my last hope.

The knuckles of my right hand began turning white, strength draining away bit by bit, muscles screaming in protest, the pain unbearable.

And the person on the opposite side—the person with Randell's face—finally took a slow step toward the cliff's edge.

He bent down.

I saw the corner of his mouth, on that face I'd known for thirteen years, lift slightly upward.

It was a mocking smile, as if watching an entertaining performance.

"Take a closer look at who I am, Princess."