As the battle chant's final, defiant syllable dissolved into the heavy air—thick with blood, decay, and churned earth—a profound silence descended, broken only by the ringing in Steven Miske's ears.
He had to concede: the primitive ritual these Stone Age survivors had performed possessed a raw, imposing power. For a fleeting moment, that final roar had almost stirred something within him, a surge akin to… righteous fury? Then reality, cold and unforgiving, crashed back in. He was a contemporary weakling, unarmed, practically naked save for a few strategically failing leaves, his metaphorical stamina bar blinking red on empty.
He remained slumped in the bloody muck, surveying the grim tableau: shattered hut frames resembling the gnawed ribcages of colossal beasts; crude weapons—if sharpened stones lashed to sticks even qualified—scattered like fallen teeth. The air itself was an assault: the coppery tang of blood, the foul reek of spilled viscera, overlaid with a bizarrely pungent undertone… like reptile musk laced with fermented tropical fruit.
The survivors moved like ghosts amidst the carnage, faces masks of shock, grief, and numb endurance, clinging to the courage injected by that final, desperate shout. They were already tending wounds or… processing the spoils of war. Yes, spoils. The Paoxiao carcasses—those horrors with human faces and goat bodies—lay in grotesque repose, already being assessed as the tribe's next few meals.
Steven watched, stomach churning anew, as several tribal women began dismembering one with expressionless efficiency, stone flakes flashing like practiced butcher's knives. Gods, these things are nightmare fuel incarnate, and this tribe treats them like walking protein rations? Their will to survive is terrifyingly absolute.
He noticed Mason, the volatile young warrior who'd saved him, unusually quiet now. He squatted to one side, meticulously scraping a rough whetstone against the edge of his gore-streaked stone axe, greenish ichor—monster blood, Steven desperately hoped—still dripping from it. His concentration was absolute, as if performing a sacred rite.
Nearby, Xuanyuan Hao, the calm young leader, directed the other survivors, his voice low but carrying undeniable authority as they dealt with the grim aftermath. Steven watched him move, a locus of order in the spreading chaos. What's this guy's deal? he couldn't help wondering. He doesn't look much older than me. How does he command brutes like Mason?
"Here… we cannot stay," Xuanyuan Hao's voice cut through the low sounds of grief, clear and decisive.
Cecil's synthesized voice, a small mercy, echoed in Steven's mind: "Local language analysis: 'This location is compromised; relocation is necessary.' Environmental risk assessment: High. Significant blood scent will attract apex predators and necrophages. Camp defensive integrity: Null. Decision to relocate is tactically sound."
"No kidding, Sherlock!" Steven retorted weakly in his thoughts. "Did our 'newbie protection grace period' just expire?"
"Negative, Sir," Cecil replied with perfect seriousness. "No 'grace period' mechanism detected. Survival probability remains a function of real-time threat assessment versus individual adaptive capacity."
Useless, as ever. Steven watched the tribe mobilize with practiced, grim efficiency.
The wounded were carefully loaded onto makeshift stretchers woven from thick vines and enormous, platter-like leaves. He struggled painfully to his feet, every joint a chorus of protest. No one offered help; no one even glanced his way. Expected. He stumbled after the departing group, forcing his aching legs onward, trying desperately to keep their receding figures in sight. Becoming a conveniently packaged protein snack for whatever else lurked in this primordial hellscape was not on his agenda.
The journey that followed shattered Steven's previous definition of "difficult." Leaving the blood-soaked clearing, they plunged into the oppressive, viridian depths of the primeval forest. If the camp area had been the tutorial fringe, this was the uncharted DLC where developers forgot to include paths.
Underfoot lay a thick carpet of damp, slippery humus, treacherous and sometimes giving way to suck at his calves. Massive, gnarled tree roots coiled across the ground like dormant earth pythons, perfectly placed to trip the unwary. The air was thick, hot, and saturated; breathing felt like inhaling warm soup.
"These damned leaf-shoes are actively worse than going barefoot!" Steven fumed silently, dodging another thorny vine that snagged his makeshift garment. "Where's the standard transmigrator's starter kit? Boots, at least! This difficulty setting is unbalanced; the devs are sadists!"
The flora was utterly alien, actively menacing. Tree ferns soared like prehistoric parasols. Vines as thick as firehoses, studded with wicked thorns, snaked between trunks that possessed an unsettling metallic sheen, their bark etched with intricate patterns resembling organic circuit boards, emitting a faint, sharp scent of ozone.
"Cecil, did we phase into Pandora?"
"Database match negative, Sir. Multiple plant structures exhibit significant deviation from known Terran classifications. Detecting weak bio-electric fields. Recommend avoiding direct physical contact."
"Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious!" Steven gingerly skirted weeds sprouting unsettling purple, pulsating nodes. Fist-sized, neon-carapaced beetles droned past. Dragonfly-like insects with crystalline wings and needle-sharp ovipositors hovered. Sharp hisses echoed from the canopy; vividly colored, feather-crested snakes slithered above. Once, a vast shadow swept overhead—an immense bird with metallic feathers, bringing to mind terrifying descriptions of a 'Chī' from his corrupted database. Definitely not Avatar. This is Jurassic Park meets Alien, cranked up to nightmare difficulty!
The tribespeople, however, navigated this hazardous wonderland with ingrained familiarity. Xuanyuan Hao led, reading unseen signs, guiding with economical hand signals. Mason flanked, hefting his axe and Paoxiao haunch. Their trajectory was fixed: a vast, imposing mountain range on the hazy horizon, its slopes a deep, ancient green-blue, radiating an almost palpable aura of immense age, power, and sacred stillness.
"What mountain range is that?" Steven panted to Cecil.
"Analyzing… Preliminary hypothesis suggests target destination may be geographically analogous to the 'Kunlun Mountains' prominent within the Huaxia mythological framework… Abode of a Hundred Gods… Lower Capital of the Celestial Emperor…"
Kunlun Mountains?! Steven nearly choked. Home of immortals, magic peaches, the Queen Mother of the West?! Are we here for a divine meet-and-greet? Or are we the damn takeout order?!
This terrifying speculation gnawed at him as they scrambled over slick hills, forded sulfurous streams, and traversed silent forests where trees seemed carved from luminous white jade. Day bled into night and back into gloomy twilight. Finally, as Steven contemplated attempting photosynthesis for energy, they halted at the base of a colossal cliff face, soaring into swirling mists, a sheer wall of desolate, blue-black rock, as if a god's axe had cleaved the world. Thick moss clung to it, and immense, gnarled vines snaked down from unseen heights.
Set into this cliff was a cave entrance of epic proportions—less cave, more natural, awe-inspiring portal. It arched dozens of meters high and stretched nearly a hundred wide, a void of absolute darkness, radiating a palpable chill. Flanking it stood titanic, twisted stone pillars, vaguely resembling coiled, ancient dragons, their surfaces covered in faint, almost obliterated carvings.
"Whoa…" Steven breathed, craning his neck back, feeling utterly insignificant. Did we just stumble upon Moria? Or a one-way ticket to hell?
The tribe members, however, showed unmistakable relief. This was their "Sacred Cave"—a sanctuary deep within the Kunlun Mountains. Xuanyuan Hao gestured, and the tribe filed in. Mason shot Steven a threatening glare, jerking his axe towards the entrance. Taking a deep breath of the cave's dank, complex odor (and instantly regretting it), Steven reluctantly followed into the profound darkness.
The shift was instantaneous, jarring. First, plummeting temperature; goosebumps erupted. Then, light vanished utterly, leaving a thick, cloying blackness. The jungle's cacophony ceased, replaced by an unnerving silence broken only by the amplified echo of dripping water and their own ragged breathing reverberating within a vast, unseen space.
Aided by the NeuraSync's struggling low-light enhancement, Steven discerned a colossal natural cavern. The vaulted ceiling soared into absolute darkness. Walls were a chaotic landscape of bizarre stalactites, massive columns, and flowstone curtains. Strange mineral veins—jade-green, blood-red—sparkled with inner light in deeper recesses. From those fissures came faint echoes – grinding stone, or the sigh of some immense, slumbering entity. The air was a suffocating cocktail: cold stone, damp earth, the ammonia of sweat and waste, and the coppery scent of stale blood from Paoxiao carcasses being dragged further inside.
"Cecil… estimate the size?"
"Primary chamber estimated: approximately three hundred meters length, one hundred fifty meters width, average ceiling height exceeding fifty meters… Air circulation severely limited."
The tribe gathered on a raised stone floor, the wounded sheltered, others huddling against the penetrating cold. Elders and children disappeared into the core of the human cluster. Watching the mass shiver, a horrifying realization struck Steven with physical force: in this entire immense cavern… there was not one single spark of fire. No bonfire. No torches. Not even a smoldering ember. Absolute, profound darkness, broken only by the ghostly luminescence of strange mosses or fungi on distant walls.
"No… No fire?" Steven whispered, frozen. This felt more devastating than the monsters, the violence. "They… live like this? Without fire? How do they survive? Eat?"
Dinner arrived: chunks of bloody, raw Paoxiao meat and scoops of viscous, suspiciously colored root paste. Steven's stomach clenched. "No… I actually… I can't…"
Just then, a figure approached: Tina, the girl from the clearing. Simple hide tunic, bone pin in her tangled dark hair, dust smudging clear features, her curious eyes startlingly bright. She tilted her head, regarded Steven, pointed at his untouched food, then to her own mouth, wrinkling her nose slightly: Yeah, this stuff is pretty bad.
Reaching into her leather pouch, she drew out a small handful of fresh, deep purple berries. She placed them carefully before him, offering a small, tentative, but undeniably friendly smile.
Steven stared. The second unprompted act of kindness since landing in this hell dimension? Both from her? This directness… so… primitive…
She pointed to her chest, repeating the same clear, crisp syllables as before.
"Cecil? Translation?"
"Received… Syllable pattern analysis yields potential match: 'Tī… nà'…" Cecil's voice flickered, laden with static but smoother. "Hypothesis: Phonetic sequence likely corresponds to individual designation 'Tīnà'. Confidence level: 68%."
Tīnà… Steven looked from the berries to her bright, expectant eyes. A tiny flicker of warmth ignited in his frozen despair. A genuine glimmer of light? Or just the beginning of a whole new set of complications?