As I looked closer, I saw markings like "S-23" and "H*" painted in white on a few pieces of shattered metal.

These were clearly the markings of some standardized, numbered machine.

Or rather, these characters usually appeared on ships or aircraft, designating the identification numbers of those vehicles.

Indeed, amidst the scattered debris, I located something resembling half of an anchor.

It took considerable effort to wrench this piece free from the wreckage.

And there it was: a half-crushed, deformed anchor.

It bore the inscription "1000T." Though severely rusted, I could still make out that it belonged to a thousand-ton cargo vessel.

The surrounding shards of iron and wood must have been the remains of that freighter.

I continued to search through the remnants, uncovering things like table legs, lumps of coal, and personal effects such as broken watches and rings worn by the crew. Naturally, there were also pieces of cutlery and some rags of old clothing.

I found no human remains, but I understood why now. The piles of human bones I had seen earlier in the passageway—which had puzzled me greatly—finally had an explanation.

Finding nothing else of value, I moved on.

Not far ahead, I saw the nose section of an aircraft, resting silently on the ground.

Intrigued, I approached it.

The nose was heavily damaged; its exterior was riddled with pockmarks and holes, as if it had been riddled with machine-gun fire.

The windscreen was completely shattered, and the metal plating was twisted and warped.

The entire structure was beyond recognition due to heavy corrosion.

Yet, I could still clearly read a row of characters written on it: SU-0970.

I knew this aircraft must be a Soviet military plane; SU was the abbreviation for the Soviet Union.

During the war, the Soviet Air Force had supplied China with many fighter jets, all bearing SU serial numbers. Later, they were repainted, becoming Chinese aircraft.

But the pilots in those planes were still Soviet men with sharp noses and large eyes.

I had seen this type of aircraft at a military exhibition in Beijing, and my maternal grandfather had lived through that war, so I was quite familiar with them.

Having identified the plane, I squeezed through the buckled cockpit door to examine the interior layout, hoping to find some clue as to the circumstances that led to its fall into this place.

Frankly, for a plane or even a large freighter to pass through layers of earth and end up in this space was unnatural.

There were no passages connecting this place to the outside world; nothing here could leave, and nothing from the outside could enter.

Not even a fly could have gotten in here, let alone massive machinery like aircraft or cannons.

Unless these vehicles, like me, had passed through some dimensional shift, they couldn't simply appear in this subterranean depth.

Suddenly, I recalled those bizarre disappearances at sea.

Ships vanished inexplicably in calm weather. Airplanes would suffer sudden instrument failures over certain zones, plunge into the ocean, and never be found again.

Could the ships and planes here be victims of those very same mysterious incidents?

As this thought struck me, I realized I had overlooked something crucial: I was currently beneath an island.

After walking so far, taking so many turns, and descending so deep, it was possible my location was no longer under the island, but in some strange, submerged realm beneath the seabed.

Here lay missing vessels and crashed planes—perhaps the answers to many unsolved mysteries resided here.

The one thing I hadn't anticipated was that these disappearances might be connected to the Yakyar people.

Not only might the missing planes and ships be linked to the Yakyar, but perhaps even these bronze cauldrons and the stone effigies used for their rituals were crafted by Yakyar ancestors.

As for why they created such objects, that was precisely what I needed to investigate on this journey.

Although this crashed plane might not hold any information directly related to the Yakyar—perhaps it had simply arrived here by chance—I meticulously searched every corner of the wreckage.

Regrettably, most of the contents of the cockpit had been ejected during the crash; little remained but an empty frame.

Disappointed, I prepared to exit when my gaze caught sight of something gleaming—a bright silver chain dangling and swaying slightly directly above the pilot’s seat.

I approached and rummaged around, finding indeed a silver chain resting in a small storage compartment above the pilot’s seat. The chain was caught on the deformed bottom edge of the compartment, with only the lower section hanging down.

I lit my lighter and carefully pulled the chain out, taking great pains not to damage it.

It then became clear this was no decorative necklace. Hanging from the bottom of the silver chain was a circular object.

Picking it up, I saw it was a silver pocket watch.

I wiped the grime from its surface and flipped the cover open.

With a distinct click, the mechanism, evidently still nimble, sprang open.

The hands of the watch were stopped.

Although this type of old watch wouldn't record the date, I could see the time was fixed at two in the afternoon—likely the moment the crash occurred.

Inside the opened cover of the watch, a black-and-white photograph was affixed.

In movies, photographs inside pocket watches usually depict the pilot with his wife.

But the watch in my hand was different; the photo showed two young men together.

Both were handsome, with light-colored hair, sharp chins, and deep eyes—the quintessential look of young Soviet men.

However, the face of the young man on the right was half-obscured by water stains that had seeped into the watch casing, making him unclear.

Even with only half a face visible, the man seemed vaguely familiar, especially those deep, intelligent eyes; I felt I had seen them somewhere before.

I racked my brain but couldn't place him—perhaps an actor from some foreign film?

There were no other inscriptions on the photograph, so I gave up trying to remember and tucked the watch away for later, closer study.

With the discovery of the watch, there was nothing else of value left in the cockpit.

I glanced around one last time and decided to leave.

But then, another item captured my attention.

It was an old canvas satchel hanging behind the main pilot's seat.

Because the seat itself had long since disintegrated, the canvas bag had merged with the tattered remains, which is why I hadn't noticed it earlier.

I noticed it now because upon entering the cockpit, I had smelled a faint scent of alcohol but couldn't locate the source.

As I was about to exit, I suddenly remembered scenes from films where Soviet Air Force pilots kept a bottle of high-proof vodka hanging behind their seats during flights.

Perhaps because Russians are inherently fond of drink, or perhaps because alcohol carried some auspicious symbolism, they always carried it.

This was never seen in China, as alcohol is flammable and could easily become a bomb inside an aircraft.

This was cultural difference; no wonder Russians fought with a ferocity that made many Chinese armies seem timid, taking on Hitler’s tanks with knives.

Regardless of whether the Chinese Air Force allowed liquor on board, for me, alcohol was now a valuable commodity.

It could disinfect, start a fire, and, crucially, bolster courage.

In this perilous underground world, the greatest fear is loneliness, and alcohol is a person's best companion.

With this thought, I took two steps forward and pulled the canvas bag free.

Opening the bag, I found the contents: more than half a bottle of vodka remained.

I brought it to my nose; the pungent aroma was intoxicatingly inviting.

But it wasn't the time for drinking. I carefully secured it in my backpack and headed out of the cockpit.