The Evolution Of A Goblin To The Peak

Chapter 1190: Underground

A blinding, needle-sharp flash tore across the world—then the earth erupted.

BOOOOM!!

The explosion hit like a divine hammer. Eztein and Esriel didn’t just sense their barriers breaking—they felt them rip apart, layer after layer, until the last one burst in a violent shock that rattled their bones. They were hurled backward, boots scraping against fractured ground as the shockwave screamed past.

Before them, the land buckled inward. Soil, stone, and shattered roots folded like wet paper as a monstrous blast hollowed out the earth. A mushroom of smoke and dust roared upward, swirling with burning debris and crackling arcs of raw lightning. Clumps of scorched flesh, remains of whatever creatures had once guarded this place, were flung into the air like smoldering embers.

The stench hit next—burnt fur, charred meat, and ozone thick enough to coat the tongue.

”Whoever set this trap is out of their mind!” Eztein yelled, his voice hoarse as he shielded his face from falling debris.

Esriel grimaced. The earlier lightning bolts had been strong enough to peel apart their reinforced barriers. Anything below the Seventh Shackle Realm wouldn’t just die—they’d be obliterated, bones turned to dust before they ever hit the ground.

Doranjan stared at the fruit in his hand. The sinister tug like invisible claws trying to rip it away had vanished. Gone without a trace.

”So that’s why nothing was guarding this fruit...” he whispered. ”They didn’t retreat. They didn’t hide.”

He looked toward the crater—its edges smoking, its depths glowing with molten earth. Bits of blackened limbs and twisted armor were fused into the ground like grotesque decorations.

”They were blown apart the moment they got near it.”

A gust of hot wind rolled past, carrying ash and fragments of burnt remains. Doranjan tightened his grip on the fruit, his eyes darkening.

”Every last one of them.”

The runes encircling the plant were wrong—violently wrong. Carved deep into the earth, they writhed with faint, pulsing light, as if alive beneath the soil. Each symbol felt like an eye staring back, whispering of ancient hands that had chiseled them in blood and fury. Whatever being had placed them here didn’t merely want to protect the fruit, they wanted to make sure nothing that entered this place ever left.

”Wait! Look!” Esriel cried, her voice sharp with alarm.

Doranjan and Eztein turned as the smoke parted like curtains being pulled aside. Beneath it, the landscape had been erased. The pond, the ground, the roots—everything had vanished, replaced by a monstrous wound in the earth. A pit. A chasm. A hole so deep it looked like the planet itself had been punched through.

No bottom. No water. No hint of what waited below—just pure, devouring black.

They locked eyes. No words were needed.

Whoosh!!

Doranjan and Eztein surged forward, plunging toward the edge before diving straight into the pit.

”Wait! You’re actually going down there?!” Esriel shouted, her voice cracking as she reached out helplessly.

”Yeah. If you don’t want to, then stay up there,” Eztein’s voice echoed faintly from the darkness—distant, already swallowed.

Esriel’s heart pounded. Every instinct screamed to stay behind. But being alone beside that gaping maw felt worse.

She dove in after them.

Swoosh!!

The pit accepted them without echo.

The further they descended, the more the air changed. It thickened. Grew colder. The draft rising from below wasn’t just cold—it was wet, brushing against their skin like the breath of something sleeping in the dark. A metallic stench wafted upward, sharp enough to sting the nose, the smell of rust soaked in rot. Old blood. Damp stone. Forgotten graves.

Their lights dimmed as though smothered by invisible hands. Even their senses dulled, swallowed by the oppressive black pressing against them from all sides.

After a long descent, the darkness finally shifted like a veil peeling away and the three landed on solid ground at the bottom of the abyss.

Eztein looked straight up into the suffocating void.

”I’d say we’re roughly two kilometers below the surface.”

Esriel followed his gaze, but there was nothing to see. No faint glow. No hint of the world above. The pale fog that had choked the surface refused to descend this far, and with its absence came a strange clarity—like their senses were no longer being strangled.

Doranjan exhaled, his breath visible in the cold.

”There’s a volcano on this island, yet here we are... inside a frozen cavern beneath it. This realm is a mess—concepts, laws, all mixed and twisted together. I can’t even explain the fog anymore.”

”I have a feeling we’re about to find out,” Eztein murmured as he stepped forward.

Doranjan followed. Esriel hesitated only a heartbeat before moving with them.

They entered a narrow passage swallowed in darkness. With every step, the chill deepened, sinking into their bones. The walls on either side were etched with runes—shallow, ancient, and pulsing faintly like dying embers. Each symbol glimmered with the soft glow of fireflies, casting wavering shadows along the rough stone.

”The energy down here is getting thicker,” Eztein said quietly. ”And the ice element... its concentration is rising fast.”

Their footsteps echoed through the tight corridor—slow, steady, the only sound in a world that felt long dead.

Then the path opened.

The three stepped out of the passage and froze.

A vast chamber sprawled before them—an underground landscape forged by contradictions. Rivers of magma had once flowed here, but every molten stream was now solidified mid-wave, frozen into jagged crimson sculptures. Frost crackled across their surfaces, pulling the temperature below zero. Their breaths came out in pale clouds.

Above them, countless crystals clung to the cavern ceiling, glowing softly like a sky full of cold stars. Their light washed across the chamber, revealing a sight far more disturbing.

Cracks in space itself.

Dozens of them—thin, jagged rents scattered across the ground and walls. Each one flickered with distorted colors, humming faintly as if calling to something beyond the veil.

”Twenty...” Doranjan whispered. ”At least twenty spatial fractures.”

The air around the cracks warped, bending light in unnatural ways, each one a silent wound in reality.

”What a magnificent place...” Eztein breathed, his voice echoing slightly as he inhaled the dense, electric energy saturating the air.

Doranjan and Esriel nodded, their eyes sweeping across the frozen landscape.

They slowly walked forward, taking in the chamber with growing awe and unease. The spatial cracks scattered across the cavern pulsed irregularly, as though the very fabric of reality were fraying. The three of them instinctively understood: one focused attack from a Seventh Shackle Realm expert could cause those fractures to spread—possibly tearing the entire underground region apart.

Their gazes shifted to the frozen magma. It still flowed—moved—yet remained perfectly solid, each wave locked mid-surge. It was as if time and temperature had been confused by the twisted laws of this realm, trapping molten fire in an eternal moment of stasis.

Above them, crystal shards drifted freely through the air, suspended as though gravity had simply stopped caring. The fragments shimmered softly as they passed, leaving faint trails of frost or light, each with a different hue, each one humming with muted energy.

As they ventured deeper, the scenery changed.

Ahead of them, two rows of towering statues lined a pathway leading toward a grand platform. The statues stood in silent formation—regal, ancient, and carved with stunning detail. Their expressions were serene yet solemn, and each one radiated a faint, cold pressure that made the air tingle against the skin.

Four even larger statues stood around the platform at the end—each distinct, each exuding an aura so heavy that even the frozen air felt denser near them.

Esriel approached the nearest statue. She lifted her hand and brushed her palm across its surface. The stone was icy—not just cold, but unnaturally so, a chill that seeped into her fingertips like something trying to crawl under her skin.

”There’s... something inside it,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes as the cold energy pulsed faintly through her touch.

The chamber was silent.

Too silent.

Almost as if the statues were listening.

”These... these are statues of angels and fallen angels,” Esriel whispered, her fingers tracing the cold stone. Her gaze drifted upward to the four colossal figures surrounding the platform—towering guardians carved with such precision they seemed seconds away from waking.

Their presence dwarfed the others. Each radiated a different kind of pressure, silent yet oppressive, as if ancient wills lingered within the stone.

While Esriel studied them, Doranjan glanced at Eztein and then casually tossed the fruit toward him.

”Here.”

Eztein caught it with a soft smack of impact, blinking in surprise. ”You don’t want it?”

”Of course I want it,” Doranjan replied with a small snort. ”But you need it more right now. Consume it. The next treasure we find—that one’s mine.”

Eztein stared at him for a moment before a faint smile tugged at his lips.

”If you say so... then I won’t hold back.”

He looked down at the fruit cradled in his palm, its surface glowing faintly under the crystal lights above.