Lysander dejectedly returned to his place in the cave after the offer by— Huh, he didn't offer his name. It seemed that searching for information would be futile for now.
The person most likely to have valuable information at this moment was the golden-haired boy, who also hadn't given his name. Lysander sensed that the boy might possess data he could gather.
Or at least he had hinted he had some, Lys thought, and is willing to trade them for food.
Although he now knew a method to gain information, he had nothing to offer in return. His best chance of survival was to make it through the next few days and find a way to land a blow on Crazy.
He planned to take his food portion and trade half of it to the golden-haired boy in exchange for the information he needed. With that advantage, he would devise a plan to either survive or escape from this situation.
That's the plan at least, Lysander thought to himself as he slumped down beside a stalagmite, his hands clutching his stomach. The hunger was persistent and palpable, finally setting in after several hours of constant motion. This feeling was intensified by the fact that Crazy had somehow removed his pain suppression as a result of his transmigration.
He could now sense the acolytes' reluctance to move around or engage in any specific activities. This was only his first day here, and Lys needed to find a way to avoid starving while waiting the next three days to seek out Crazy and obtain his food portion.
—No, rather, I'd have to find a way not to starve and, at the same time, with enough energy to fight the Crazy dude. Lysander thought. He understood that not only would he feel hunger, but thirst as well if he continued to do nothing. It seemed clear that he would soon need to find a source of clean water for the long term.
He noticed that other groups of acolytes were already leaving and returning with water in a coordinated manner. It appeared there were water sources available, and some groups had already started to monopolize them. It made sense that multiple water sources would exist, especially since they were in a cave.
Lysander decided that he would search for a water source of his own. He didn't want to rely too heavily on the other acolytes' spring, especially since it didn't seem to be freely accessible.
Although he might eventually have to depend on them, he intended to do his best to find his own source first.
Resting his entire body on the ground, he leaned against a vertical stalagmite that jutted out from the cave floor. Though it wasn't the most comfortable resting place, it allowed him to ease the soreness in his muscles while maintaining a comprehensive view of the other acolytes, all gathered around the center of the cave opening.
At least the cave is kinda cold, thought Lys, which is rather helpful while recovering from exhaustion. It's like having AC in here.
Through his observation, Lysander noted that the space around him was inhabited by several categorized groups of people. One group he identified were the Hunters, akin to the golden-haired boy.
They were food-winners — naturally athletic individuals who remained physically fit even before being kidnapped by the organization that controlled everything.
Understandably, they tended to be a paranoid bunch and were usually in their mid-twenties to thirties, unlike the golden-haired boy.
Another group was the Wayfinders, who actively explored the cave systems surrounding them. The supervisors never opposed their initiatives, so they ventured deeper into the area.
These individuals typically monopolised the water sources and engaged in trade with Hunters to acquire food in exchange for various resources they could harvest from the caves, primarily clean water.
Comprising mostly learned men with knowledge and experience of caves, the Wayfinders surprisingly had the highest mortality rates, contrary to Lysander's initial belief.
It seemed that these groups had specific techniques for survival, and finding one through random chance appeared quite challenging, Lysander thought with a sigh.
Lastly, there were the Artisans — the few and far between — who offered their services by crafting boots and fulfilling various commissions from the leather left behind on the corpses of the deceased.
The rest of the inhabitants were either starving or dead.
What a joyous societal dynamic we are in, Lysander let out a brisk and humorless laugh at the thought. He decided it was enough resting and began to find his own water source now, and perhaps some alternative sources of food as well, as a bonus.
He pushed himself upright slowly, conserving his effort as he stood. The cave tilted for half a second before steadying, and he waited until it did.
Water first, he decided. Always water first.
The moment he stood, his body reminded him of how little it had left. His strength felt hollow, as if it had been scooped out and replaced with air. In contrast, his bones seemed to have transformed into heavy lead when he wasn't looking.
Each step sent a dull ache through his joints — not sharp enough to stop him, but persistent enough to demand his attention.
He began walking away from the well-trodden paths, following the darker edges of the cave where fewer footprints gathered. His steps were measured and deliberate, his eyes scanning the stone for anything that suggested moisture: darker streaks, mineral deposits, faint trickles of sound beneath the cave's hum.
Every movement cost him dearly. He felt the impact immediately, a quiet subtraction from a reserve he could no longer pretend was full. In fact, that reserve had felt empty for a long time, and each step pushed him further into the negative. Still, stopping felt worse.
Hunger was no longer a background sensation; it threaded itself through every thought, tugging his focus downward and narrowing his world into a single, unhelpful question.
WHERE?
His body and mind screamed it, nearly palpable—almost as real as actual voices calling in his ears. It was hard to think.
He followed a narrow fissure between rock walls, squeezing through until the air changed. It became cooler, damper. The further he went, the darker it became.
The cave narrowed in places, forcing him to turn sideways, his shoulder scraping against the damp stone. The air grew heavier and cooler.
He followed faint discolorations on the rock — dark streaks, mineral veins, anything that suggested moisture. Several times, he mistook shadows for openings, only to find dead ends that stole minutes he could not afford.
Time stretched.
For Lysander, it felt infinitely long.
His body was caught in a constant struggle between two states. He was tired and, with who knows how long having passed since entering the cave, increasingly sleepy. Each step he took threatened to send him spiraling into such comfort that he might just collapse.
However, he found an interesting countermeasure: he took the next step immediately, and the sharp, heavy pain shot up his legs, jolting him awake enough to take the next step.
Next step. Pain. Next step. Pain.
Again and again.
For eternity.
His mouth grew dry enough that swallowing became a conscious effort. He stopped once, pressing his palm against the wall to steady himself, and was briefly alarmed by how long it took for his pulse to settle.
Not yet, he thought. Just… not yet.
Then he heard it — a slight trickle, barely perceptible. Dripping.
A slow, patient drip from the ceiling, collecting in a shallow basin worn into the stone by time rather than design.
Without thinking, he knelt, ignoring the sharp protest from his knees, and drank with cupped hands. The water was cold, metallic, and faintly bitter, but it was water. He forced himself to sip instead of gulping, even as his body begged for more.
It was slow and irregular, but Lysander's tired, starving, and now thirsty body didn't mind. He traced the sound until he found a shallow depression in the stone where water had collected drop by drop. It was clear and still.
He hesitated for only a second before cupping his hands and drinking again. The water tasted like stone and iron, but it was cold, it was wet, and it was enough. He drank slowly, forcing himself to stop before nausea could set in.
It helped.
Only just.
The hunger surged in response, as if offended by the reprieve. His head cleared just enough for the hunger to roar louder.
Food. Where?
The voices in his mind asked again. They sounded gentler this time, but still noisy.
He stayed near the damp stone, scanning the shadows more carefully now. Moisture meant life. Lichen clung to the lower walls, pale and thin, and patches of moss grew where the light — if it could be called that — faintly reached from the cave opening.
He scraped some free and ate it without ceremony.
It tasted like slimy cotton balls. It filled nothing.
His stomach cramped almost immediately, angry at the insult.
Not enough. WHERE!?
He tried to keep moving, but his steps grew shorter. His thoughts slowed. Several times, he caught himself staring at nothing, breathing shallowly as if waiting for something to happen on its own.
Nothing did.
Finally, he decided not to turn back. It was not because he had found what he was looking for; water aside, it was because he was no longer certain he could find his way back if he went any further. He would starve off the remaining energy needed to return to the main chamber of the cave anyway.
His hands were trembling. He sat where he had been before, back against the stone, and closed his eyes — not to sleep, but to stop the cave from spinning.
Well— maybe to sleep as well.
Water, he had managed.
Food… not yet.
Three days, he reminded himself, though the number felt unreal. Three days until madness. Three days to avoid collapsing before then.
His stomach twisted again, harder this time, and Lysander pressed his forearm against it, breathing through the sensation.
Somewhere in the dark beyond the cave walls, he hoped something edible existed. And hope was exactly what he needed most now — the hope that he just hadn't found something edible yet, and not that none was there.