Chapter 229

"Father, someone from above just came down."

"When?" Green rotated his neck; prolonged rest on the coffin lid had made his nape ache, though it was bearable.

The disciple relit the lantern watching the map; in its dim yellow glow, another passage had been marked. "Just now. It's raining again above."

"Is it heavy?"

"Not much. Same as before, so I didn't wake you."

Listening closely to the water on the other side of the rock fissure, the surface flow here converged into a stream. Perhaps his hearing, still sharp from sleep, imagined it— the current seemed slightly stronger, pulsing like a shriveled vein as it scoured the silt.

"Next time, wake me immediately—no matter what. Don't wait." Green ordered. "How many rains has this been recently?"

"About three or four?" The disciple paused to recall, then answered.

Summer brought countless such insignificant downpours—fast in, fast out. They barely soaked the soil, let alone seeped deep underground, merely raising the water level in the corridor by a fraction.

Their impact on the search was far less than imagined; as long as it didn't reach the ankles, walking remained unimpeded.

Only when converging into the great hall did the water volume become noticeably greater—waterfalls cascading over cracks in the stone steps, flooding across black-green moss, submerging everything beneath distorted reflections on the surface.

And that hexagonal deep well still greedily swallowed terrifying volumes of water, its depths seeming to open into a fearsome, endless void, never to be filled.

Only the disciples stationed in the hall reported that the sound of falling water had grown louder, deeper, muddier—like a colossal cauldron slowly filling.

The teams continued rotating outside; the disciples armed with the divine right to wield violence had begun to grow restless, unable to find any place where they could properly unleash their power.

The earlier glimpse of light had acted like bait cast into water, luring them—yet whenever they deliberately sought it, it vanished.

"How long have our people been out?" Green surveyed the stone chamber. The team resting here still had damp traces on their boots; Wading was among them. Clearly, a recent rotation had just occurred.

"A while now."

"Can we recall them?"

"Probably too late. They've likely passed the hall already." The disciple sat beside Green, held his hands near the flame to warm them—places near waterways always carried dampness.

"You're worrying too much. It's just a light rain, no different from before. No need to halt the search. We all want to find those damned heretics and leave this place sooner."

Of course, this wasn't questioning the young priest's caution—but summer rains were too frequent. Sometimes they stopped before the outlying teams returned; sending men back just for this seemed unnecessary.

Green fell silent for a moment, tapping the map. Based on past experience, there was some logic to it—forcing a halt to the search would only deepen the restlessness.

Yet certain thoughts were like thorns lodged beneath the skin, occasionally pricking with sharp, subtle warnings whenever he considered action.

"Go up again soon. If the rain hasn't stopped, recall the guards in the hall first—and don't let any returning teams go out again."

"Of course, as you wish."

The stone chamber fell quiet. The church personnel naturally adapted to this stillness, consistent with the solemn atmosphere of a cathedral where one walked in hushed steps.

The priest alone studied the incomplete map beneath the lamp, trying to uncover hidden patterns—this had been his routine for days.

Suppress restlessness. He murmured the scripture's teaching: if this were a trial, he would not disappoint the Lord.

Suppressing his inner agitation, Green continued tracing the root-like branches one by one. New passages had been drawn on the map—still, most forks were blocked, a few stretched endlessly onward.

His fingertips traced the dashed or interrupted lines. He began to suspect—perhaps these unexplored branches were also blocked upstream, limiting the water flow's variation after the rain.

Who had deliberately come underground and collapsed them?

That must have happened long ago, otherwise it wouldn't have been described as "similar to the chisel marks from the era of the kingdom's founding."

It was hard to imagine anyone in those ancient times had expended such vast manpower and time merely to destroy these older tunnels.

But why would they do it?

Green sank into fruitless speculation until the disciples, having rested, began whispering their daily prayers.

A message reached his ear—the rain had not stopped.

"Wading, come here." Green closed the map and realized he'd overlooked a small thing: in a place where daylight couldn't mark time, he should have brought a large hourglass.

"What's the order? We're about to depart."

"No, wait for now. It's been raining above for a while." Green gripped his shoulder, suppressing the rising unease within himself, forcing it from his face. "Take a team and recall the guards in the hall."

"I'll go at once."

Wading nodded and left, immediately leading a few men across the fissure.

Moments later, a muffled voice came through the narrow gap: "Green, the water's risen a bit, but it's nothing serious—they can still make it back in time."

"I understand." Leaning on the ground, the priest rose and walked to the fissure; the sound of splashing water quickly faded.

Wading didn't keep him waiting long. Soon, several drenched, shivering disciples returned to the chamber.

One, embarrassed, suggested shortening shift times—the humidity in the hall had reached a level faith alone couldn't overcome.

The priest coughed lightly and nodded in agreement, his calm demeanor unchanged. But as his right hand, the one who knew him best, Wading sensed his mind was elsewhere.

Like a caged beast, Green paced from one end of the room to the other, each time passing the fissure leading to the waterway, his eyes flicking instinctively toward it. He could no longer contain himself—he asked the guards in the hall to confirm the timing of the two teams still outside.

But darkness blurred time too severely. After receiving uncertain answers, his pacing grew noticeably faster.

"Damn it. I told them—return immediately if they notice any water change. Why are they ignoring it?"

At least half those present lowered their heads. After the initial caution, most had grown dismissive.

If it were them, faced with a moderate water rise, they'd likely think: press on, clear the side passages first, avoid making an extra trip back.

"Wading, take a team—" Too long. An inexplicable premonition surged in his chest, like a chill seeping beneath his skin, reversing upward, drilling into his heart—making his vital pulse skip a beat.

He trusted his intuition, seeing it as a revelation. "No. I'll go myself. Wading, stay here. Make decisions in my stead."

With maximum speed, he gathered his gear, strapped his sword to his belt, and led the rested disciples through the fissure, lighting torches and advancing openly toward the hall.

Following the waterway downward, nearing the tunnel's exit, Green was surprised how easily he walked—despite the flickering flame, a steady glow danced upon the water's surface.

He surged forward, then belatedly realized—the light wasn't from his own torch. It came from below, from the hall, refracting upward through layers of mist, a dim, inverted glow.

Like the dying embers of a celestial body.

Oh shit!