In a few hours time, Pxan was exhausted. He couldn’t feel pain nor hunger but he could feel his sore muscles and bones. He had tried to climb the same exact section for over thirty times by now. If he had his instruments, his modern metallic instruments that passing would have been easy, a rope here, a few metals hangers and he would have transformed that into a cakewalk. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any of those instruments. “how did people in ancient times even survive?” food was nowhere to be found, even if he wasn’t hungry the taste of some good food on his tongue would have been a blessing there.

After a few exhausting tries, he decided to have had enough. He sat near the little river near the temple and watched the little wooden branches passing by, the water bringing them God knows where under a small rock. Probably it was an underground cave that connected somewhere else, he didn’t know. What he knew was that the passage was too small for him, barely a few centimetres wide. In short: there was one way and it was up.

If he would have ever left that forbidden and forgotten place it wouldn’t be using willpower and burning himself in a day, he would have to get systematic. In a few minutes, he formulated a raw sketch of his routine: he would wake up from his rest, do a bit of stretching and walk in the temple to make his muscles ready and afterwards he would begin climbing. After 20-30 tries he would rest and look at his route and his possible optimizations. When he couldn’t take it anymore he would start making some tools for tomorrow. Afterwards, he would lie on the yellow-orange grass and rest until he wasn’t fresh and ready.

The first few days were a disaster. His muscles were pushed to the limit and couldn’t recover well with that bit of rest. He had to stay on the ground for what felt like days before he was sure of his physical conditions. In this time he began gathering materials for future tools and ropes. This time he learned the lesson and tested the ropes before using them. Many broke, a few resisted.

The climbing was the easiest and most straightforward path, he had individuated a route that looked safe and easy. By his calculations, he would be out of there in...a month probably. He just had to keep going and everything would go fine.

…

His mind begun to wander to far lands and dreams, his imagination had changed together with his vision. He didn’t dream or sleep it was something else entirely, something that kept him sane during this dark period. His body had changed, the reflection on the water reflected lines much bigger and stranger, his hands had become stronger, his legs more agile, his head more resistant.

How much time had passed he didn’t know, he had seen anything in the temple time and time again. He had constructed a small hut where he would rest and understood now deeply how to handcraft things.

Still, the route was hell. Any time that he would delude himself with having arrived he would encounter something else. Fragile rocks that made the climb impossible, plants so sharp to penetrate the skin and broke cords, strange steam that comes out of the walls. There was always something else to stop him.

Some days he didn’t attempt the climb and instead stood there watching the river course and his reflection in it. He had forgotten how his normal vision was, how his world was. Solitude was driving him mad. The only thing that kept him sane, paradoxically, was the voices in his head. He had never heard them clearly before, now it was different. Now they insulted him and spoke to him as an enemy. Stressful at it was talking to those voices kept him sane.

He had to get out of that hole