Chapter 231: Patrol of the Moon

Two cultivators were shoved aside without resistance, utterly frozen by a sound like a whale's cry.

That sound was better described as a vibration propagating through all media, surging instantly from the deep well and spreading in all directions.

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 temporary blindness.

Greene was no exception; sensing the change in water sounds earlier granted him critical reaction time, and using his initial momentum, 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 his lax grip, extinguished in the water, and rolled down the steps, 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 slowly freed themselves from the nauseating tremors, but the sensation of churning bodily fluids left Greene feeling as if his entire body were a overripe berry, its thin skin filled with uncontrolled liquid.

The extinguished torches plunged them fully into that dim illumination, 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 outlining surrounding shapes, too weak to comprehend.

Yet it was abundant, emanating from a vast luminous source, uniformly radiating a decayed atmosphere as if from another barren, alien world.

It also meant the thing emitting the whale-like roar had not retreated, and the pounding waterfall had not shaken it in the slightest—it moved like a celestial body, bound solely to its fixed trajectory.

An intuitive insight revealed these truths, prompting him to instinctively recall how fish surface during rain; rocks and lakebeds do not rise—it was the back of some colossal entity.

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

"Stand firm," he enunciated clearly, controlling his voice's volume, fearing even a whisper might disturb the thing—though in the roar of the waterfall, it was impossible, yet overcoming fear of his own imagination was already difficult enough.

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

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

Tiny fragments fell from above, and it was then that Greene first saw the hall's ceiling—a faintly discernible circular carving occupying the entire dome, bisected by a long, spindle-shaped line, riddled with cracks indistinguishable as original or caused by impact.

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

A muffled, prolonged suction 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 gloom; they made no effort to restore light, instead voicing a query destined to receive no answer.

Greene reviewed the cognition left by his encounter.

If he could, he would use every abstract rhetorical device from his grammar lessons—but none were precise enough, none sufficient to describe his direct sensation.

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

Without reason, he simply felt it—his usually sharp intuition spontaneously imposed this forced, jumbled impression.

This impression was insightfully etched into his mind, forming an image nearly as real as reality.

"I don't know," Greene didn't know what he was saying, and tried to steady his trembling hands, forcing them to fumble for the fire-starting paper wrapped in leather and strike it.

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

On their faces, he saw a look of fearful retreat, incomprehensible and strange.

Whatever it was, the lingering dim light was proof it had not 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 into it like mud." He glanced at the hexagonal well opening and stepped forward, his wet legs crossing the chasm.

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

Greene felt he might now understand why a certain professor had always seemed to withhold something—some things simply cannot be described to those who haven't experienced them, not in logic or form.

"Let's go. We've stayed here long enough."

……

……

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

Though he had prepared mentally for weather changes, he never imagined the rain—expected to be merely a brief shower—would last so long and show signs of intensifying.

Under such weather, the road was clearly unsuitable for carriages lacking traction or shock absorption.

Frances appeared just in time, inviting everyone to stay for the planned dinner 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, playing a brisk tune oddly synchronized with the rhythm of heavy raindrops.

Dishes too heavy for one person to carry, ornamental rather than practical, were brought to the table.

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

Inside the crispy, oil-glistening roasted pig lay 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 meat; fortunately, Kraft noticed the distress in time, wrapped his arms around the man's upper abdomen, and immediately performed the Heimlich maneuver.

Just as everyone thought the chef's performance was over, the master of nested dishes pulled out a whole roasted rabbit from the lamb's belly, then extracted a squab from inside the rabbit, declaring 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, metallic 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 and acquisition of precious inner knowledge.

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

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

Kraft nodded in surprise, rose quietly, and left the table swiftly.