Chapter 198: Do Not Respond!

The scenery flanking the dirt road gradually shifted from open fields to abandoned, weed-choked wasteland.

Through the car window, Richard spotted scattered markers dotting the distant ground.

Most were wooden stakes driven into the earth by the authorities, their tops painted white and marked: Abandoned Mine. No Entry.

Further out, a few long-collapsed mine headframes came into view, their wooden beams blackened and rotting.

The literature only mentioned three minor weak points, but who knew if there were even smaller, unrecorded ones?

In an environment like the mine, after all, it was far too easy for things to breed—not to mention the massive hole known as the Unresponsive Pit acting as a constant catalyst.

Through Spirit Vision, Richard could see the ether flow across the entire wasteland clearly tilting in a single direction. That had to be the Unresponsive Pit.

The car gradually slowed.

Two panel vans of the same model were already parked up ahead.

Several figures in standard Branch Office jackets stood beside the vehicles, each holding their respective weapons.

The man leading them wore an eyepatch, his left arm from the shoulder down replaced by a Steel Prosthetic Arm.

He did not look like someone to trifle with.

The old gentleman beside Richard made the introduction.

"That is Lieutenant Colonel Ord, a Minor Adept-level Hunter. He is today's commander."

Richard looked at the Minor Adept Hunter and suddenly thought of a question.

"Sir... what if today isn't just routine, and something major actually happens? Does the lieutenant colonel have a backup plan?"

Mr. Hutton turned his head and cast a glance at him.

"Good question."

"Whenever a medium or larger weak point is suppressed, the Virtuoso who intervened leaves behind a trace of 'sovereignty' at the bottom of the pit.

You can think of it as a slumbering pedestal of power."

"Lieutenant Colonel Ord is the only person present today who represents the authorities and holds the authorization.

In the absolute worst-case scenario, he can awaken that slumbering power for a brief moment."

"Then... there's nothing to fear?"

Hearing the title of Virtuoso, Richard instantly focused his attention.

"No." The old gentleman shook his head. "That power doesn't come for free."

"Waking it even once means the entire seal on the Unresponsive Pit will require an unscheduled round of reinforcement afterward."

"Calling upon the power of a Virtuoso is equivalent to borrowing their name to speak beneath the veil.

And the Unresponsive Pit is one of the places where you absolutely should not make a sound."

"So the lieutenant colonel will never use this trump card unless it is the final moment."

The old gentleman looked back toward the mine shaft.

"For today, it is enough for you to know that such a trump card is buried inside this cavern."

Richard nodded solemnly and followed him out of the car.

The patrol squad, including Ord himself, consisted of seven people. Except for the youngest member, the rest were all Practitioner-level Hunters.

The other six were divided into two groups of three.

The leader of the group on the left was a short woman with an old scar across her brow bone.

The leader on the right was a tall, thin man with a mustache, missing the tip of his left index finger.

Richard noticed that one boy across the two groups looked exceptionally young, his jacket sleeves fitting a bit poorly.

The boy had light brown hair and a face slightly smudged with road dust. Richard noticed the boy was secretly sizing him up, too.

"Everyone's here." Lieutenant Colonel Ord cleared his throat.

"We have new faces this time, so I'll go over the rules once more before we head down."

"No using real names down there. If you have to call out to someone, use their codename."

"If the lights go out, crouch where you are and do not move."

"If you hear an unfamiliar voice, do not answer."

"If you hear a familiar voice coming from the wrong direction, do not answer."

"Leave all responding to us three Hunter team leaders."

"The rest of you only open your mouths to breathe and drink water, understand?"

"Understood!" the patrol squad replied in unison.

Richard glanced at the old gentleman.

Mr. Hutton gave a slight nod, signaling, We obey these rules too.

Lieutenant Colonel Ord swept his gaze toward Mr. Hutton's side.

"I'll assign everyone's codenames for today."

He pointed at himself. "Just call me Colonel, no name attached."

"For our side, just call the two team leaders Team Leader One and Team Leader Two."

"Old Scholar." He pointed at Mr. Hutton.

"Medium, for Mrs. MacNeil."

"Inspector, for Wentworth."

"Rune Crafter, for Ms. Maud."

"Inscriber, for Mr. Spence."

"Old Coroner." He pointed again, this time at Old Biggs.

"...Am I that old?" Old Biggs muttered.

"You're definitely old in years." Ord tapped his steel fist. "Your craftsmanship just isn't as refined as your senior sister's."

"Yes, yes, yes." Old Biggs let out a dry laugh.

Finally, Ord's gaze landed on Richard.

"Gray eyes are quite rare. How about we just call you Gray Eyes?"

"That works, Colonel." It was an ordinary codename, so Richard naturally had no objections.

Ord turned to his six subordinates. "Did you all hear that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"His codename is 'Gray Eyes.' Do not use his real name down in the mine."

"Understood."

Ord turned his gaze back to Richard.

"Kid, you and the youngest guy on our side will both be positioned further inside the formation today."

He tipped his chin toward the boy who looked the youngest.

"His codename is 'Pony.' Just graduated from the military academy."

Pony nodded at Richard, a slightly unnatural smile on his face.

Lieutenant Colonel Ord raised a hand. "All groups, prepare your gear. Group One goes down in three minutes."

The six patrol members scattered and began checking their equipment.

Mr. Hutton took a small Pocket Watch from his coat's inner pocket and checked the time.

"Richard, did you memorize the rules the colonel just laid out?"

"I did, sir."

"Recite the most important one for me."

Richard dutifully repeated it.

"No using real names down there. If you have to call out to someone, use their codename."

The old gentleman lifted his eyelids and cast a look at him.

"Recite it again."

"...No using real names down there. If you have to call out to someone, use their codename."

"Good." Mr. Hutton snapped the Pocket Watch shut. "Then let me ask you from another angle."

"Down there, if you hear my voice calling out to you, but it calls you 'Richard' instead of 'Gray Eyes,' is that me?"

Richard's heart sank.

"...No, sir."

"Correct." The old gentleman nodded.

"And if you hear the voices of Old Biggs or Mrs. MacNeil calling you 'Richard'?"

"It wouldn't be them either."

Mr. Hutton reached out and pressed a hand lightly on his student's shoulder.

"From the moment our feet step into the iron cage, until we return to the surface...

During that time, any voice that calls out your real name...

No matter how much it sounds like me, no matter how exactly it matches my tone, my pauses, and my choice of words—do not answer."

"Even if..." The old gentleman raised his white eyebrows. "Even if its tone makes you feel like you absolutely must look back."

"Understood." Richard nodded solemnly.

"One more thing. For the things down in the shaft, mimicking voices is basic."

"What they truly excel at is mimicking 'relationships'."

The old gentleman stared straight into his student's eyes.

"They will read the dynamic between you and every one of us, picking up on 'how things should be.'

Then they will take that 'should be' and construct a sentence that is the hardest for you to refuse."

"For example, it might mimic my voice, call you 'Richard,' and ask you about a detail in the notebook you were just reading in the car."

"Your mind's first reaction will be to assume it's just me discussing academics with you."

"By the time you realize something is wrong, it will already be too late."

A fine layer of goosebumps rose on Richard's back.

"Do you understand?" Mr. Hutton asked.

"I understand, sir."

Mrs. MacNeil walked over from the other side of the team.

The Medium carried her leather suitcase.

"Have you explained everything?"

"I have." The old gentleman nodded.

"Then I'll add one more thing."

Mrs. MacNeil set her suitcase on the back of the van and flipped the lid open.

She pulled out a porcelain jar, twisted off the lid, and revealed coarse salt inside.

The Medium used a small silver spoon to scoop some out.

That spoonful of coarse salt looked no different from what you'd find in a home kitchen.

"Hold out your hand."

Richard opened his palm.

The Medium poured the spoonful of coarse salt into his palm.

"Put one grain under your tongue. Keep it there, and from the moment you step into the iron cage until the cage hits the bottom, stay acutely aware of it."

"No matter what happens on the way down, do not swallow, and do not chew."

"...Yes, ma'am," Richard mumbled in agreement.

"Keep the rest of the salt in your inner coat pocket."

She gestured to the small pinch of salt in Richard's hand.

"If the grain under your tongue melts on the way down, replace it immediately from your pocket."

Richard followed her instructions, wrapping the remaining salt in wax paper and stuffing it into his jacket's inner pocket.

Mrs. MacNeil looked toward Old Biggs standing nearby.

"Bigelow, the usual."

"I know, I brought my own."

Old Biggs also fished out a small porcelain jar, poured a spoonful, placed a grain under his tongue, and shoved the rest into his pocket.

Richard only then realized that Mr. Hutton, Wentworth... and even the six Hunters from the patrol squad—everyone heading down into the shaft—had placed a grain of salt beneath their tongues.

Everyone's mouths were tightly shut, their jaws locked.

Mrs. MacNeil placed the porcelain jar back into her leather suitcase.

She turned back to look at Richard.

"While the salt is in your mouth, do not attempt to speak."

"If you absolutely must communicate, use hand signals, eye contact, or pen and paper."

"This is the rule, and it's also what will keep you alive."

It suddenly clicked for Richard. As long as this single grain of salt was there, every time his instinct drove him to answer, the edge of the salt would poke him first.

That slight poke was a reminder.

"Is it in place?" the Medium asked.

Richard nodded vigorously.

The corners of the Medium's mouth twitched slightly, offering the faintest hint of a smile.

"Good."

She turned and walked toward the iron cage.

Mr. Hutton chimed in with one final warning beside him.

"Remember, the things down there love calling out the names of newcomers the most."

"They have been hungry for a very long time."

..................

Next to the shaft entrance, Lieutenant Colonel Ord pressed a brass button on the side of the iron cage, and the cage slowly descended.

Group One went down first. The entire shaft was so deep that the bottom was nowhere in sight.

It took more than a minute before the colonel's voice bounced back up from the depths of the shaft.

"We're here. Group Two, come down."

The iron cage came back up, and Group Two stepped inside.

Richard stood next to Mr. Hutton.

It was extremely cramped inside the cage. He scanned everyone with his peripheral vision.

Everyone's jaws were locked tight, with a slight bulge visible in one of their cheeks.

The chain rollers turned, and the iron cage inched downward, bit by bit.

For the first segment, they could still see a thin ray of natural light filtering down from the surface outside the cage.

Once they descended to about thirty feet, that sliver of daylight vanished completely.

Keeping his Spirit Vision concealed, Richard subtly swept his gaze over the shaft walls.

Every ten feet or so, silver plates were embedded in the walls, their surfaces etched with inscriptions.

Mr. Hutton turned his head without making a sound. He merely pointed a finger loosely toward one of the silver plates outside on the wall, then flashed Richard a hand signal for "one hundred and fifty."

Richard translated the hand gesture into a complete sentence in his mind.

The core area we need to pass through today is about one hundred and fifty feet below the surface.

That was equivalent to the height of a twelve- or thirteen-story building.

Richard gave a faint nod to show he understood.

The iron cage descended for another half minute. It was dead silent inside.

The only sound to be heard was the squeak of the chain rollers.

As their depth increased, the echoes gradually grew muffled.

The grain of salt under Richard's tongue had already partially dissolved in his saliva.

Right at that moment...

"Richard."

The voice came from behind his left shoulder. The tone carried the old gentleman's signature unhurried cadence.

"Have you adjusted the shutter on this camera of yours?"

Richard instinctively wanted to open his mouth.

The instant his tongue pressed upward, the grain of salt lodged beneath it poked into his flesh.

The sharp edge didn't hurt, but like a fine needle, it instantly pierced through his mindless urge to answer, jolting him awake.

Richard clamped his mouth shut, a layer of cold sweat breaking out across his back.

He had almost answered.

When someone familiar spoke to you, answering was truly an uncontrollable instinct.

Out of the corner of his eye, Richard glanced to the left.

Mr. Hutton was standing to his front-left. His lips hadn't moved, and he hadn't even cast a glance in his direction.

Richard swallowed his saliva. His mouth was so salty and dry that his throat was beginning to turn numb.

He quietly pulled his gaze back and looked toward the front of the iron cage once more.

[Perception] Lv.2 proved its worth at this exact moment.

Even without activating Spirit Vision, he could sense that the ether flow around the entire iron cage was twisting in a way he had never seen before.

It was like some kind of "tentacle" probing upward from the depths of the shaft walls.

As those "tentacles" reached the vicinity of the cage, they first lightly brushed against the breathing rhythm of every person inside.

Following each person's exhalations, it reverse-engineered the exact vibrations of their larynx, and from those vibrations, reconstructed that specific person's voice.

Finally, it wove that voice into a sentence that would be the hardest to refuse.

The iron cage dropped another twenty feet.

"Kid."

This time, the voice came from his back-right. The familiar, greasy tone belonged to Old Biggs.

"Did your hand just shake? Don't be so scared on your first trip down... Come on, repeat the rules from earlier."

Richard ignored it. He was mentally prepared this time.

He didn't open his mouth, only shooting a sidelong glance to his back-right.

Old Biggs stood there, carrying his small wooden chest of inscription tools.

He faced the exact front of the cage, his jaw locked tight and his lips completely still.

At that very moment, Old Biggs's eyes also darted toward Richard.

As their gazes met, the old coroner raised his left index finger loosely to his lips.

Richard understood.

Old Biggs had heard it too. He had heard that sentence that didn't belong to him.

But he didn't say a word.

Because he knew that this was exactly the response the thing in the shaft was hoping for.

Having someone else prove it for you: I wasn't the one who just said that.

If anyone inside the iron cage so much as opened their mouth regarding that sentence...

Even if it was to deny it, the thing in the shaft would follow that sentence and pry open a gap.

Therefore, the best countermeasure was to act as if they hadn't heard a thing.

Richard clenched his fingers tightly inside his jacket pocket.

He gripped the small pinch of coarse salt so hard it nearly left indentations in his skin.

The iron cage dropped another twenty feet.

The voices grew more frequent.

"Richard," Ms. Maud's voice drifted from his front-right.

"Your hands are so sweaty. Do you want to wipe them?"

"Richard," Mr. Spence's voice came from his back-left.

"There's something stuck to the back of your neck."

"Richard," the tall, thin leader of Group Two called out from the edge of the cage.

"Your camera strap is about to snap."

Richard's mouth was completely numb, the grain of salt nearly completely dissolved.

The iron cage descended another stretch.

"Richard."

This time, the voice drifted up from directly beneath the iron cage.

It was Mrs. MacNeil's voice.

The Medium wasn't in the cage; she was in Group One and had reached the bottom long ago.

Yet this "Richard" sounded as if she were pressed right against his ear, whispering it softly.

"The grain of salt under your tongue—is it just about dissolved?"

"Change it. There's more in your inner pocket."