Chapter Three: The Tunnel

Qu Hanchen was thus more inclined to believe that “Number One Prisoner” was merely a designation, much like the title of Warden. When the previous Number One Prisoner in this dungeon died, naturally, a new Number One would take their place. Although there were logical inconsistencies upon closer scrutiny, Qu Hanchen nonetheless preferred this quietly deduced explanation of his own. As long as there was a reason, there was no need to probe into matters that, upon deep contemplation, inspired terror.

“Then how did I end up imprisoned here?” The man pondered for a moment before turning to Qu Hanchen once more with the question.

“How else would someone end up as a prisoner? Break the law and you’ll be locked up. But to be sent to a place like this, the crime must be grave, the conduct truly heinous. For instance, upstairs, there’s someone who was brought here for slaughtering an entire village, and then wiping out to the last man the patrol sent to apprehend him. He was escorted into this prison for that.” As Qu Hanchen spoke, his voice carried a note of anger. Even now, in this place, that man showed no remorse; the guards assigned to watch him had already been replaced four times, with the first three dying “unnatural deaths” for various reasons.

“Hanchen, don’t answer too many of his questions,” Old He urged from outside the cell, making it clear that both he and Tang Feihong hadn’t gone far, but lingered outside waiting for Qu Hanchen to come out.

“Even though you haven’t done anything particularly dangerous to me these past years, as Number One you must have committed a crime far worse. But what sort of crime would merit being sent here, and becoming the Number One Prisoner? Did you perhaps assassinate the Emperor? No, that can’t be—anyone guilty of such a thing would be beheaded on the spot, their family exterminated, not left to live on like this.” Qu Hanchen scratched his head and muttered as he walked out and closed the cell door behind him, casting a curious glance back at the man inside.

The man still gazed at him in silence. His black pupils were like bottomless abysses—not frightening, but rather evoking a peculiar urge to explore their depths. Almost unconsciously, Qu Hanchen found himself staring deeper and longer into those eyes, his steps unconsciously drawing him closer, his own thoughts slowly becoming lost.

“Hanchen!” A sudden shout, sharp as thunder, exploded by Qu Hanchen’s ear, dragging his mind back from a fog of darkness. Blurred light crept into his vision, and then Old He’s stern, aged face appeared before him.

“You’ve told him more than enough,” Old He said solemnly, casting a wary glance at the pale man standing in the middle of the cell. With a slight bow, he took Qu Hanchen by the arm and hurried him quickly away.

“Old He, I really didn’t tell him anything,” Qu Hanchen protested, frustrated by Old He’s severe, almost admonishing attitude. He pulled away Old He’s hand, a little annoyed. In all the years since he’d started working at Bizhen Prison, he’d been nothing if not conscientious. He and Tang Feihong were assigned to guard Bilu—the most dangerous dungeon in Bizhen Prison—and he had never once slipped up. Of course, there was hardly room for error.

“Hanchen, since you entered the cell, I’ve already changed my torch twice. But your torch went out ages ago,” Tang Feihong reminded him quietly, standing in the dim, chill corridor, the flickering torchlight reflecting his slightly apprehensive face.

“It’s already been half an hour? That can’t be right; I don’t remember that much time passing,” Qu Hanchen said, surprised, glancing down at his left hand. Sure enough, as Tang Feihong had said, his torch had long since burned out. Their torches were made by soaking sticks and wrapping the ends in oil-soaked cloth, each burning for about a quarter of an hour—just enough time to deliver the prisoners’ meals.

“Never underestimate the prisoners down here. Don’t forget how those empty cells in Bilu came to be,” Old He warned sternly again.

“Who knows if those stories are true. All I know is, the prisoners upstairs are much more dangerous than the ones down here,” Qu Hanchen retorted with a cold laugh, even though he knew Old He had a point.

Seeing Qu Hanchen’s stubbornness, Old He simply sighed, shook his head, and, without another word, started up the winding, shadowy stair that led out of the dungeon.

“He means well. Come on, let’s not linger here,” Tang Feihong said quietly, glancing at Qu Hanchen.

“I know he means well, but his tone is just terrible,” Qu Hanchen muttered, but he never took such things to heart for long. He soon accepted the spare torch Tang Feihong handed him and hurried after Old He. It was too dark here—he had no wish for the old man to fall on the stairs and end up having to carry him out.

Inside the cell, the man known as Number One Prisoner listened in silence as the footsteps receded down the corridor. Not a word of their conversation outside escaped his ears.

This dungeon was called Bilu. There were cells above too, holding other prisoners. But in this particular dungeon, there were only three inmates: aside from himself, there was an old man and a woman.

The old man was Number Sixty-One, the woman Number One Hundred Seventy-Seven. He was Number One. The woman had been brought in recently, so perhaps the prisoner numbers were assigned by order of arrival. Or perhaps they followed the sequence of the cells. How long had he been imprisoned here? The guards seemed afraid of him—a guard armed with a blade, afraid of an unarmed prisoner—an entirely illogical situation. Could it be he had some background he was unaware of?

As for what he had learned from the guard just now, there wasn’t much useful information—most of it pertained to the guard himself. For example, three years ago, he had fled to Sangyu Island and taken a job as an ordinary prison guard in order to escape a mountain of gambling debts and pay them off.

The man frowned slightly. From the scattered fragments of information he’d gathered since waking, it was difficult to piece together any coherent thread that might lead him to his true past.

And today’s events, it seemed, were not yet over.

He turned his head to look at the pile of straw in the corner that served as his crude bed. The darkness did nothing to hinder his vision. He had no intention of criticizing the squalid conditions, but rather, he had heard a faint, slithering sound beneath the floor, as though something was creeping up from below, like worms burrowing upwards.

Thud, thud, thud.

Three crisp knocks echoed from the floor, then silence returned to the cell.

Time had no meaning in this pitch-black cell; he had no idea how long he waited, until once more he heard the shuffling sound of the floor being moved and the faint rustle of straw.

Suddenly, the movement stopped. Then came the frantic sound of something wriggling away at a terrifying speed, escaping deeper into the earth.

Did it see me?

He raised his eyes and looked at the straw, speculating as he walked over. Bending down, he brushed the straw aside and saw clearly a narrow, pitch-dark tunnel. The tunnel walls were uneven, bits of dirt and stone scattered about, clearly not an old passage. Damp air seeped from within.

He reached out and touched the soil near the tunnel’s mouth, glanced at the displaced black floor tile beside him, and after a moment’s silent thought, he too leapt into the dark tunnel whose destination was unknown.