Left fingertips touch rough and astringent rock particles, through the thin anti-skid powder, faintly feeling the moisture seeping from the surface of the stone; the right hand is diligently inserted into the crevices between the rocks. The narrow gap only allows part of the finger to enter. After adjusting the angle slightly, finding the best position, and probing a few tis, the finger is finally inserted. At this mont, both feet are on a protrusion of a cliff. It's called a protrusion, but it's actually only as wide as a finger, and the toes exert force through the thin sole of the shoe, maintaining a stable center of gravity.
The scorching sun above releases its energy recklessly, illuminating the entire sky, and the hot air seems to beco thick and turbid; the sweat on the back has completely soaked the clothes, and the sweat dripping from the forehead into the eyes, but there is no ti to wipe it away; a gust of wind howls through the canyon, the narrow passage making the wind stronger, not only feeling the heat, but also feeling a trace of coldness, goosebumps appearing on the arms.
Heat and cold, swaying and stability, sweat and shivering... Contradictory yet harmonious, blending together as if one could clearly hear the dialogue between nature and one's fingertips.
Taking a deep breath, the fingertips of the right hand exert force inward, focusing the strength from the forearm to the shoulder, sinking the center of gravity, then the toes exert force suddenly, and the whole person jumps lightly; the left hand stretches upward diagonally, grabbing a fist-sized protrusion. However, due to excessive force, the estimated position deviates from the expected, and the fingertips slide over the rough surface of the rock without even feeling the pain. Nonetheless, the left hand firmly grasps the protrusion; the feet are stepping on the surface of the cliff below, with grains of sand falling down, feeling a bit slippery under the soles, as if unable to find the center of gravity.
In a critical mont, the strength of both hands bursts out completely, pulling the body up abruptly in a pull-up motion, pulling the falling body up hard, then lifting the soles of the feet a bit, directly stepping on the wall, the top of the knee almost hitting the stomach, narrowly avoiding it due to the absolute tension of the muscles, but as expected, the soles of the feet do not find support, starting to slip downwards. However, he raises them a bit higher than planned, the friction of the soles of the feet sliding down easing the trend, the thin sole barely feeling it, the toes calmly searching, and finally, just before the body fully extends, the sliding montum finally stops, stabilizing.
"Whew, whew..." Taking two deep breaths, letting the boiling blood calm down a bit.
The adrenaline rush leaves the brain completely blank, no ti for thinking, only responding by relying on the body's instinct, intuition, and trained skills. In a re millisecond, every muscle in the body is operating at high speed, all distractions disappear, focusing only on this cliff, only on the next protrusion and crevice, only on controlling the body, nothing more.
Looking down at his feet, he's now nearly fifty ters above the ground, the dizzying height turning into a bottomless abyss in the turbulent water below, like the gaping jaws of a shark ready to devour all life. But what he feels is the excitent and thrill coursing through his blood. In this mont, he truly forgets himself.
It doesn't matter who he is, doesn't matter the exploration of acting, doesn't matter the entanglent of nightmares, because in this mont, everything is so real. Living, breathing, existing, every detail intoxicatingly real. Whether he's Renly or Paul, what does it matter? What matters is that in this mont, he can vividly feel the grains of rock, hear the howling wind, breathe the air mixed with moisture and moss.
A smile involuntarily curves his lips. He wants to shout out loud, to release all the pent-up emotions in his chest, but as he looks up, he sees the distance to the top of the cliff is less than twenty ters now. He can vaguely see the middle-aged man hanging his legs over the edge, humming a folk song intermittently, relaxed and leisurely, as if the world is at his feet.
The excitent surges back into his bloodstream, attention focused once again. He repeats the action of right hand into the pocket behind his waist, grabbing so anti-slip powder, rubbing it between his palms and fingertips, then slowly feeling his way up along the crack, continuously attempting to find a suitable position for finger strength.
This section of the cliff is very gentle, with hardly any protruding rocks, mostly sandstone. There's not much to leverage on, and the sandstone is too loose, prone to slipping, making it very dangerous. Luckily, this crack on the side provides so leverage, but still requires careful navigation.
After patiently searching several tis and confirming there are no other options, he takes a deep breath, calming his restless mood a bit. Obviously, he lacks experience. In the process of climbing up, he chose a wrong or rather a difficult path. But that's the charm of rock climbing itself, all the unknowns waiting for exploration. Only when encountered can one truly understand the nature's original appearance.
Making a quick decision, he decides to continue climbing along this crack. It demands strict control of balance and center of gravity, but it's the only passage to the top of the cliff.
The left hand begins to repeat the work of the right hand, carefully exploring, and finally finding a stable position below the right hand. Since both hands are together, more force is required for leverage, so he can't be too greedy. Each step forward is taken steadily, maintaining a steady ascent.
The left hand sweats a bit, puts it into the pocket, twists so anti-slip powder, then pinches the palm and fingertips, and inserts them back into the crevice. After confirming the points of force of both hands, he exerts force suddenly, lifting his whole body again. But this ti, the feet don't rush to leave the wall, instead, climbing up the sandstone step by step, feeling the lightness after raising the abdon, achieving what he thought was impossible, he successfully takes another big step forward.
There's no ti for rejoicing; he imdiately puts his right hand into his pocket again, grabbing so anti-slip powder, repeating the sa action as before. The tedious process, yet his nerves are completely taut.
The raging wind howls past between his arms, chest, and legs, as if it could blow him away at any mont, and then fiercely smash him to the ground. In mid-air, relying only on the strength of his hands to control his body by grabbing onto a crack, the sand under his feet continues to loosen and fall; the roaring waves and the mournful cry of eagles contrast with the vast silence of nature, he knows there are companions above and below, but at this mont, it's his solo battle.
Boring? Not at all. He's completely imrsed in a state of selflessness, all the miscellaneous thoughts are insignificant, leaving only the smooth cliff wall in front of him.
Inhale, lift, soar.
He climbs up again, but at this mont, the rock held by his left hand suddenly makes a crisp sound, before he could react, a piece of broken rock slides down. With the force of both hands pushed to the limit, the left hand flies backward along the inertia, the fingertips of the right hand feel a huge impact, exerting force fiercely, managing to halt the falling body for a mont, the shoulders feel the intense gravity pulling, and the feet quickly begin to tread the wall, utilizing friction to stop. However, in the changing situation, as soon as the toes slackened a bit, his brain imdiately realized that he misjudged the spatial sense. A gust of wind blew, he was less than a hair's breadth away from the wall, then he exerted force with his toes, but the result was... he missed.
Exhale.
The whole person plunges downwards, the powerful force of gravity pulling relentlessly, then the safety rope around his waist is pulled up violently, forcefully stopping the downward montum. The overwhelming force almost breaks his body in half, his organs tumbling, the stomach tightly squeezed, the sour water in the stomach almost spewing out.
The safety rope saved his life. But if it were real freehand climbing, he would have perished here today. This is much worse than Paul's predicant in "Buried". He didn't even have ti to be afraid; everything has ended. Whether it's Paul or Renly, at this mont, he should be grateful: he's still alive, still has the opportunity to regret, to challenge, to collide.
He relaxes his limbs, hanging in mid-air, not in a hurry to regain control of his body, letting gravity pull his limbs downwards, all his strength withdrawn, blood rushing to his brain. He finds it sowhat amusing, so he laughs.
"Hey, buddy, you alright?"
A concerned voice cos from nearby. Renly gestures "OK" and says, "I'm fine. I don't want to die yet, so I've taken enough precautions."
The self-deprecating words make the other person chuckle deeply. Then Renly regains control of his body, gently sways, hooks his toes onto a rock protrusion, similar to the support point he grabbed with his hand earlier, and stabilizes his body.
Now he finally has ti to look at his climbing partner, not the middle-aged man from before, but soone about his age. "Hall?" the person exclaims first, surprised.
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