Chapter 305: The Giant

In silent accord, the crew took their seats and gripped the gunwales.

As if a secret competition had begun, both teams' oarsmen exerted force nearly simultaneously, slowly pushing the boats away from the shore, heavy and smooth, gliding toward the lake's surface in opposite directions.

The other vessel's form blurred and vanished into the thick fog; the sound of oars cutting the water disappeared too.

Though their usual relations were far from good, this isolation was deeply unsettling—like severing the last tie to human society, cast adrift like a disconnected float into an unpredictable, eerie realm.

The lighthouse shrank behind them to the size of a pinhole, then rose upward after losing the boat's position, swaying blindly left and right.

Until the guiding light for the return journey became a flickering speck, and the final contrast point for orientation vanished, they began to feel as if they were merely paddling empty water.

They kept stirring the waves, yet felt the boat stuck in place—neither drawing closer to the lake's silhouettes nor moving farther from the lighthouse's glow.

Greene blocked the oarsman who had unconsciously sped up, pointing to the clear, dark water—they must not draw any attention.

Even the mournful lapping of waves vanished from perception with the shore; only the faint stirring of oars remained, along with occasional distant sounds—possibly falling stalactites from the ceiling or something entering the water—silent and hollow.

Lighting was strictly limited: all open flames were extinguished before departure, leaving only one oil lamp burning at minimal brightness.

Tense faces, uneasy faces, expressionless faces gathered within the dim light too weak to illuminate the boat's bow or stern, waiting for the lake to answer the explorers' presence.

The lake remained silent.

"Did you tell them about the possible scenarios?" Kraft asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Everyone here is experienced," Greene said, meeting every pair of eyes. He was satisfied with the current state—maintaining silence despite knowing what they might face was commendable.

Fear isn't the problem; appropriate fear sharpens the spirit, keeping one in a state of relative alertness, just like pre-exam nerves.

"No, that's not what I mean." Kraft remembered clearly the faces aboard—every one a familiar one. "I mean over there, that Theodore—do they know the situation?"

The priest's demeanor was calm: "I informed them of the circumstances, including every detail they needed to know and every preparation required."

"As I said before, Father Theodore is a sensible man—he listens to reason. As for the rest, faith and wisdom will help him overcome the trials, just as they helped us. I have fulfilled my duty."

It sounded as if the briefing hadn't gone smoothly; Father Greene wasn't entirely a saint without temper.

A faint laugh seemed to surface, but perhaps it was merely the thought of one's own uncertain fate—and vanished as if it had never been.

The boat continued forward.

Time had passed long enough; the two oarsmen felt their arms ache and relinquished their posts to others, retreating into the boat's hull.

The waters proved calmer than expected; they grew accustomed to navigating the fog and dared to lean over the gunwales to observe the water's surface and distant shapes.

The unchanging voyage warped their sense of time and distance; suddenly looking up, the mere silhouettes ahead seemed to have drawn closer without notice, appearing increasingly vast and unbelievable.

If they maintained their course, they would pass directly by one of them.

They were roughly columnar, slightly narrower in the middle, perhaps supporting the ceiling of the underground world, their bases broad and sturdy—like islands rising from the lakebed. Most signs of artificial work clustered here, resembling termite nests built beneath the colossal pillars of abandoned temples.

As they drew nearer, the boat entered shallower waters; the lakebed rose toward the surface, lifting rocks out of the water.

Stones of varied shapes pierced the fog, suddenly appearing in unexpected places—sometimes directly ahead, nearly colliding head-on.

The crew had to light torches to expand visibility. The reinforced hull could likely withstand impacts, but they had no intention of testing it.

After several close passes, most realized the rocks bore a shape never seen or heard of—neither found in any known natural environment nor explainable as human-made.

These reefs were composed of rough, tightly fitted prismatic columns, as if inserted one by one into the water and then snapped at varying heights, each fracture surface hexagonal and six-angled.

It was easy to recall the dense hexagonal patterns carved into the sewers, reminding them they stood within the incomprehensible prototype, nearing the root of a nightmare.

"Just unusual geology," the professor said, swiftly grabbing a loose fragment as they passed again and pried it loose.

"Rare indeed—only found in places with volcanic activity. I have a friend in maritime trade who once saw such formations near coastal volcanoes on the ice plains."

Whether Captain William had seen them before, he certainly had now.

He passed the rock to others for inspection; they examined its fracture surface—it looked no different from ordinary cracked, weathered stone.

"Some scholars believe this requires magma cooling rapidly upon contact with water, much like breaking stone by fire and water—but under special conditions, the fractures form more regularly."

An explanation—plausible, at least.

The monks were reassured; their awe of the unknown shifted into curiosity.

They hadn't yet realized: knowing the origin changed nothing. It only made clearer that those who carved the sewer hexagons had likely seen this very scene before descending into madness.

High heat, melting, solidification.

Geological activity alone couldn't always produce such effects—it resembled scenes from royal tomb murals: objects falling from the sky, melting and collapsing the earth into seas of fire wherever they landed.

【Now it all makes sense】

Ruins on a scale like a city's reflection, tectonic forces strong enough to trigger earthquakes.

But still, why hexagons? He could understand the vanished ancestors, taking the naturally fractured patterns on fallen rocks as divine signs, new totems.

Yet why did those who returned become so obsessed with carving vast geometric patterns? Just because they had come here and witnessed something?

Then why not carve what they saw? Like some monstrous, twisted creature warped by moon-carcasses or black fluid?

Kraft still harbored doubts, but his thoughts didn't last long.

The reefs ahead grew denser, gripping the attention of everyone on board; the oarsmen strained to slow the boat and avoid the looming obstacles.

Rough scraping sounds occasionally rose from beneath, signaling the shore was near. Through the clear water, they could look down and see the lakebed.

Countless tightly fitted hexagonal jointed rocks rose in terraced steps, ascending until they towered above the lake, lifting before them a strange, unfamiliar cluster of structures.

It crouched at the foot of the giant pillars, collapsed and decayed, as deformed and twisted as its builders.

Thick fog moved freely through the hollow windows and doorways. No inhabitants. No signs of life. Like seashells left behind after the tide receded—everything inside long gone.