Chapter 300: Collapse

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

But they had not anticipated that upon arriving in the evening, the once-desolate cemetery had become bustling: many figures in church attire moved about anxiously, some familiar, some unknown, and even more outsiders who clearly had no connection to this place had gathered.

They carried various tools, received symbolic blessings and a substantial advance payment, then reluctantly filed one by one into the narrow passageways meant for single-file passage, as if the depths had suddenly become a construction site ready for excavation.

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

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

The Inquisition personnel still remained stationed here, not even knowing what they were supposed to be doing—merely guarding the entrance, waiting for the final decision to be reached.

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 mostly 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 they went.

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

Perhaps because it had been abandoned halfway through construction and had merely borrowed space from natural rock fissures, the structure of the tomb passage near the temporary encampment was inherently less stable than the upper sections, and a small segment had collapsed.

The situation had not yet been so severe; they could still see the light on the other side through the partially blocked passage and shout to each other.

The few people trapped suffered no serious injuries, as their quick reactions had only resulted in minor wounds.

The remaining supplies in the underground camp were more than enough to last several days, and air circulation was still adequate—rescue time was plentiful.

The only unpleasant issue was that the fissure connecting to the water channel had widened due to the tremor; water flowed in through the expanded gap, making the environment extremely uncomfortable, and 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 no less than 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 appear to have expanded, the central fissure was now completely blocked.

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

Those seemingly unrelated individuals were temporary stone workers summoned urgently, desperate to dig open the passage in the shortest possible time. No one could guarantee that a third—or even more—earthquake would not occur.

Currently, the overwhelmed monks were half-coaxing, half-tricking those still hesitating into entering the tomb entrance, and had abandoned all concerns about secrecy.

Brother Wading arrived at the perfect moment; they needed someone with experience and authority to take charge and calm the crowd.

"If Green were here, it would be better." Brother Wading sighed from the depths of his heart. If the priest had returned too, this mess would never have fallen on him.

He spent considerable time figuring out who exactly was present: besides a few remaining personnel, even clergy from nearby small chapels had been dragged here as reinforcements, and some of the workers had been recruited from among the faithful they had mobilized, others lured with promises of material rewards.

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

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

The condition of the tomb passage was indeed worse than aboveground; near the surface, the damage was still subtle, but as they descended further, they noticed previously overlooked fine cracks, accentuated by forces transmitted through the rock, making the rough walls resemble the deep wrinkles of a mummified face.

Remains embedded in the walls had fallen out, scattered across the ground. At first, Brother Wading tried to avoid them, but soon the bones multiplied, covering the path entirely, leaving him no place to step—he could only murmur prayers as he stepped over them.

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

Cracks in the rock walls grew increasingly severe with depth; 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 dealing with the rubble posed no difficulty: large stones were shattered, smaller fragments loaded into baskets, and carried to nearby vacant tombs.

Despite the chilly temperature, 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; they could faintly hear the echo of stones falling and rolling on the other side.

This might be good news—it suggested the distance between the two sides was not great, perhaps only a few steps, and would not take long to bridge.

To clear the passage faster, they were not attempting full removal; instead, they tried clearing the upper rubble first, aiming to create a small tunnel through which people could crawl over the pile.

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

Such a faint airflow should not have been easily detectable, but it carried moisture and a strange odor mixed with other scents.

That moisture was unlike the stale dampness locals were accustomed to on rainy days; it was the moisture one smelled when standing by the Tem River at night, carried by the evening breeze—representing dark, boundless waters.

It was so thick it condensed from the air, causing the firelight filtering through the rock crevices to cast long beams across the pitch-black opposite side, illuminating walls with a faint sheen.

"Is anyone there?" Brother Wading shouted toward the other side.

No one answered. He crawled onto the rubble, pried open the stones ahead with his sword scabbard, and peered inside—he saw the sheen on the walls was not evenly distributed 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 his angle slightly, the beam of light revealed distant ground littered with filthy puddles; warped wooden crates contained untouched rations and fuel, which someone had moved here—but crushed by some force.

The bent wooden surfaces bore the same thick liquid, already seeping into the wood, turning it into a corroded, moldy texture.

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

A nearly snapped sword lay beside the puddle; its owner may have used it to fight something, but all that remained was a pool of oxidized, blackened crimson—like spoiled berry juice, smeared and licked by some unseen thing.