Chapter 307

The team withdrew from the ruin.

They had anticipated a fierce battle, something that would shatter their understanding—but there was nothing here, nothing but an empty shell.

The discarded eggshell, its embryo fallen within, soaked in the remains of the clan that once dwelled here. The contents had indeed coalesced into one, incubating that thing—but whatever emerged from the shell had nothing to do with yolk or albumen.

Before leaving, Kraft chipped off a small sample from the pillar made of special material. To be honest, he was curious how these had “died.”

They returned to the boat unharmed, the vanished things now a tangible weight pressing against their fragile nerves.

The embryo’s formation required nutritional support, but now it seemed formation was far from the end—it still needed to grow, and the dwindling clan underground clearly failed to meet the demand. And if anywhere could meet it...

Everyone simultaneously thought of it: right above them, an entire city trembled in upheaval.

The boat left shore; fuel consumption was more optimistic than expected, allowing further exploration before returning—only when over one-third of the total was spent.

The remaining two-thirds accounted for detours, getting lost, and possible scenarios requiring waiting for rescue.

After escaping the shallows and reefs, torches were extinguished; oil lamps became the sole source of light.

Adjusted course, heading for the base of another, larger pillar, deeper in the lake.

The lighthouse’s glow behind them had nearly vanished, reduced to a faint pinprick, struggling to pierce the thick, cloth-like fog—already spent. Fortunately, the visible silhouette of the pillar served as another navigational marker, offering directional reference.

The mist grew denser; the fog obscuring vision did not dissipate with time but thickened further, becoming leaden water enveloping the senses, dulling perception of the surroundings.

Even conversation felt a slight delay—watching lips move, yet needing moments to grasp meaning.

A chill landed on Kraft’s hand; he wiped it, and the sensation became a small patch. Team members murmured in surprise, bringing exposed skin to the lamp’s light for inspection.

Ordinary water droplets. The air’s moisture had thickened to the point of condensing and falling from the ceiling, forming a strange phenomenon like rain.

For a moment, they truly believed they had returned to the surface, rowing on the Tem River or some other body of water on a rainy day, where a slight turn of the boat could bring them back to shore.

But the truth was, the waters within the fog were endless, and the “rain” grew heavier.

Cold droplets seeped through their cloaks, pierced chainmail, soaked their linings, draining warmth from their bodies.

They had taken no rain precautions; no one imagined rain could fall through dozens or hundreds of meters of rock.

The Dunling people, accustomed to mild climates, endured it; the only northerner who understood the misery of freezing rain had already begun searching for shelter.

Kraft unwrapped part of the outer waterproofing from spare gear, spread it out, and had everyone huddle beneath. The waxed cloth or paper was decent enough to serve as makeshift rain capes, keeping most drops off and preventing hypothermia within half an hour.

This was no exaggeration; for outdoor activities, rain could sometimes be more troublesome than snow alone.

“I don’t understand how those people survived.” The lake’s temperature was cold enough to make one’s bones shudder—wet, penetrating cold that made even his grip on the rain cape feel his marrow cooling.

Kraft, with decent cold tolerance, remained stable; several cultivators who hadn’t even considered insulation were now shivering, stifling breaths through nose and mouth to avoid making noise.

Low, weak hums followed the boat’s movement; once a new breathing rhythm was established, they took on a rhythmic quality.

High and low, rhythmic hums intertwined—a symphony of allergic rhinitis and post-abortion sneezes.

Someone, in the suffocating air, had found their own melody; unnoticed, the sound had grown musical, repeating in a cyclical pattern, as if humming a tune.

Sometimes a familiar fragment emerged—a phrase echoing from a tavern poet begging for coins, an old villager’s cracked lips, or a church choir’s performance—only to veer instantly into unfamiliar territory.

The melody was crude, yet it stirred resonance, like a widespread, broken lullaby, carrying an infantile familiarity, tempting one to hum along with its familiar fragments.

Yet when attempting to isolate the exact tune beyond instinct, it became impossible to distinguish from the other sounds—just ordinary hums, exhaled through damp, cold nasal membranes, mere coincidence.

The sensation was deeply unsettling, like a fly buzzing around the ear, audible only in half-sleep.

Finally, someone had had enough; they noticed subtle impatience on every face.

“Stop. Don’t hum anymore.” The cultivator’s gaze lingered on each face, including the two oarsmen, but found no culprit.

Everyone looked innocent and confused, shook their heads, then lowered them again, retreating into their rain capes.

Moments later, they realized the humming had ignored the command—still low, persistent, playing on.

Greene frowned; the damp, uncomfortable state had already made him irritable, and this behavior only made it worse.

“Stop humming!”

He warned, certain everyone on the boat could hear. All held their breath, terrified their own sound might be mistaken for the offender’s.

Even the oarsmen paused their strokes.

“......” The crude tune, low and heavy, crawled over their earlobes. It had not stopped.

Perhaps psychological, the air grew colder—so cold the clothing’s warmth felt useless, mist silently dampened garments, icy droplets condensed on skin, sliding down necks into collars.

Kraft emerged from the rain cape, shoved the hesitant oarsmen back into the boat, crouched low, and scanned the surrounding water.

Simultaneously, the priest signaled to the cultivators, grabbed the untouched waterproof bundle, extracted its contents, stepped on the pedal, stretched the linen-and-metal-wire string, nocked an arrow, braced it against his shoulder, and waited for the signal.

The humming was nearly drowned by the hurried preparations inside the hull, though its location had always been elusive.

Like an aerogel dissolved in the fog—it could be beside the ear, or anywhere.

Where?

Kraft saw Greene mouth exaggeratedly, but his eyes caught nothing beyond the gunwale.

The water in the air and beneath the boat merged into one, dim and heavy, obscuring vision; only that same inexplicable glow outlined distant shapes, while nearby details vanished entirely.

Sweat trickled from his forehead, over his eyelashes, into his eyes, stinging his corneas. Something had been near them for a long while.

【When?】

Since entering the freezing rain? Or since they huddled under the rain capes?

The mist writhed like a living thing, slow and silent, weaving layered curtains that disguised ripples, droplet rings, and bubbles as suspicious shapes, concealing true changes.

He closed his eyes, facing away from the others.