"I'll take point with the horse. Sorcerer, you're in the middle on the horse. Garth, bring up the rear."
At the canyon's base, countless cave mouths dotted the landscape. Su Ming chose a spacious one and assigned roles.
The terrain was likely shaped by worms. Initially solid rock, their burrowing caused cave ceilings to erode and collapse over time, prompting deeper digging.
Layer upon layer of collapse formed the terraced, cliff-like canyon. The ground was littered with crushed, eggshell-like rock fragments.
The rock layers' stability was uncertain—one wrong step could break through a cave roof.
Su Ming brought the Pegasus because its hearing far surpassed humans'. Horses could detect vibrations up to 1025 Hz, roughly an eighth note, with rotating ears acting like directional receivers.
In the winding tunnels, hearing was the key to perception. Sealed passages carried sound far, aiding both alerts and tracking.
Stranglehold had a hearing weakness. Symbiotes' senses were lackluster, pained by loud or specific frequencies, relying heavily on their host's organs.
Su Ming once told his cousin that super soldiers had super hearing—true, compared to normal humans. Deathstroke's hearing was solid.
But compared to someone like Daredevil, who specialized in auditory perception, it was nothing.
The Pegasus was a living sonar device. If retreat was needed, the Sorcerer and Garth could ride it for a swift escape.
"Why does every mission with you involve crawling underground?" Monarch grumbled, mounting the horse as the yellow sky gave way to rock walls, darkness swallowing them. He conjured a glowing orb above his head for light, gesturing with magical finesse.
The question stumped Su Ming. He had no real answer—it was just coincidence that his targets always lurked below. "Because I'm Deathstroke," he said.
He understood Batman's plight now—some things didn't need explaining.
Monarch, hearing the non-answer, shrugged helplessly and stroked the Pegasus's mane.
He'd noticed warriors loved underground ops—Deathstroke, Captain America, Balder. Did tunnels really offer that much tactical advantage?
Before he could ponder further, the first tunnel problem arose.
They hit a fork in a massive underground chamber, large enough for a worm to turn. Caves branched in every direction—up, down, sideways—with no clue which led to Balder.
Without Balder's possessions or body parts, Monarch's tracking magic was useless. It was up to Deathstroke's call.
"Stranglehold, check for scents."
In the dim light, a black liquid mass emerged from his shoulder, like a dark tumor.
The mass flowed across his body, sniffing the walls and cave mouths, then swayed side to side, as if shaking its head.
Aside from their group, it detected no scents. The tunnels were dry, and near the entrance, airflow dispersed any odors.
"Little Eight, hear anything?"
The Pegasus's comprehension was limited, but its calm demeanor suggested no disturbances nearby.
Su Ming pulled out a lighter, pausing at each cave mouth for a few seconds.
"Using airflow to judge entrances?" Monarch leaned down, watching the flame.
With over twenty openings, airflow was too complex. Earth-based tricks wouldn't work here.
Su Ming shook his head, his focus not on the flame but the ground.
He could guess how worms dug—lacking limbs, they used their massive mouths. Tracking them was tough.
The tunnel system wasn't just worms and Balder. Tentacle creatures roamed here too.
Like their creator, these monsters were chaotic, fighting among themselves, leaving traces.
Logically, Balder—armed only with stone axes or spears—wouldn't hunt thirty-meter worms. He'd target human-sized tentacle monsters.
If Su Ming were in Balder's shoes, he'd choose the easier prey. With pursuers on his tail, quick fights were best.
Octopus-like creatures were easier to stomach than worms. Thanks to Hammer's "cuisine," Su Ming had tasted tentacles.
As soft-bodied creatures, they left mysterious mucus trails, whether crawling or dragged.
Close-range firelight could reveal the reflective sheen of dried mucus, helping Su Ming locate areas dense with tentacle monsters—and possibly Balder.
It was only a possibility.
Finding someone in a plane was like a needle in a haystack. If Balder wasn't found in hours, Su Ming would cut losses, return to the Golden Palace, and devise another plan.
Time was critical.
Finding Belasco's demon army would narrow the search. Balder had evaded them for centuries; they were the experts.
These armies, hunting underground, shared Balder's food source: tentacle creatures.
In this Elder God-shaped world, the ecosystem was simple—everything ate everything else.
Tentacle monsters were eaten by demons, who could be eaten by stronger tentacles. All were apex predators.
Su Ming remained optimistic. Finding Balder's traces or the army's would enable tracking.
Several caves bore mucus trails. No need to overthink—pick a downward one.
"Ugh," Monarch, perched on the horse, spat acid to the side, unable to hold it in. "What are these things?"
An hour later, deep underground, they'd found a tentacle monster nest.
A vast cavern teemed with writhing, indescribable creatures, like tangled seaweed, slithering with slug-like bodies.
Su Ming couldn't answer. These beings defied description—you could liken them to something, but naming them was impossible.
Native to the Elder Gods' outer dimensions, they manifested here like the world's pustules, revolting to any sane mind.
"If you've got trypophobia, you should've said so earlier. We've been spotted," Su Ming said, drawing his greatsword and charging the horde.
The monsters moved slowly, but their tentacles struck fast. His sword spun like a windmill, barely deflecting the onslaught.
Severed tentacles flew like sushi rolls, green and purple ichor spraying, as the silent horde surged endlessly.
His tactical visor's scans returned only question marks—science couldn't parse these creatures. But there was an old method: taste them.
Balder survived, so they were likely edible, though probably foul.
"Stranglehold, eat a piece."
As he swung his sword, Su Ming mentally commanded Stranglehold, hoping it could analyze the monsters' makeup. The alien liquid symbiote resembled these creatures; it might understand them better.
Stranglehold, wrestling tentacles with its own, sprouted a gaping maw at its tip, biting into a foe.
Juices splattered, interrupting Monarch's casting. He vomited again, but Garth and the Pegasus shielded him, keeping enemies at bay.
Stranglehold's emotions fed back to Su Ming's brain, signals racing along his spine.
Its verdict: delicious.
These tentacle monsters might be unfit for humans, but for symbiotes, they surpassed snacks like spicy strips or instant noodles.
Su Ming nodded slightly. Symbiotes' taste differed from humans'.
Bred as a warrior race, they lacked taste buds. Food was broken down cellularly. If it boosted their power or energy, it was "tasty."
If it didn't, it was trash.
The only food both humans and symbiotes agreed on was chocolate—humans loved its sweetness, symbiotes craved its neurotransmitters, enhancing host bonds.
Brains, however, didn't work. Symbiotes needed fresh ones for neurotransmitters; humans preferred cooked pig brains.
Stranglehold was thrilled. Devouring these indescribable monsters boosted some aspect of its power. Since they were here, Su Ming let it feast.
Sheathing his greatsword, he switched to dual daggers. His cloak lifted him to a mid-air hover, mowing down monsters like a reaper cutting leeks. Stranglehold extended tendrils, shoveling "meat chunks" into its countless maws.