Chapter 231

Two cultivators were pushed aside without resistance, their bodies frozen solid amid a sound like a whale's cry.

That sound was better described as a vibration propagating through all media, surging out of the deep well and spreading in all directions in an instant.

While scraping the eardrums, it resonated with bones and muscles, causing internal organs to tremble and blood flow to stagnate, inducing a spasm in the stomach and a momentary blackout before the eyes.

Kraft was no exception; sensing the change in water sound earlier granted him critical reaction time, and using the inertia of his initial movement, he shoved the two away from their spot, preventing them from being split into two or more segments like stone steps severed by a chasm.

The torch slipped from lax fingers, extinguished in the water, and rolled down step after step, carried by the current.

They sat down in the cold current, using their last strength to prop up their upper bodies to avoid soaking their belongings, yet still lost some of their lighting supplies.

When the sound from the deep well faded, their bodies gradually shook free of the nauseating tremors, but the sensation of churning bodily fluids left Kraft feeling as if his entire body were a fully ripe berry, its thin skin filled with uncontrolled, liquefied matter.

The extinguished torches plunged them fully into that lighting range, which seemed to lack some essential element, allowing them to grasp it more intuitively.

It was the minimal possible interpretation of light—useless except for allowing the eyes to perceive the outlines of surrounding scenes, too weak to comprehend.

Yet it was abundant, originating from a colossal luminous body, uniformly radiating a decayed atmosphere as if from another exceedingly barren and strange world.

It also meant the thing emitting the whale-like roar had not retreated, and the hammering cascade had not shaken it in the slightest—true to a celestial body, it moved only along its fixed trajectory.

Intuitively interpreting these insights, he instinctively recalled the habit of fish surfacing during rain; rocks and lakebeds do not rise—it was the back of some immense, colossal entity.

The water sound continued to shift subtly, steadily ascending despite the hammering cascade.

"Stand firm," he enunciated clearly, controlling his voice's volume, fearing even the faintest disturbance might alarm the thing—though in the vast roar of water, such a thing was impossible, yet merely overcoming the fear of his own imagination was already difficult.

They felt another vibration, this time not from the air, but from the solid stone beneath their feet.

The hall subtly shifted in their vision; at the moment of trembling, it no longer resembled a structure built of stone, but a wooden crate with loose nails, ready to collapse at any moment.

Tiny fragments fell from above and dropped—only then did Kraft first see the hall's ceiling, where a circular carving dominated the entire dome, bisected by a long, spindle-shaped line, riddled with cracks indistinguishable between original flaws and those caused by impact vibrations.

After this impact, the pale light finally began to recede, retreating like a tide from the mist, leaving only a thin layer covering the hall's floor, undulating with the water's ripples, while moss in the stone crevices bathed in this rare glow.

A muffled, prolonged suction sound emerged from the well—the massive volume of water surging backward to fill the cavity left by something sinking.

"What is that?"

The question came from a companion in the same dimness; they made no effort to restore lighting, instead voicing a query destined to receive no answer.

Kraft reviewed the cognition left by his recent encounter.

If he could, he would use every abstract rhetorical device he'd learned in grammar class—but none were precise enough, insufficient to describe his direct sensation.

If he had to say it, he would say it was a dead moon—or a fragment of its remains—awakened, rising with the water level, peering out through the narrow, hexagonal aperture.

Without reason, he simply felt it—his usually sharp intuition spontaneously forged a forced, patched-together impression.

That impression was intuitively etched into his mind, forming an image nearly as real as reality.

"I don't know," Kraft didn't know what he was saying, and tried to clamp down on his trembling hands, forcing them to fumble for the flint wrapped in parchment and strike it alight.

"We must hurry—we must find them before the rain intensifies."

On their faces, he saw an expression of fearful retreat, incomprehensible and strange.

Whatever it was, the lingering dim light was proof it had not yet fully departed.

"Will it come back?"

"I don't know, but we'd better find them before the rain grows heavier—otherwise, the current might wash them away like mud into that thing." He glanced at the hexagonal well opening, then stepped forward with his soaked legs, crossing the chasm.

Minutes earlier, they had appeared abruptly and inexplicably, their surfaces smooth, edges razor-sharp.

Kraft felt he might now understand why a certain professor had always seemed to withhold something—some things simply cannot be described in logic or form to those who have never experienced them firsthand.

"Let's go—we've stayed here long enough."

……

……

"Looks like we'll have to stay a little longer," Kraft lifted a cup filled with orange-red juice, took a sip, then handed another to Yin Feng.

Though he had prepared himself mentally for weather changes, he had never imagined the rain—expected at most to be a brief shower—would last so much longer than anticipated, and was even intensifying.

Under this weather, the road was clearly unsuitable for a carriage lacking traction and shock absorption.

Frances appeared just in time, inviting everyone to stay for the banquet already planned, and to spend the night.

Though night had not fully fallen, servants had already lit the large candlesticks on the dining table, and the orchestra had moved indoors to continue playing, switching to a fast-paced tune oddly synchronized with the rhythm of heavy raindrops.

Dishes requiring two people to carry, more ornamental than practical, were brought to the table.

The chef approached the table and, with the fluid precision of a dissection, unveiled the dish layer by layer to the guests.

Inside the crispy, oil-glistening roasted pig was a lamb, stuffed with spices and vegetables to fill the gaps.

The chef carved the most tender lamb chops from both sides, serving them directly onto each plate, then removed a whole roasted goose from the lamb's belly, its eyes still open, an apple stuffed in its beak.

The lecturer seated closest nearly choked to death on the undercooked pork; fortunately, Kraft noticed the distress in time, seized him from behind, and immediately performed the Heimlich maneuver.

Just as everyone thought the chef's performance was over, the matryoshka master pulled out a whole roasted rabbit from the lamb's belly, then extracted a squab from inside the rabbit, claiming this contained the dish's essence.

Host Frances, according to seating hierarchy, carved up the unfortunate squab for the guests.

When she reached Kraft's portion, she "accidentally" cut into something with a crisp, clear sound.

It was a gilded silver hairpin adorned with peridot, awarded to the lucky recipient who received that piece—Yin Feng.

Finally, the chef proudly announced the dish's name: "Pursuit of Truth," inspired by the professors' layered analysis to uncover precious inner knowledge.

At least half the guests stopped eating, their expressions strange; the banquet atmosphere turned awkward.

No one noticed a hurried servant entering the hall, whispering something into Frances's ear, who then relayed the message to Kraft, who had not touched a single bite of the main course and had finished his third cup of juice.

Kraft nodded in surprise, then rose quietly and swiftly from his seat.