Chapter 263: The Path of Enlightenment

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

It only grew stranger, filled with things whose origins and meanings were impossible to explain.

Kraft toyed with the newly acquired specimen, occasionally holding it near the flame to observe the creature's reaction, "This reminds me of the seashore back home."

"How so?" Green stared at the man who had suddenly begun to wax nostalgic, unsure whether his mind had taken a turn—or whether his home had.

"The tide rises and falls regularly, especially noticeable in lowlands, carrying sea debris far beyond normal reach; when it recedes, you see only traces left behind—sand holes, shallow channels—where small creatures too weak to return to the sea take shelter."

"For children, it was paradise—you could find all sorts of interesting little things: shrimp, hermit crabs, conchs, clams—you just had to put in effort and use the right techniques."

The thick glass bottle spun fluidly in his hand, bottom up, revealing a pulsating soft tissue wrapped around stone, gripping the smooth inner walls with sucker-like structures. Hopefully, this wasn't what triggered his memories of collecting shellfish on tidal flats as a child.

"They'd stay on the tidal flats from dawn till dusk, chasing the waves, celebrating every new find, fully immersed in their harvest—so much so that... sometimes they didn't notice the rising water."

"At some point, the tide rose and never receded; the mud became slick and clung to their feet; everything within dozens of feet was murky; their full sacks slowed their steps; all it took was one seemingly small wave..."

"They vanished from sight. Sometimes, when the tide went out again, their faces appeared among the shellfish buried in the mud—luckily or unluckily." Kraft shoved the round bottle into a box stuffed with straw and cloth, stepped past Green, and moved to the front of the team, "That's probably where many water ghost legends come from."

"Fishermen say this: always know when to stop. The more you take, the deeper your bond with the sea becomes—and the more likely you are to be pulled under."

When Green realized these words carried deeper meaning, he felt an inexplicable unease.

The sentences, dampened by the waterway's humidity, held an extraordinary power, carrying the salt-stink and chill into the ears, dragging listeners to a seashore they'd never seen. Sieve-like corpses lay embedded in brick-strewn tidal flats, the soft-bodied creatures they'd harvested moving in and out of them.

An extraordinary power, beyond mere language—words themselves had become what they described.

The priest noticed the monk behind him shiver, instinctively stepping away from the sieve-like holes, as if even this brief moment had altered his perception of the surroundings.

But the speaker himself remained unaware—he walked at the very front of the team, well ahead.

Habitually, Green pulled out the small iron bottle, shook it near his ear, listening to the clear scraping sound. Though he still didn't know if it worked, the noise had become a kind of psychological comfort.

Everything remained temporarily normal.

This interlude did not serve as a prelude to any sinister presence; the team, slightly surprised, noticed the annoying sieve-like shapes were subtly decreasing.

In contrast, vast stretches of geometric lines grew increasingly complete, drawing closer to a distinct form—even allowing them to mentally fill in gaps and sketch possible outlines based on patterns.

But it still only appeared as a strange object composed of countless hexagons, large and small, the carver striving to expand it, attempting to render it larger, more substantial.

Increasingly numerous were sharp, elongated incision marks. Impossible to have been made by weapons or any professional carving tool—the cut surfaces were too smooth, too even, deeply embedded into the rock wall.

Like someone wildly swinging a long, razor-sharp blade, cleanly slicing through the rock—almost identical to the massive gashes inside the hall, scaled down.

Those who survived the long journey and returned to the door had somehow brought back a counterfeit of that power from underground.

Further ahead, flame-shaped black stains covered a stretch of wall—the residue of intense burning.

Compared to other traces aged by decades, this event was fresh, like a newborn—you could rub off the greasy black coating with your fingertip.

Recently—no more than two years ago—someone had used large quantities of oil here, attempting to burn away something.

Thanks to their success in clearing the passage, the journey ahead should have been far less eventful.

Green signaled everyone to halt and rest, extinguishing their torches and replacing them with lanterns featuring hinged lids to adjust brightness.

The team began preparing in orderly fashion; they clearly had ample experience, each member knowing exactly what to do without hesitation, quietly adjusting gear, checking armor straps, and stringing the single winch crossbow.

This display reminded him of their first encounter in the tomb corridor—if they'd faced such a fully prepared team head-on, Kraft would have raised his hands immediately.

Of course, unless he'd gone mad, Green back then could never have mustered a professional team to deal with a poor university professor.

Yin Feng cast him a questioning look; Kraft gave a slight shake of his head—just watch. Trust the professionals' coordination; the Inquisition never left room for outsiders during drills.

Green reclaimed the lead position, a monk holding a shield beside him to block light, a crossbowman close behind, maintaining a vigilant formation as they advanced.

A battered stone door appeared before them.

Crisscrossing incisions divided its surface into countless fragments; vast sponge-like porous layers had penetrated and layered inward, nearly hollowing out the entire thickness.

Many had successfully reached this point. But perhaps merely bringing back objects was far from enough—they were still rejected, unable to escape being pulled askew and drowned within the rock.

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

Green turned off the lantern and approached, relying on the faint light from behind; just as Kraft thought he would enter, he abruptly stopped and pointed his finger at knee height.

With Kraft's vision, he needed to study carefully to see it—a thin white thread stretched across the spot, its ends tied to something unseen beyond the door.

The team carefully stepped over it and found several bells on the side blocked by the door.

A heavy odor of oil drifted into their noses, signaling the consequence of triggering this alarm system—barrels of fuel would cascade down with water, turning any unauthorized intruder into ash that could be washed away.

Now, they had silently bypassed the death trap and penetrated deep within.