Chapter 300

With Master Wading present, entering the underground cemetery posed no difficulty.

But they had not expected that upon arriving at dusk, the usually desolate cemetery had become bustling—many figures clad in church attire moved anxiously about, some familiar, some strangers, and even more outsiders who clearly had no connection to the place.

They carried various tools, received symbolic blessings and a substantial advance payment, then reluctantly filed one by one into the narrow passageways barely wide enough for a single person, as if the underground had suddenly become a construction site ready for excavation.

The church personnel remaining behind explained the general situation to Master Wading.

After Father Greene was reassigned, the investigation into the sewers was halted entirely, and no further orders were issued.

The Inquisition personnel still stationed here did not even know what they were doing—merely guarding the entrance, waiting for the final decision on how to proceed.

As a result, they never received the order to seal the entrance, but they did receive an accident.

The sudden tremor also reached this location. Since the visible structures aboveground remained largely intact, the personnel stationed on the surface initially maintained their composure, but when they realized no one from below had come up to inquire, they sensed something was wrong and immediately sent someone down to investigate.

The passageways and tombs entirely carved into the rock layers suffered far more damage than those aboveground, and the damage worsened the deeper one went.

Finally, near the temporary camp, they found the reason no one had come up—as expected.

Perhaps because the tunnel had been abandoned halfway through construction and had merely utilized natural rock fissures, the structure near the temporary encampment was never as robust as the upper sections, and a small stretch had collapsed.

The situation had not yet been dire—they could still see the light on the other side through the partially blocked passage and call out to each other.

The few trapped individuals escaped unharmed, suffering only minor injuries thanks to their timely reactions.

The remaining supplies in the underground camp were more than sufficient to last several days, and air circulation was still adequate, leaving ample time for rescue.

The only unpleasant issue was that the fissure connecting to the water channel had widened due to the tremor, allowing water to seep in and making the environment unbearably uncomfortable; they strongly demanded the passage be cleared as quickly as possible.

But another accident occurred.

No one could have anticipated a second earthquake within half a day, its intensity equal to the first.

The rescue team had just arrived and had not yet begun work when the passage suffered even greater damage; although the collapse area on this side did not expand, the central fissure was now completely blocked.

Communication with the other side was now entirely severed; no one knew the conditions there—whether there were casualties, or how long they could hold out.

Those seemingly unrelated individuals were temporary stone workers hastily recruited, desperate to dig open the passage in the shortest time possible. No one could guarantee there would not be a third—or even more—earthquakes.

The overwhelmed monks were now half-coaxing, half-tricking those still hesitating to enter the tomb, and had abandoned all concerns of secrecy.

Master Wading arrived at the perfect moment—someone with experience and authority was needed to oversee operations and calm the crowd.

"If Greene were here, it would be better," Wading sighed sincerely. If only the priest had returned with him, this mess would never have fallen on his shoulders.

He spent considerable time figuring out who exactly was present: besides a few Liushou personnel, even clergy from nearby small chapels had been dragged here as reinforcements, and some of the workers were local congregants mobilized by the church, others recruited with promises of monetary rewards.

After counting, it became clear there were far too many people—too many to maneuver in the confined underground space, hindering all movement.

Wading dismissed those still hesitant, sent the monk who briefed him back to the Inquisition with a report, and headed to the collapse site with Kraft.

The condition of the tomb passage was indeed worse than aboveground—near the surface, damage was barely noticeable, but as they descended, previously overlooked fine cracks emerged, accentuated by forces transmitted through the rock; walking along the rough walls felt like treading across the deep wrinkles of a mummified face.

Remains embedded in the walls had detached and littered the ground. At first, Wading tried to avoid them, but soon the bones multiplied, covering the path entirely, forcing him to step over them while whispering prayers.

Like snow formed by time and death, each step forward caused the skeletal framework beneath to sink in layered collapse—or rather, as if slowly being dragged downward.

Cracks in the rock walls worsened with depth; a collapse was inevitable.

A continuous clanging of hammering echoed ahead, leading them to the accident site.

Over a dozen workers were clearing the rubble blocking the passage, and some had even hastily constructed wooden supports to prevent the already unstable ceiling from collapsing during work.

The church had hired skilled laborers, and handling the rubble presented no difficulty—large stones were shattered, smaller fragments loaded into baskets and hauled to nearby vacant tombs.

Despite the chilly air, sweat soaked their backs; had it not been for the clergy present, repeatedly emphasizing the promised reward afterward, they would have immediately renounced the job.

Progress was faster than expected; faint echoes of falling stones rolling on the other side could be heard.

This might be good news—suggesting the distance between the two sides was short, perhaps only a few steps, and clearance would not take long.

To clear the passage faster, they were not attempting full removal; instead, they focused on clearing the upper rubble first, trying to carve out a narrow crawl space above the debris.

More and more stones were removed; standing nearby, one could even feel air currents flowing between the sides.

Such faint air currents should not have been easily detectable, but they carried moisture mixed with other odors into a strange stench.

That moisture was unlike the stale dampness locals were accustomed to on rainy days—it was the dampness one smelled when standing by the Tem River at night, carried by the evening wind, signaling a dark, boundless expanse of water.

It was so thick it condensed from the air, causing the flickering firelight filtering through the cracks to cast long beams across the pitch-black opposite side, illuminating walls glistening with moisture.

"Is anyone there?" Wading called out.

No response. He crawled onto the rubble, pried open the stones ahead with his sword scabbard, and peered inside—what glinted on the walls was not evenly adhered moisture, but a thick, viscous substance slowly oozing downward.

Its texture easily evoked the revolting trails left by certain soft-bodied creatures. Yet he could not imagine any slug or river snail growing to such proportions.

Adjusting the angle slightly, the light revealed distant pools of filthy water on the ground, inside deformed crates containing untouched rations and fuel—someone had moved them here, but something had crushed them outright.

The bent wooden slats bore the same viscous fluid, already seeping into the wood, turning it into a rotting, moldy texture.

Residual oil floated on the water's surface, its twisted, multicolored film emitting a burnt, unnatural stench.

A nearly broken sword lay beside the pool; its owner may have used it to fight something, but all that remained was a dark, oxidized smear of crimson, like spoiled berry juice squeezed out and smeared by some unseen entity.