Chap­ter III begins with the nar­ra­tor being dragged through a shad­owy, tan­gled for­est by a crea­ture he can­not ful­ly see or under­stand. The air is heavy, the silence often bro­ken by strange ani­mal cries, cre­at­ing an atmos­phere of unease. Even­tu­al­ly, the dense foliage opens up to reveal a vil­lage unlike any­thing imaginable—a series of huts woven into the canopy, sus­pend­ed high above the for­est floor. Rope bridges con­nect each dwelling, and curi­ous crea­tures with semi-human fea­tures swing from branch to branch, observ­ing the new­com­er. He is hoist­ed into one of the huts, poked and exam­ined, but not harmed. Their ges­tures seem moti­vat­ed more by fas­ci­na­tion than aggres­sion. These beings resem­ble apes but have orga­nized com­mu­ni­ties, domes­ti­cat­ed ani­mals, and a clear social struc­ture, reveal­ing a civ­i­liza­tion that blends prim­i­tivism with sur­pris­ing com­plex­i­ty.

Inside one of the larg­er huts, the nar­ra­tor unex­pect­ed­ly finds Per­ry, his schol­ar­ly com­pan­ion, seat­ed and vis­i­bly relieved. The reunion light­ens the mood, pro­vid­ing a moment of lev­i­ty amid their grim sur­round­ings. Per­ry excit­ed­ly shares his the­o­ry that they’ve reached the inside of the Earth, based on geo­log­i­cal fea­tures, the abun­dance of pre­his­toric life, and the omnipresent sun hang­ing in the sky. Unlike the sur­face world, this place knows no day or night—the light remains con­stant, eras­ing all sense of time. This per­pet­u­al noon­day cre­ates an unset­tling rhythm, one where sleep and hunger become the only guides. Their cap­tors, now more famil­iar than threat­en­ing, feed them basic food and observe them with increas­ing curios­i­ty. Per­ry notes that their cap­tors’ lan­guage is a blend of sound and ges­ture, hint­ing at com­plex com­mu­ni­ca­tion.

After sev­er­al days, the cap­tives are marched out of the tree­top vil­lage and herd­ed across an expan­sive plain. The veg­e­ta­tion shifts, the trees thin­ning into rocky out­crops and sun-baked earth. The jour­ney leads them to a canyon, where the geog­ra­phy grows more omi­nous with jagged cliffs and tight pas­sages. Their new des­ti­na­tion appears more like a prison than a vil­lage. Oth­er human pris­on­ers come into view, chained in groups, their faces worn but dig­ni­fied. Unlike the ape-like crea­tures, these pris­on­ers exhib­it human emotion—resignation, fear, and occa­sion­al defi­ance. This visu­al cue stirs the narrator’s empa­thy and a stronger sense of resolve. Despite their own cap­tiv­i­ty, see­ing oth­ers in chains hard­ens their deter­mi­na­tion to escape.

As the group is marched deep­er into what resem­bles a nat­ur­al amphithe­ater, the nar­ra­tor begins to sus­pect a bru­tal pur­pose behind the relo­ca­tion. The struc­ture of the valley—its wide floor, tiered sides, and cen­tral pit—resembles ancient are­nas used for com­bat or spec­ta­cle. Per­ry, ever the ana­lyst, spec­u­lates that the cap­tives may be used for enter­tain­ment or rit­u­al sac­ri­fice. While spec­u­la­tion mounts, the phys­i­cal toll of their jour­ney grows. The oppres­sive heat and lack of shade weigh heav­i­ly, and the monot­o­ny of motion with­out sleep or time erodes morale. The narrator’s inter­nal mono­logue becomes more reflec­tive, ques­tion­ing the very essence of exis­tence in a place where time stands still. His sense of iso­la­tion is bro­ken only by the shared mis­ery of those around him.

Even in cap­tiv­i­ty, moments of beau­ty emerge. Strange fly­ing rep­tiles cast long shad­ows against the hori­zon, and the stones of the val­ley glow under the ever-bright sky. Despite the dan­ger, won­der still thrives. This bal­ance between awe and ter­ror adds depth to their jour­ney. It’s not just an escape story—it’s a con­fronta­tion with the unknown, both with­in them­selves and in the world around them. The pro­tag­o­nist real­izes that adap­ta­tion is as crit­i­cal as sur­vival. Every obser­va­tion, every small detail, could become a tool for free­dom. Per­ry’s the­o­ries, once dis­missed as fan­ta­sy, begin to gain weight. Per­haps this place isn’t just beneath the surface—it’s an entire ecosys­tem, wait­ing to be under­stood or per­haps feared.

By the chapter’s end, the grim future they face becomes more cer­tain. What­ev­er pur­pose this nat­ur­al are­na serves, it is unlike­ly to end well for the cap­tives. Yet, even as that real­i­ty looms, the nar­ra­tor clings to hope. The bond between him and Per­ry, along with their grow­ing under­stand­ing of this strange world, fuels a qui­et deter­mi­na­tion. The chap­ter clos­es not with res­o­lu­tion but with readiness—an unspo­ken vow that their sto­ry will not end in chains, no mat­ter how deep beneath the Earth they may be.