The Horns of the Deep

Kael knelt in the dust of the crumbling ruin, the weight of the horn pulling at his arms. It was a beast of a thing—20 pounds, 16 inches wide at its gaping mouth, its surface etched with swirling runes and studded with ten strange buttons. He’d found it half-buried under a shattered altar, glinting like polished obsidian in the torchlight. At first, he thought it a ceremonial relic, a curiosity for his pack. Then he pressed a button.


A jet of cool, pure air blasted his face. He stumbled back, heart racing, and tried another. Water gushed out, clear and cold. A third button spilled rich red wine, staining the stone floor. Kael laughed, a mad edge to it, and spent the next hour testing them all: roasted meat, steaming bread, raw grain, a frigid mist of cryogenic oxygen, searing heat beams, crackling electricity, and a mysterious tenth button that seemed to amplify the rest—electrified water, superheated meat, a sparking loaf of bread. Short presses adjusted the flow—high, medium, low. Ten seconds unlocked the full output. It was a horn of plenty, a myth made real.


Days later, camped in a windswept canyon, Kael cracked its deepest secret. Pressing all ten buttons for ten seconds, ten times in a row—a maddening, finger-cramping ritual—made the horn shudder and split. Two identical copies materialized beside it, humming faintly. He gaped, then tried again with one of the duplicates. Two more appeared, but before he could process it, a third horn shimmered into existence alone, unbidden. Etched on its rim were words: “For the worthy, a tool to conquer the deep.” A chill ran through him. The hollow Earth—whispered in old tales, mocked by scholars—suddenly felt real.


He didn’t waste time. Kael returned to the surface, horns in tow, and spread the word. Adventurers flocked—scientists craving proof, engineers itching to build, survivalists chasing glory. Two hundred strong, they rallied under his promise: a journey to the planet’s core, powered by tools that defied nature. The horns’ endless bounty—air, water, food, energy—made it possible.


The engineers worked fast. Each of the 200 got a suit: lightweight exoskeletons with a horn mag-locked to the back, a flexible tube feeding its output to helmet, reservoirs, or wrist emitters. A control panel strapped to the forearm mirrored the horn’s buttons, wired to actuators for precision. Air flowed into helmets, water filled tanks, wine trickled into morale-boosting sips. Meat and bread extruded into sealed pouches; grain piled up for later planting. Cryogenic oxygen cooled suits in scorching tunnels, while heat beams carved through rock, powered by electricity that never ran dry. The modifier button turned outputs wild—high-pressure water jets to blast stone, electrified grain to zap pests.


They drilled for months, descending hundreds of miles. Heat beams melted basalt; electricity ran the rigs. The horns sustained them—medium-flow meat and bread fed the crew, water quenched their thirst, air kept them breathing as oxygen thinned. Kael’s suit hummed, the horn on his back a comforting weight. At night, he’d detach it, marveling at its gleam under the glow of bioluminescent fungi they’d begun to find.


Then they broke through.


The cavern yawned before them, vast beyond comprehension—jungles of glowing ferns, underground seas shimmering under a ceiling of crystal stalactites. Dinosaurs lumbered through the haze, their roars echoing off walls that stretched miles high. Pterosaurs wheeled overhead; mammoths grazed beside saber-toothed cats. The air was breathable, rich with oxygen. Kael unclipped his horn and planted it in the soil, grinning as his party fanned out, awestruck.


They weren’t alone. The Deepfolk emerged—tall, pale humanoids with eyes like molten gold. Their leader, Zara, spoke in a tongue Kael’s linguist deciphered fast: “You’ve brought our tools home.” The horns, she explained, weren’t magic. Micro-wormholes linked them to reserves across this inner world—geothermal pools, meat vats, grain silos—relocating matter, not creating it. The Deepfolk had seeded them on the surface for millennia, tracking their use through wormhole signatures, waiting for those clever enough to unlock their secrets.


“Why?” Kael asked, clutching his horn.


Zara’s gaze hardened. “The surface burns. A solar flare—yesterday, by your time—scorched it clean. It happens every few million years. This place, the deep, endures. Whoever claims the surface next rebuilds it.”


Kael’s stomach dropped. His home, gone. But here, life thrived—space enough for billions, resources infinite if the horns held. The Deepfolk watched, testing them still. His party adapted fast—grain sown in fertile soil, heat beams shaping shelters from stone, electricity lighting camps. The modifier made miracles: superheated water carved canals, electrified meat baited predators away.


Days later, Zara offered alliance. “Stay, or climb,” she said. “Your horns can sustain either.” Kael duplicated his again—three became six, then twelve—equipping more suits, ensuring survival. His party debated, voices rising in the humid air. Half yearned to reclaim the surface, to seed it anew. Half saw the deep as home, its wonders too vast to leave.


In the end, they split. Kael led a hundred upward, horns blazing paths through melted rock, their suits humming with purpose. The rest stayed, merging with the Deepfolk, their horns planting roots in a world untouched by the sun. As Kael breached the surface—a charred wasteland under a red sky—his glasses pinged, a phantom echo of an old game: “Achievement Unlocked: Trailblazer of Two Worlds.”


He smiled grimly, horn in hand. The deep had given them refuge. Now, it was time to rebuild.