Chapter 23: The Coldest Sanctuary

For a long time, nobody moves. The silence is a heavy, wet blanket that suffocates us, broken only by the rush of the black river past our feet and the ragged, desperate panting of five people who should be dead.

We are huddled on a small, dry stone ledge, a tiny island of stability in a world of filth and death. The air is thick with the stench of the ghouls, the river, and our own sweat. We are all covered in a sheen of indescribable slime, a cold, second skin that clings to our clothes and hair like a parasite. My own silver hair is matted, heavy, and smells like a wet grave.

Hachiro is the first to break the silence. He is sitting up, staring at his hands, which are wrapped in the filthy, soaked remnants of his shirt. The bravado he usually wears like armor is gone, replaced by a quiet, trembling shock.

"I think my knuckles are blistered", he says. His voice is small, childlike, and lacks its usual resonance. "Is that normal? For demonic acid burns?"

Erima crawls over to him. Her movements are stiff with exhaustion and the biting cold that permeates this deep place. She pulls one of his hands into the faint grey light filtering through the storm grate far above. The light is weak, barely illuminating the horror of his injuries.

"You are lucky you have hands left at all, you idiot", she says. "You grabbed it".

Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. It is the voice of someone running on pure, functional adrenaline, shutting down her feelings to perform a task.

"I had to", Hachiro protests weakly. "It was tickling Yogawa. It was undignified".

"You are an imbecile", Yogawa groans from where he is slumped against the wall. He is shivering violently, a full-body tremor that seems to shake him to his very core. His face is a pale, sickly green in the gloom, and he clutches his chest as if trying to keep his heart from freezing. "A noble imbecile, but still an imbecile".

Erima sighs. It is a sound of pure exhaustion, a white plume of breath fogging in the frigid air. She pulls a small, sealed med-kit from a pouch on her belt. It is clean. Impossibly, beautifully clean compared to the muck covering everything else.

"How is that clean?" I ask. My teeth are chattering so hard the words are difficult to form. The adrenaline from the injector is gone, leaving a hollow, empty void in its wake. The cold is all that is left, a creeping ice that feels like it is starting from my bones and spreading outward to my skin.

"I am a professional, Mizuki", Erima says, snapping the seal. "I keep my medical supplies waterproofed. And separate from everything else".

She tears open a packet of sterile, antiseptic wipes. The sudden, sharp smell of alcohol is a bizarre violation in this world of decay. It is a clean, clinical scent that has no business being here. It is almost painful to smell.

"This is going to hurt", she warns, hovering over Hachiro's hand.

"Wait, hurt? More than melting?" Hachiro asks, his eyes widening.

"Yes. Hold still".

Hachiro screams. It is a raw, agonizing sound that echoes in the small, damp space, dwarfing the sound of the rushing river.

"GAAAAAAH! MOTHER OF A DRAGON'S TOOTH! IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"

"I told you", Erima snaps, holding his wrist in an iron grip. "Stop wiggling. You want to get a sewer infection? Do you know what that entails? It involves amputation".

"IS IT WORSE THAN THIS?!" Hachiro yells, tears streaming down his face.

"Yes. Significantly".

Erima works with a grim, practiced efficiency that I find myself envying. Her hands are steady, her focus absolute. She cleans Hachiro's weeping, burned hands, her expression unchanging as he cries. Actual tears of pain and misery roll down his filth-streaked face, cutting tracks through the slime. He does not pull away again. When she is done, she wraps them in thick, white bandages, turning his ruined fists into useless, white clubs. The med-kit is almost empty.

She sits back on her heels, her shoulders slumping for just a second before she forcefully straightens them again.

"Status", she says, looking around the circle. "Everyone".

The silence stretches, heavy and cold. Kizawa is staring into the black river, his back to us. He is a rigid silhouette, still holding his one remaining sword as if it is the only thing holding him upright. He is vibrating with tension.

"Kizawa", Erima repeats. "Status".

He does not turn. His voice is a low, flat monotone, a machine reporting its damage.

"Ribs are cracked", he says. "Maybe broken. Left arm is sprained. My shoulder is weak. I am down one blade. I am operational".

"You are not operational", I whisper, the words barely audible over my chattering teeth. "You can barely stand".

"I am standing", he says, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Kizawa, look at me", I say.

He turns. Slowly. And the cold I feel in my bones is nothing compared to the ice in his eyes. His face is a mask of pure, cold fury. It is not directed at the ghouls, or at Yogawa for his idiotic light-show. It is directed at me. I flinch, a tiny, involuntary movement that feels like a massive betrayal.

"You engaged", he says. "You jumped in. After I told you to stay back".

"You were losing", I argue, trying to put strength into my voice. "He was on you".

"It was my fight", he says. "My calculation. You interfered. You emptied yourself again, did you not?"

"I had to", I say. "You were slow".

"I was drawing them in", Kizawa says. "I had a plan. A plan that did not involve you collapsing mid-fight".

"Your plan was failing", I shoot back. "You are hurt".

"And you are reckless", he snaps, taking a step toward me. "You are a liability, Mizuki. You are the glass cannon we all have to protect".

"I am NOT GLASS!" I scream, the word tearing from my throat, echoing in the small, damp space. "I killed it! I helped! Stop treating me like I am a child!"

"THEN STOP ACTING LIKE ONE!"

He roars, and the force of it shatters his composure. He coughs, a deep, wet, agonizing sound, and clutches his side, his face going pale. He doubles over, gasping for air. Silence falls again. Awful, heavy, cold silence. The only sound is the rushing water, indifferent to our pain. Kizawa hates me. He does not just disagree with me. He hates me. He sees me as a burden. And the worst part is, after the battle with the General, after the drain, I fear he is right.

Hachiro looks between us, his usual grin completely gone. He looks like a child watching his parents fight.

"Guys, come on", Hachiro says weakly. "We are alive. That is good, right? Team unity and all that?"

"Shut up, Hachiro", Erima says. Her voice is flat. She turns her gaze to me. It is not angry. It is assessing. Cold.

"Mizuki. Your status. Honestly".

I look away from Kizawa's burning, accusing stare. I look at my hands. They are shaking, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that I cannot suppress.

"I am empty", I admit, my voice small. "The adrenaline shot is gone. I feel cold. Colder than the water. Inside. My bones feel like ice".

Erima nods, her expression unreadable in the gloom. "And Yogawa?"

"I am useless", the magician whispers. He is hugging his grimoire to his chest like a teddy bear, a pathetic attempt at comfort. "I am worse than useless. I am a beacon for monsters. I cannot cast. I cannot even make a light. I am done".

"No, you are not done", Hachiro says, his voice surprisingly firm, even through the pain. "You are resting. Big difference. You are our magic guy. We need you. So, you get to mope for ten more minutes, and then you have to suck it up. Okay?"

Yogawa just stares at him, baffled by the genuine, if clumsy, encouragement.

Erima stands up, every movement stiff and pained. She walks to the edge of the rushing river and peers into the darkness, as if she can see what awaits us. She is calculating our odds, and I know they are not good.

"So. Summary. Hachiro has no hands. Yogawa has no magic. Kizawa is broken. And Mizuki is an ice cube. And I am almost out of arrows and bandages".

She looks up at the storm grate, a tiny patch of grey in a world of black. The light is weak. It could be dawn. It could be dusk. We have no way of knowing how long we have been down here.

"This sanctuary is a joke", Erima says. "We cannot stay here. The ghouls are stupid, but something else will come".

"Come from where?" I ask, my voice a croak.

"From there". She points up the tunnel we came from, back toward the chamber of horrors. "Or from there". She points down the river, into the oppressive, rushing black. "We are in their home. We are trespassing in their toilet. They will notice".

"So what do we do?" Hachiro asks, his voice small. "We cannot go back up to the city. The web is there. The Spinner King is looking for us".

"We cannot fight", Kizawa says, his voice still rigid with anger, but now also laced with grim pragmatism. He has recovered his breath. "Not like this. We need a real sanctuary. We need time".

"Exactly", Erima nods. "So, we go deeper".

She points downriver, into the pitch-black tunnel the water is rushing into. The darkness seems to drink the faint grey light.

"You are insane", Yogawa whispers, his eyes wide with terror. "We do not know what is down there! It could be a waterfall! It could be a grinder! It could be the ghoul King's mouth!"

"It is also the only way out", Erima says calmly. "The current is strong. It is moving away from the chamber we just left. That means it is moving away from the cluster of demons. We follow the water. Water always finds a way out".

"I still cannot swim!" Hachiro protests, holding up his bandaged hands. "And now I cannot even paddle!"

"You will not have to", Erima says.

She turns back to her pack, which she had unslung onto the ledge. She pulls something from it. A long, thin, coiled nylon rope. And a small, black, vacuum-sealed bundle. We stare as she unwraps it. It is a small, inflatable raft.

"You have got to be kidding me", Yogawa says, his voice filled with a strange, hysterical awe.

"I told you", Erima says, pulling the inflation tab. A loud, sharp hissing sound fills the air as the raft expands, taking shape. "I am a professional. I pack for every contingency. Including filthy sewer rivers".

The raft is small. It will maybe fit three people, if they are friendly. It looks black and sturdy, and right now, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

"Okay", she says, all business. "Plan. Yogawa, you are cargo. You sit in the middle. Hachiro, you sit behind him. Mizuki, in front. Kizawa and I will be in the water. We guide it. We kick. We are the steering. The current will do most of the work".

Kizawa nods, his anger momentarily eclipsed by respect for her sheer, insane preparedness. "It is sound".

"I do not want to sit in the poopy-raft", Hachiro mutters, his last spark of defiance.

"You are sitting in the poopy-raft, Hachiro, or we are leaving you here with the ghouls", Erima says, not even looking at him.

"The poopy-raft it is".

She ties the nylon rope around the raft's front handle, then loops the other end around her waist.

"This is for me and Kizawa", she says. "We hold on. We do not get separated in the dark. Understood?"

We all nod. It is a grim, silent agreement.

"Good", she says. "Load up. We leave in two minutes".

Hachiro helps a shivering, unresisting Yogawa into the raft. I slide in after, my entire body aching with cold and exhaustion. The silence from Kizawa is deafening, a physical presence in the raft. He hates me. He thinks I am weak. Maybe he is right.

He and Erima slide back into the freezing, black water without a word. Kizawa grunts in pain as the cold hits his cracked ribs, but his face remains a mask of stone. Erima hands him the end of the rope.

"Ready?" Erima asks.

"No", Yogawa whimpers.

"Go", Erima commands.

Erima pushes us off the ledge. The current catches us instantly, a powerful, invisible hand that yanks us from our tiny sanctuary. We are plunged back into total darkness. We are moving fast. The only sound is the rush of water, echoing loud and hollow, and the faint, rhythmic splashing of Erima and Kizawa kicking beside us.

"This is terrifying!" Hachiro yells, his voice instantly swallowed by the dark.

"Be quiet and listen!" Erima hisses back.

We listen. Drip drip drip. The rush of the water dominates the soundscape. And something else. A low, deep hum. A vibration. I can feel it through the thin skin of the raft, a thrumming in my bones that is not from the cold. It is coming from ahead of us.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"I do not know", Kizawa's voice says. It is a low growl right next to my ear. His proximity is a strange mixture of comfort and tension.

"It feels like machinery", Erima mutters. "Or power".

"Or death", Yogawa groans.

The raft picks up speed. The tunnel is getting narrower. The sound of the water becomes louder. The hum becomes more intense. We are not escaping. We are being pulled somewhere. And no one is screaming. We are too tired to scream. We just hold on tight to the raft and plunge deeper into the dark, toward a new, unknown, and terrible sound.

"Brace yourselves", Kizawa shouts over the rising noise.

I grip the rubber sides of the raft until my knuckles turn white. The air grows colder, if that is even possible. The smell changes. The rot fades and is replaced by a metallic scent. It smells like old copper and rust.

"Do you see that?" Erima asks.

"See what?" Yogawa whimpers. He refuses to open his eyes.

"Light", she says. "Faint light ahead".

I squint into the gloom. There is a glow. It is not the blue of Yogawa's magic or the green of the ghouls. It is a dull, throbbing red. It pulses in time with the humming vibration.

"It looks like a heartbeat", Hachiro says.

"A mechanical heart", I whisper.

The current sweeps us around a bend in the tunnel. The view opens up. We are no longer in a sewer pipe. We have entered a massive, cylindrical shaft. The water pours out of the tunnel mouth and falls.

"Waterfall", Kizawa shouts.

We go over the edge.

It is not a steep drop. It is a slide. A long, smooth chute of polished stone that spirals down into the red-lit depths. The raft spins. I feel sick. The walls of the shaft blur past us. They are lined with pipes and gears. Massive, rusting machinery that seems to be part of the earth itself.

"We are in the works", Yogawa yells. He has opened his eyes and is staring in horror at the ancient technology. "This is pre-human. This is Titan-work".

"Focus on not dying", Erima yells back.

She and Kizawa are fighting the current. They kick against the walls of the chute and steer the raft away from the jagged edges. They are a team. A unit. I feel useless sitting in the middle.

The slide levels out. We splash into a large reservoir. The water here is calm, but it is black as ink. The red light comes from vents in the ceiling high above.

We drift toward a metal dock. It is rusted and ancient, but it looks solid.

"Land", Hachiro says. "Please let there be land".

Kizawa and Erima guide us to the dock. They haul themselves out of the water. They look like drowned rats. They pull the raft in and tie it to a rusted cleat.

We climb out. My legs are shaky. The ground feels strange after the motion of the water.

"Where are we?" I ask.

I look around. The reservoir is surrounded by high walls of metal and stone. Massive pipes feed into it from all sides. In the center of the room is a huge, silent machine. It looks like a pump.

"We are deep", Yogawa says. "Deeper than the subway. Deeper than the sewers".

"We are in the machine room", Erima says. "This must be what powers the old city above".

"It is dead", Kizawa says. He walks over to the machine. He touches the cold metal. "It has been dead for a long time".

"Not everything is dead", Hachiro says. He points to the corner of the room.

There is a pile of bones. Fresh bones. They are picked clean.

"Something eats here", Hachiro says.

"We need to move", Kizawa says. He draws his sword. "Find a way out. Up. Or down. Anywhere but here".

We gather our meager supplies. We are cold. We are wet. We are lost in the belly of a dead machine. But we are alive. And as long as we are alive, we can fight.

I look at Kizawa. He catches my eye. For a second, the anger is gone. There is just exhaustion and a shared resolve.

"Let's go", he says.

We walk into the red shadows.