Chapter 263: The Path of Enlightenment

The team did not waste much time on that suit of armor; every step forward meant a longer return journey, and so far this strange path showed no sign of an end.

It simply grew stranger and stranger, filled with things of inexplicable origin and meaning.

Kraft toyed with the newly acquired sample, occasionally bringing a flame close to illuminate it, observing the creature's reaction. "This reminds me of the seashore back home."

"How so?" Green looked at the fellow who had suddenly started venting nostalgia, unsure whether his mind had suddenly broken or if there was something wrong with his homeland.

"The periodic rise of seawater is especially obvious in lowlands, bringing things from the sea to distances normally unreachable; and when the tide recedes, you only see the various traces left behind—sand holes, shallow grooves, and the like—where small creatures lacking the ability to return to the ocean themselves take refuge."

"For children, that is simply paradise; you can find many interesting little trinkets—shrimp, hermit crabs, horned snails, razor clams—though of course, you must put in some effort and employ specialized techniques."

The thick glass bottle spun nimbly in his hand for a full rotation, bottom up, revealing soft tissue that pulsed and shifted, wrapping around the stone and gripping the smooth inner wall with sucker-like structures. He hoped this wasn't what had triggered the professor's childhood memories of catching shellfish on the tidal flats.

"They would stay on the tidal flats from dawn till dusk, chasing the waves, celebrating every new discovery they found, throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the harvest, to the point that... sometimes they failed to notice the water level rising."

"From some point onward, the water would rise and never fall back; the mud would become damp and cling to their feet; looking out, dozens of feet were shrouded in turbidity; a pocketful of harvest slowed their steps; and then, just one wave that didn't look very large..."

"... they would vanish from sight. On lucky or unlucky occasions, the next time the tide receded, those faces would appear in the mud alongside the shellfish." Kraft stuffed the round bottle into a box filled with dry straw and cloth scraps, walked past Green to the front of the team, and said, "That is probably the source of many ghost-water tales."

"Among fishermen, there is a saying: always remember to know when to stop. The more you take, the deeper your connection to the sea becomes, until you are dragged in yourself."

When Green realized these words carried a hidden meaning, he felt an indescribable sensation.

The sentences, dampened by the moisture of the waterways, possessed an extraordinary power of infection, carrying the briny scent and chill into the ear canal, pulling the listeners to a seaside they had never visited. The sieve-like remains were wrapped in the brick-and-stone tidal flats, with the soft-bodied creatures they had harvested in life moving in and out of them.

An extraordinary power of infection, exceeding the mere scope of language, as if the words themselves had become the things they denoted.

The priest saw the monk following behind him shiver and instinctively move away from those sieve holes, as if in that brief moment the environment in his eyes had changed.

But the speaker himself did not notice this; he walked at the very front of the team, putting a good distance between himself and the others.

Habitually, Green took out a small iron bottle and shook it by his ear, listening for the clear scraping sound. Although he still did not know if it was truly useful, that sound had by now become a kind of psychological comfort.

Everything was, for the time being, normal.

This interlude did not become a prelude to the appearance of any lurking thing; the team, slightly surprised, found that those annoying sieve shapes were decreasing imperceptibly.

In contrast, the patches of geometric lines became increasingly complete, approaching a certain form more and more closely; one could even fill in the gaps in imagination according to the pattern and outline a possible shape.

Yet it could still only be seen as a strange object composed of countless hexagons of various sizes; the carver had tried his utmost to expand it, attempting to render it larger and fuller.

At the same time, sharp, slender gash marks increased. They could absolutely not have been made by weapons or any kind of professional carving tool; those cut surfaces were far too smooth and flat, deeply carved into the stone walls.

It was as if someone had wildly wielded a long, peerlessly sharp blade, cleaving the rock smoothly apart, almost like a scaled-down version of the huge trenches within the hall.

After a long, long journey, those who managed to return to the door had, by some means, brought back a counterfeit of that power from underground.

A bit further ahead, flame-shaped black spots covered a section of the wall; this was the residue of intense burning.

Compared to other traces measured in decades, what had happened here was as new as an infant; one could wipe off a greasy, blackish coating from the wall with a fingertip.

Recently, at most within the past two years, someone had used a large quantity of oil here, attempting to clean away certain things with high heat.

Thanks to their successful opening of the passage, this journey should have been far more lively otherwise.

Green signaled everyone to pause and rest, extinguished the torches on the spot, and switched to lanterns with hinges that allowed adjustable brightness.

The team began preparations in an orderly fashion; they appeared to have sufficient experience. No one questioned what needed to be done; they silently adjusted the positions of their gear, checked the laces of their armor, and drew the single winch crossbow.

This formation reminded one of the first skirmish in the tomb passage; if they had encountered such a fully prepared team head-on back then, Kraft would have chosen to raise his hands immediately.

Of course, unless he was mad, Green at that time could not possibly have assembled a professional team to deal with a poor university professor.

Yvonne cast a questioning glance at him; Kraft shook his head lightly and gestured to just watch. One must trust the teamwork of professionals; the Inquisition's regular drills never left room for outsiders.

Green once again took the lead position; a monk held a shield to protect his side while simultaneously blocking the light, followed closely by an archer, maintaining a vigilant formation as they advanced.

A heavily battered stone door appeared before them.

Crisscrossing cut lines divided its surface into countless fragments; large areas of sponge-like, porous layers seeped in layer upon layer, almost hollowing out the entire stratum.

Many people had successfully reached this place. But perhaps merely bringing back objects was far from enough; they were still rejected, unable to escape the fate of being displaced and drowned within the rock.

And now, this solid wall, nearly two palms thick, had opened a gap wide enough for a person to walk straight through.

Green shut off the lantern, approached using the faint light coming from far behind, and suddenly stopped when Kraft thought he was about to enter, pointing his finger toward knee height.

Even with Kraft's eyesight, one needed to observe carefully before seeing it: an extremely fine white line blocked the indicated position, with both ends tied to something unknown behind the door.

The team carefully stepped over it and found several bells in the section blocked by the door.

A heavy scent of oil was carried into the nose by the flowing air, hinting at the consequence of triggering this warning system—barrels of fuel would rush down with the water, turning any creature attempting unauthorized entry into ash that could be washed away.

And now, they had quietly avoided the death trap and penetrated deep into the interior.