The darkness was not merely an absence of light; it was an oppressive, ancient presence. James could still hear the frantic, shouted curses of the men searching the scroll chamber outside, their frustration a welcome sound. But he knew they wouldn't take long to find the seam of the hidden door.
He fumbled in the interior breast pocket of his tweed jacket—a jacket custom-tailored for espionage and occasional impromptu hikes—and retrieved a small, silver-cased, emergency LED torch. A gentleman, he always maintained, should be able to see his way around a poor lighting situation.
He clicked it on. The beam was a narrow, intense white column that cut through the gloom.
The tunnel was rough-hewn, not crafted, but carved out of the solid rock foundation beneath the temple. The walls were uneven, lined with damp, cold stone, and coated in a thin layer of crystalline moss. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling, echoing off the floor.
James moved, crouching low, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt the microchip—tucked inside the caddy—clunk softly against his chest with every step.
After perhaps fifty yards, the tunnel began to descend steeply. It twisted and turned, and then, the situation went from a simple escape route to a navigational nightmare. The tunnel branched.
One path went left, descending further. Another went right, running parallel to the ground. A third, almost vertical shaft disappeared straight down into a black abyss.
James stopped, his boot skidding on a slick patch of algae. A labyrinth, he realized with a sinking feeling. He shone his torch beam around, trying to find any clue—a modern marking, a discarded bottle, anything to indicate a direction. Nothing. Just seamless, silent stone.
Left, right, or down? The thought of the vertical drop was immediately discarded. That left two options. He pressed his ear against the damp stone of the right-hand tunnel. Nothing but the rushing sound of his own blood.
He sat for a moment, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He thought of Mei, fighting upstairs. He needed to get out, secure the chip, and find a way to extract her.
He knew nothing about this temple's blueprints. He had no compass. In a moment of pure, desperate British practicality, James discarded the complex spy logic and reverted to simple comfort:
"The exit," he muttered, the sound swallowed by the tunnel, "must lead somewhere warm and relatively dry. A place a gentleman could emerge without becoming unduly waterlogged."
He chose the tunnel that had the least amount of standing water on the floor—the right-hand path, which seemed to be subtly rising. It was a choice based on personal preference and the faint hope that the temple's architects valued dry exits as much as he did.
He started moving again, his pace a cautious, steady shuffle, constantly listening for the telltale sounds of pursuit.