I explored the dark cave and found myself stumbling in the darkness once again. To the sides, I saw the dusty remains of some dungeon or otherwise prison — perhaps a castle that, through the passage of centuries, had become sunken under centuries of piling earth or a cataclysmic event that made the earth come alive and swallow it whole, leading to the subsequent imprisonment of all those who resided here.

  I touched the cast-iron torch stands, gray and viscous, covered in tar or some other sticky substance, and I felt the stones that poked from the sides of the cave: artificial, cut stone, not bricks, but more like tiles.

  I continued to walk and stumbled upon a massive, worm-eaten door of old oak wood, forlorn for God only knows how long. I tried to open it, but instead, it rotted to my touch, and I ended up burrowing my way, one fistful of soggy, rotten wood at a time.

  Inside, what I could surmise were old pieces of furniture (chairs and tables) welcomed me. I took advantage of the occasion and thanked the heavens that the castle was buried deep enough that it remained unafflicted by the rain outside, grabbing some of the wooden fragments, putting some dried moss on the tip, and lighting it, making an improvised torch to see my surroundings.

  As I walked, dust fell from the ceiling. I advanced past the cobweb-covered furniture and moved through long hallways of a collapsed fortress. I opened different doors, and most led to empty rooms with only a bunk bed, which I assumed was an improvised barrack. Each step echoed through the chambers. A dark essence enveloped the whole place, not just penumbra – rather, a shadow of something bigger.

  At the end of the hallway, I found a kitchen that was neatly tiled but seemed like it had been hastily converted from what was likely an armory or utility room. I rummaged through the cupboards, searching for something edible, but had no luck. I found it quirky that this kitchen had no refrigerator, making me wonder how people in this fortress kept their food fresh.

  It was situated in the middle of the sea, so the possibility of fishermen and hunters was there, but it was unlikely due to the slight irregularity that would starve the whole garrison.

  The possibility of daily drop-offs was there, but that would indicate this was a very important position, regularly handing reports to royalty. Still, it didn't explain why there wasn't a stock room in case a storm prevented new food from arriving.

  I continued to explore, heading upstairs, reluctantly, after my past experiences.

  I was welcomed by collapsed hallways, buried under ancient debris, and a single room much more elegant than those downstairs. I suppose it belonged to some kind of commander or important person within the fortress. What kind of enemy were they fighting? I'd heard that many fortresses were built to deter pirates, and being in the midst of the sea, I reckon that's the most logical conclusion.

  I dug through the drawers and a chest at the foot of the bed, finding little of use. There were thick candles; I promptly lit one, getting rid of my makeshift torch made from broken furniture. I also found some soldiers' logs, too crumbly and mossy to read. Not that I would've been able to decipher decades-old handwriting in the dim candlelight anyway.

  I lay on the bed for a few moments, resting my injured body. The bed was silky and comfortable, not as good as the house in the meadows, but it had the advantage of not being located in the hunting grounds of a blood-drinking supernatural entity.

  I shifted uncomfortably, looking at the many shadow-wreathed crooks and nooks. Better not think about it; if some manner of ghoul were to jump at me and try to devour my entrails, I'd take notice soon enough.

  My back felt a bit better after a few moments' rest, but my leg kept pulsating. I lifted my pants to examine the injury, and while it didn't look infected, it seemed swollen. I remembered having seen many action movies where the main character, usually fatally or gravely injured, would cauterize their injury with black powder or a red-hot knife.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The character would then be perfectly fine after a silent wince and continue to fight for the remainder of the movie, though it was possible that off-camera, the character had to be hospitalized for weeks to recover from their injuries.

  I remembered trying to imitate these overly masculine characters doing things like eating raw eggs, drinking protein shakes, and chewing tobacco (which I spat out quickly, disgusted by its bitterness).

  Once, I had cut my finger – a papercut, nothing to brag about. Then, the genius idea came to mind as I couldn't stop the bleeding because that's just how fingertips are. I burned my injury shut with a knife I'd left on the stove fire for two whole minutes. My mom heard me screaming and bandaged me; the papercut had turned into a first-degree burn, blisters, and even got infected after a few days.

  Lesson learned: Sometimes cauterization can do more harm than good. Granted, at the moment I received this injury, the alternative was far worse, so it was a blessing that the inferno had at least sealed my wound. However, further care would be necessary to prevent further complications. I didn't want to become the next wooden-legged pirate spirit haunting the abandoned fortress.

  At least the grass cuts had disappeared. Perhaps works of the water?

  I steeled myself, knowing it was time to descend. I took a step, then another, but slipped on the degraded cobble and rolled all the way to the bottom floor. I waited a few moments to recover, my head throbbing terribly. Great, another injury to tend to.

  I stood up, dusting myself off, and lit another candle since the previous one had broken and scattered across the floor. As I analyzed my surroundings, I noticed iron bars, several inches thick, to my left and right. The insides of the holding cells were littered with manacles and chainballs. This was no ordinary prison; it seemed like a clandestine torture center. At this point, I was pretty sure that this place was much, much older than I originally thought. Centuries old, perhaps.

  I could imagine pirates or the king's enemies tied to the ceiling, whipped, and brutalized. The iron tips of medieval instruments dug into their backs, and sadistic guards aimed to deepen the injuries. I envisioned candlelight reflecting off bloodstains and pools on the prisoners' feet, darkened by coagulation.

  The sadist would release the prisoner, exhausted and unable to fight back, kick them, beat them, and chain them to the floor, explaining the presence of chainballs alongside manacles and hanging shackles. Then, they'd use other instruments I dared not imagine.

  As I searched for clues, I found an open cell, confirming my suspicions. A torturer's toolkit lay before me: a collection of sharp and blunt instruments designed to inflict maximum pain – clawed forks, broad-tipped knives, spiked bracelets, toe-crushers, and nail-rippers. I shuddered at the thought of other, even more sinister instruments.

  Before the image of the pear of anguish, which lay on the table in three sizes, could probe and tear in my mind, I concentrated on finding something useful in the room. I was fantastically tired of being defenseless, but the torture tools were designed to afflict immobile victims, not living, menacing ones. I imagined myself wielding a broad-tipped, dull knife against the horrors this place threw at me and shook my head. Time to move on.

  I found a door that led even deeper into the ground. Being twice and thrice as careful not to trip, I made my way to the bottom. I wondered if the place was going to suddenly change into ancient crypts or an Indian mausoleum plagued with vampires and other corpse-eating abominations.

  I was starting to get the gist of this place. There was a setting, apparently random and disconnected from the rest, then you'd dive deeper. If you were unfortunate enough to cross paths with one of the place's residents, you'd flee in terror, take a seemingly random door, and suddenly shift area. You could end up anywhere – a house could give way to a cave, a train to a cliff, a pond directly connected to the sea, and raging acid storms might be a localized phenomenon.

  Now that I was delving deeper into the fortress, it was about time for the place to shift. I prepared for impact as I continued to forge deeper, yet no matter how many minutes I descended, nothing changed. I sighed and decided to double back. Better to cut my losses at ten minutes in the infinite staircase and not have to go uphill for two hours because I was too stubborn to know when to give up.

  It wasn't even a minute before I found myself back in the dungeon. I was baffled. Was there some hidden device that turned the staircase into a treadmill? I scoffed.

  Just what I needed – some fitness torture.

  I looked inside the cells, half-expecting to find something different in them. A feeling of unease washed over me. They were all the same.