Chapter 302: The Incurable Affliction

Theoretically, there should be no massive hollow structure beneath Dunling. Although this area receives heavy rainfall, the primary rock layer is not limestone, lacking the ideal conditions for cave formation.

Moreover, this is not a typical cave with a generally elongated shape and localized expansions—it is a vast space that seems to expand infinitely.

Below the original hall lay the lake's edge, where the collapsed section formed a steep, jagged slope of broken rocks sloping into the water.

All hope of recovering the missing persons had vanished; the thing must have already returned to the lake.

Only after the rear team spent half a day fully clearing a passage did the two dare to approach the water, armed with sufficient fuel and backup support.

The excessively dense mist severely limited visibility; even holding torches high could not illuminate a space large enough to feel safe, making movement less like walking and more like crawling through the rubble.

Fortunately, the slope became gentler the lower they went, allowing easier movement. When they finally heard the slow, rhythmic sound of water right beside their ears, they stood on a stony beach composed of smaller fragments.

The lake's waves shattered against the rock ridges, filling the crevices like breath, then slowly receding, emitting a low, mournful sound like weeping—a strange, almost biological presence.

The water was impossibly clean, appearing in the gloom like flowing black crystal, free of any impurities, algae, or decay common to enclosed bodies of water.

Looking upward, they could not discern the shape of the ceiling, nor judge its height—only a pure, chaotic gray-black haze, as if this were its own unique sky.

The space between the water and the ceiling was not empty; farther out, faint outlines of massive, motionless shapes could be discerned—perhaps natural pillars supporting the ceiling—but certain unnaturally regular lines in those contours always suggested artificial features.

The light in their hands was far too weak to illuminate that distance; yet within this space, some faint, dim, mist-like glow permeated everywhere, ubiquitous and unyielding. Nothing fell into utter darkness, allowing intruders to glimpse a fleeting, elusive, terrifying depth.

Unsettled calls came from behind; at this distance, they and their support team could barely make out the faint glow of each other's torches.

"What do we do?" Before coming here, Brother Wading had never imagined such a scene.

He had expected at most to trace a creature's nest through the sewers, then use human ingenuity to outwit it, retrieving either the surviving colleague or at least their remains—and finally uncover clues related to the earthquakes.

But before them lay an endless underground lake. Even if one could confirm something was wrong inside, what could they possibly do?

Kraft was also stunned by the situation, still pondering how this place had formed and what it meant. Upon hearing the question, he gave an answer that had barely crossed his mind: "Row a boat."

"Row a boat?"

In Kraft's view, the plan was feasible: "It's difficult, but perhaps we can bring the boat parts down and assemble them, or use barrels or similar objects to generate buoyancy."

"It looks huge, but since even partial rainfall in Dunling causes noticeable water level fluctuations, the area must be relatively limited—it can't be that much larger… right?"

He almost convinced Wading, but the hesitant tone at the end betrayed the professor's own uncertainty. Every claim rested on "I think" and "should be"—hardly persuasive enough to convince anyone to row into the water.

"That would be extremely dangerous," Wading added, sensing his caution might sound cowardly. "Besides, there's the biggest problem."

"The bishops recently ordered a complete halt to all exploration. Even if we could persuade others to turn a blind eye, we'd receive no support—neither manpower nor resources."

"They'll change their minds." Two earthquakes should have raised enough alarm among those who knew the truth. If not, one more would make them realize the Mother Cathedral and the sandcastles on the beach were equally fragile.

Such enthusiasm confused the monk. Logically, someone whose family lands lay in the north and whose ecclesiastical duties were in Westminster should be the least invested here.

"Are you certain?" He found this eagerness to descend hard to comprehend. "I don't mean to doubt you—but… are you truly sure you want to go?"

Objectively speaking, Kraft admitted he himself wasn't certain—he was in a state of ambivalence, neither committed nor opposed.

He could risk continuing the exploration, seeking the cause of the earthquakes, attempting—as he had before—to crush the source before events spiraled beyond control.

The risks were obvious. It was known that beneath Dunling lay a colossal civilization's ruin, the final creations of a people who had descended into irreversible madness. Even the royal family and the Church had touched only a fraction—and paid the price of permanently sealing away that past.

Not even dozens, not even hundreds of people here would be enough to fill its maw.

Alternatively, he could simply turn and walk away, immediately gathering the entire academic tour group to return to Westminster, far from this place of trouble—perhaps even inviting a few acquaintances along under some pretext.

Besides, this was not his responsibility as a medical professor. First and foremost, it should fall to the Church and the royal family, who had guarded this secret for over a century—though whether they had preserved detailed records or if they were entirely lost, or at best fragmented, remained uncertain.

Objectively, the better choice was the latter. He knew it. Wading knew it. The monk stood silent, like one awaiting confession, waiting for his answer.

But no reply came. They stood side by side by the lakeshore for a while, until he turned to look at the professor, searching the focus of those young eyes—and found them fixed ahead, lingering on the mist-shrouded lake, the shadowy giants.

Perhaps due to sleepless labor and relentless travel, they showed signs of fatigue, like a sapphire clouded with dust, the complex emotional reflections within dimmed slightly.

Rational analysis, professional concern, subtle arrogance, and urgency-induced irritation—all temporarily faded, dulled.

Something rare emerged, glimmering within.

Without doubt, Wading was certain he had seen this before—yet he could not place it, no matter how hard he recalled, always just out of reach.

"I want to know what happened," Kraft said, as if offering a casual excuse. "Let me know if there's news."

A familiar memory stirred—the monk remembered where he had seen it. Each time he visited the Medical Academy, passing through the corridor.

In the eyes of the portraits hanging on the walls, that same thing had glimmered.

A terminal, incurable affliction: "curiosity"—spreading through every mind cursed by knowledge, immune even to the threat of death.