Chapter 230

The moment Greene detected the light ahead, he understood why all the descriptions he'd received were so vague.

It could not be precisely described, yet upon seeing it, it evoked countless memories—similar yet utterly different—like the faint gray-white light streaming in at the end of a long cathedral aisle, where saints' statues bowed their heads, diluted and spread thin across every plane.

A pale light, too insipid to distinguish any detail, merged with the mist; the waterfall's crash, closer than ever, pushed the mist and vapor from the hall into the corridor.

The light did not flicker—perhaps that was why it was thought more like a celestial body—but beneath this stratum, where not a single ray of sky-light had ever reached since its birth, what celestial body could possibly illuminate this place?

As they drew nearer, the light did not vanish as it had before; instead, it held an unsettling stillness, like an invitation awaiting discovery—or pure indifference.

【Now?】

Greene weighed whether to pursue the light or search for the two teams that had not returned in time, but found no answer.

Steps advanced, or were pushed forward by the increasingly swift current; before emerging from the tunnel's exit, the cultivators drew their weapons, ready for threats from any direction.

The metallic ring of unsheathed blades did not carry far; within the vast mist, every sound was confined to the immediate vicinity or drowned by the thunder of the waterfall, plunging them all into a silence as detached as the light itself.

They soon realized there was no need to think about how to capture the light.

The light, and the source of the mist, lay right before them—on full display in the most obvious place for a full week.

At the end of the concentric steps sloping inward toward the hall's center, a hexagonal shape emerged, radiating a dim glow.

The mouth of the hexagonal well, that very well, spewed forth vast quantities of mist stirred by the waterfall; pale light crawled out of it, clinging to every surface it touched, dyeing the hall in unreal—or rather, colorless—tones.

Though what they saw surpassed all understanding, instinct still tried to persuade reason that it was celestial light.

This produced a disorienting vertical misalignment, as if a dead moon were passing beyond the great well's far side, and the mist soaked in its dim radiance were the painful exudations dripping from its sores.

They breathed air saturated with moisture, feeling their vocal organs choked, unable to utter a word.

The first emotion to arise was the most common when confronting something that overturned understanding: a silent, spreading panic that pinned their feet to the spot, to the icy, murky current.

By the time their minds registered that the wisest choice was to retreat, they had already stood for a while within the frosted-milk mist.

No one knew how long—it might have been a mere blink, or a full hour.

But when they finally came to, the first thing they felt was the damp chill on their robes, cold seeping through imperfectly sealed gaps in their boots, licking at their ankles.

It seemed the light naturally possessed a power to bewitch the mind, erase time, exceeding the limits of any word like "charm."

Perhaps it was ingrained discipline, bolstered by devout faith, that kept their fragile spirits from collapsing; the cultivators did not advance, nor did they retreat, but turned their eyes to the leader at the front of the group.

【What should we do?】

Without turning to meet their gazes, Greene knew what they wanted to ask—but he had no answer.

The current situation exceeded every contingency plan; Kraft's advice was useless here. Perhaps they dared swing blades at devils with horns sprouting from their foreheads, but could they overcome the descent into this dim, fading unknown?

After all, no one knew what it was—it was something beyond description, certainly not recorded in any holy scripture.

A voice in his ear told him he should return—the tunnel entrance lay behind him.

Take a few steps back, run away, and they could escape at once, like rats fleeing back into the comforting dark.

He thought it was hallucination, then suspected it was some cultivator behind him offering advice; he was about to shout a rebuke—until he realized it was his own voice, echoing from his subconscious.

If he turned back, he could continue enjoying his exalted status as the youngest priest of the Inquisition.

Climbing from the son of a cobbler to this position had been too hard; there was no point in squandering a promising life here pointlessly.

Even without self-interest, withdrawing immediately and bringing the others back was the best choice—others could testify for him.

"Ha..." Greene exhaled, the mist before his face briefly dispersing, then surging back toward his nose and mouth. "Everyone, go back."

The cultivators sighed in relief, pulling their boots from the water.

They retreated a few steps toward the waterway's exit, then gradually halted, staring at the priest who still stood motionless.

"Wading will take over my duties. Send someone back to notify the Inquisition—and... that professor." He drew a torch, lit it against the lamp flame about to be smothered by rising mist, and wiped condensation from his face. "I'm going to find those two teams."

"I hope the Father hasn't called me to report quite yet."

Along the edge of the hall, he walked toward the direction of exploration, into the depths of the mist.

Two cultivators did not follow the group; after hesitating for a moment, they gritted their teeth and chased after Greene, falling in behind him in silence.

With fewer people, the atmosphere of indifference and isolation grew heavier. Though separated by no more than two body lengths, failure to constantly track others' positions could instantly spawn the terrifying solitude of being trapped alone in a corner of the dim realm.

For the two cultivators who had impulsively followed, this was fertile ground for fear and doubt.

But for one whose intuition was sharp enough to wield a sword in total darkness, visual dullness would not dull his senses.

Even without sight, he sensed many things. The thunderous crash of falling water was indeed far closer than when they first arrived.

This suggested much: beneath the hexagonal well was not infinite void, but a vast, finite body of water. One could imagine it gradually filling, the water level rising, inching toward the well's mouth.

And the sound continued to change—the deep, resonant roar of massive water striking the surface and plunging inward grew shallower, as if reefs had appeared beneath the water, shattering the dark currents.

That "reef" kept rising until it broke the surface—like a deep lake suddenly drained, the waterfall hammering against a rough, hard lakebed, shattering into spray, generating more mist, rising in a steadily intensifying updraft that surged into the hall.

At the peak of the furious airflow, everyone heard a deep, foul, mournful cry—a whale's bellow, heavy with anguish that threatened to split their eyes.

The cultivator following Greene saw him suddenly struck by revelation, drop the torch, and lunge toward them, shoving both men aside.

Several newly formed, razor-edged fissures radiated outward from the hexagonal well, carving into the stone steps; the rock within their wedge-shaped cross-section vanished as if swallowed by another world.