Pain.
The suffocation from his blocked airway dragged on endlessly.
But death never came.
In desperation, Takakai summoned the scalpel Obsession again, focusing through the agony.
If this entity's power prevented fatal wounds from killing him, then his only option was to destroy his brain—to sever consciousness itself.
"Ugh… ah…!"
With immense effort, he angled the scalpel toward his forehead.
Then let it drop.
Thunk.
The blade pierced his skull effortlessly, driven by the entity's power. The scalpel's extended attack range meant that while only a small wound appeared on his forehead, the blade had completely punctured his brain, exiting through the back of his skull. He could even feel fluid leaking out.
Compared to suffocation, the pain was negligible.
But—
He still didn't die.
The entity's power granted him grotesque immortality. Even with a hole through his head, he remained painfully conscious.
What kind of sick joke is this?!
Unable to speak through the blood clogging his throat, Takakai switched tactics. He summoned a second scalpel, aiming for his arm.
If he couldn't die, he'd cut himself free.
But his upper arms were wedged too tightly in the rock. His forearms had barely 3–4 cm of wiggle room, only enough to saw weakly at his elbow. After several attempts, he realized he could only shave off shallow layers of flesh—not enough to escape.
Still, the scalpel was razor-sharp. If he dropped it just right, maybe it could slice deep enough to free his arm?
A last-ditch plan. If this failed, he'd be out of options.
The blood scissors? No—their range was worse, and losing a hand would only make things harder.
No more hesitation.
The scalpel's power might fade if he waited too long.
"Hah… ngh…!"
Through the suffocating haze, Takakai adjusted the blade's angle. Even in total darkness, he estimated the position and—
Let it fall.
Slick.
The scalpel carved a chunk of flesh from his arm.
Good. Now I should be able to—
Still stuck.
Takakai froze. He tried moving his arm again.
No change.
The rock had shifted, narrowing imperceptibly to keep him trapped, his self-mutilation rendered meaningless.
And so he remained.
Wounded.
Suffocating.
Unable to die.
Don't give up. Don't give up.
He repeated it like a mantra.
1 hour. 5 hours. 24 hours…
Time lost meaning in the absolute dark.
What felt like years passed in that suffocating crevice, every second a fresh torment. His mind frayed under the unrelenting agony.
36 hours. 48 hours. 72 hours…
Hunger and thirst became unbearable.
His throat was a desert, the blood from his severed tongue long dried. The choking pain had faded, replaced by a burning rawness, as if his entire body were on fire.
His temperature spiked.
Every cell screamed.
His pulse raced.
Dizziness mounted—but now, he couldn't even pass out.
The intestines seemed to contract incessantly, producing violent spasms from the lack of sustenance.
"Ugh… ah…"
Unable to move.
Still completely immobilized.
In the pitch-black world, Takakai could only lie trapped, forced to endure this excruciating agony.
Drip—
Another viscous droplet fell onto Takakai's head.
This was the only sound he could hear here besides his own. But now, consumed by torment, Takakai could no longer pay it any heed.
Day 10, Day 12, Day 15…
Delirious, Takakai couldn't tell how long he'd been trapped here.
His thoughts slowed, his ability to reason deteriorating.
Again and again, he tried to escape—attempting suicide, struggling to break free from this endless darkness.
Nothing changed.
He remained imprisoned, sealed within the void.
"Ugh…"
Drip—
The dripping water mingled with his labored breathing.
What… else… can I do…?
His mind fraying, Takakai strained to look upward through the darkness.
At the silent, motionless corpse suspended above him.
He didn't know if this would help, but with his lucid moments dwindling, he had to try something.
Reaching out.
He gripped the thing's face, then seized its hair.
After a deep breath, he yanked with all his strength—and actually managed to drag it downward a few centimeters before it jammed in place, as stuck as he was.
His fingers brushed its hand.
It seemed to have been reaching forward, now wedged against the rock wall. In his frantic groping, Takakai tore something loose from its finger.
A… ring?
A hazy memory surfaced.
Andrés.
Yes—this man's name was Andrés.
A cheerful newlywed whose wife, Hédā'ěr, had just discovered her pregnancy. To celebrate, the family rejoiced, and Andrés decided to visit Nutty Putty Cave, a nearby attraction.
Andrés, an amateur spelunker with an exploration license, knew Nutty Putty Cave was beginner-friendly and thoroughly mapped. He invited two friends, and after registering their expedition and confirming their gear with park staff, the trio descended through the "Great Slide" into the cave's depths.
They rode the pulley elevator down the "Great Cliff" to the lowest level, entering the cave's narrowest section: the Veins, a passage averaging under 45cm in height and width. For experts, crawling through it was trivial, but amateurs found it daunting.
The Veins included a fork leading to the Dead End, a vertical drop too narrow even for children. Warning signs marked the danger, but Andrés, relying on outdated memories, missed them.
At 2 PM, they entered the cave. By 4 PM, they reached the Veins.
In Native American lore, Nutty Putty Cave symbolized a deity's body: youths proved their courage by traversing the Veins, reaching the Arteries, and finally the Heart. Andrés' group aimed to reach the Heart as their "rite of passage."
Progress was smooth initially.
But at the fork, Andrés chose wrong.
He entered the Dead End, mistaking its slightly wider chamber for the "Cowards' Turnback" from legends. Excited, he pressed onward.
The warning sign was gone.
The tunnel narrowed.
Unable to turn around, Andrés accelerated blindly.
Then—a vertical drop.
He slid headfirst, jammed upside-down.
His friends heard his cries. Rescuers arrived by 7 PM, led by Susan, a volunteer spelunker.
"Hello, Andrés. I'm Susan. How do you feel?"
"Please… get me out…"
Susan tried securing ropes to his legs, but fatigue forced her to retreat by 9 PM.
By midnight, over 10 hours inverted, Andrés wept, clutching his wedding ring.
His wife, Hédā'ěr, waited outside.
Rescuers debated: oiling the rocks, explosives, drills. All failed.
At 4 AM, a pulley system lifted Andrés slightly—until his legs caught.
"Cut his legs off!"
"No—he'll bleed out!"
Andrés' mind unraveled.
A new voice: "Hi, I'm Howard Smith. Call me Howard."
"Hello…"