Chapter VII opens with a rush of possibility. The protagonist, having narrowly escaped his captors and the monstrous creatures of Pellucidar, pushes into unfamiliar territory beyond the walls of Phutra. A long corridor leads him upward, finally emerging into the open expanse of a wild, alien land bathed in perpetual daylight. The silence is unfamiliar, but strangely comforting. He breathes in the clean air, his senses overwhelmed by the rich, primal world around him. Trees that stretch impossibly tall cast no shadows, and the lack of night removes all familiar markers of time. Despite this brief feeling of freedom, his thoughts return to Perry. Escaping alone has left him hollow. The value of freedom fades when it’s not shared.

Walking across the uneven landscape, he begins to reflect on Perry’s earlier explanation of Pellucidar’s gravity. Because the Earth’s core has a reversed gravitational pull, movement feels lighter and less restricted. His strides cover more ground, and climbing no longer taxes his muscles as it once did. Yet the exhilaration this brings is tempered by the weight of responsibility he feels toward his companion. The strange physics of this world seem to both aid and mock him. With every step further from captivity, guilt follows him. Even with this physical lightness, emotional burdens remain. In that quiet, expansive world, he senses that escape is never just physical—it is also moral.

The landscape transforms into plains dotted with strange plants, some moving as if alive, and herds of bizarre animals grazing peacefully. Hunger drives him to try a primitive hunt, catching a small beast that offers unexpected nourishment. Eating raw meat is no longer disturbing; the urgency of survival rewrites his instincts. Yet, beneath this practical act lies something deeper: adaptation. The man from the surface world is slowly transforming. Not in form, but in thought. Pellucidar is teaching him to live by its rules. Still, beneath the skin of this new world, his inner voice clings to old values. Perry, helpless somewhere in Phutra, remains at the center of his thoughts.

In a quiet valley lined with vines and shaded by thick canopy, the discovery of a canoe stirs both suspicion and hope. Whoever left it behind could be a threat—or an opportunity. Moments later, that speculation is answered by the appearance of a native holding a long spear, his gaze sharp and body tense. Words aren’t exchanged, only the language of threat. With no other option, the protagonist leaps into the canoe and begins to paddle. The native gives chase. Every stroke becomes a desperate rhythm of survival. The narrow river opens into a wide bay, and the chase becomes a test of endurance and will.

Just when exhaustion overtakes him, an enormous creature bursts from the water. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen—a serpent with eyes like molten rock and a maw capable of devouring men whole. The native’s spear is raised, but it’s useless. The monster lunges, catching his canoe in the turbulence. The man cries out as the waves pitch him into the beast’s path. The protagonist pauses, paddle raised. For a moment, their eyes meet. The native is no longer a threat but a person facing death. Despite everything, something human stirs within the protagonist. He considers intervening, even though logic says it would be suicide.

This internal struggle lasts only seconds, but it lingers. He cannot defeat the creature. Yet his refusal to abandon compassion reveals a truth that transcends species or tribes. Empathy, raw and unfiltered, links them in that fatal moment. Ultimately, the serpent devours the native. Silence returns. The protagonist, shaken, lets the current take him, his hands trembling not from fear, but from sorrow. There’s no triumph in this escape. Only the realization that every choice in Pellucidar comes with a price, whether it’s guilt, loss, or a piece of one’s humanity.

By the end of this journey, he is left not with the thrill of freedom, but with a quiet resolution. He must return—not just for Perry, but for something bigger than himself. Survival here is more than brute strength. It demands loyalty, compassion, and the courage to face danger not just with fists, but with heart. Pellucidar, for all its savagery, reveals the purest form of what it means to be human. The protagonist now understands that real freedom lies not in running from danger, but in choosing whom to stand beside in the face of it.