Chapter 312

In the end, the cultivators never received the priest’s signal to act.

Everyone exhaled in relief; though they lacked no courage to confront the Father directly, simply dying in an unnecessary internal feud would make their final report look terrible.

Moreover, this place—neither heaven nor earth—made it hard to say where one’s soul would end up after death.

All present had walked through the sewer systems and royal tombs; the various signs they’d seen along the way were nearly explicit, and they had their suspicions—voicing them merely brought the matter into the open.

And this suggested that the unstoppable force had once been harnessed and maintained with relative stability for a period of time.

Most importantly, Kraft’s condition indirectly confirmed this. After a brief exchange, it was easy to judge: compared to those mad heretics, he showed no obvious change in personality or values, nor any aggressive tendencies.

Not for now.

Upon realizing this, they worried instead that Greene would stubbornly cling to dogma and confront every use of unnatural power.

Fortunately, the priest proved more rational and flexible than expected. He did not do so; he was the first to lower his taut, water-swollen crossbow, stepped forward, extended his hand, and pulled the man from the water, lifting him to sit on the high stern.

“How did you do it?”

“Like inspiration?” Kraft pulled his soaked sleeve back over his wrist. “It’s like, for one moment, you and your sword master became one—you understood how he made that movement.”

“I haven’t seen him in years, but I’m certain I didn’t learn it that way back then.”

“It’s just an analogy, meant to aid understanding. You can’t make a man born blind comprehend light, nor can I make someone truly grasp an experience beyond conventional perception.”

Greene searched for the specific sensation described, but found nothing but lingering, heart-shaking pain.

He pressed his knuckles against both sides of his skull, feeling water seep through his ear canals, swelling and throbbing. “You sound mentally clear—that’s good. Please keep it that way.”

The cultivators resumed their unfinished tasks. The recent attack had made them cautious with noise, but they weren’t overly tense—slightly more relaxed now.

The peaceful resolution of suspicion meant the group now possessed a new kind of strength; one had to admit it brought genuine reassurance. Until the professor suddenly developed some mental issue, they needn’t worry about dealing with the lake’s scattered peculiar aquatic life.

They did the best they could with their physical limits: re-pumping the boat’s hull, emptying and reusing the waterlogged barrels, inventorying remaining supplies—and arrived at a hopeful conclusion: though most things were wet, there was still plenty left.

With flint, fuel, and a few scraps of cloth and dried padding preserved by tight wrapping, a small flame ignited in a makeshift metal shield basin.

Light and heat returned here—though meager.

Slowly warming, thawing minds began to consider their current situation.

They could temporarily set aside the lake’s native or invasive aquatic life and face the more pressing question: which way should they go?

Without any reliable reference points, the boat had no way to determine return direction—worse than a ship cast off course by a storm. A sea vessel could still navigate by stars; above them lay only utter blackness.

Only two choices seemed left: either pick a direction at random and leave fate to the Father’s invisible hand, or seek a central island to anchor and await rescue.

If forced to choose, most favored the former.

Logically, expecting rescue to find them in this lake was unrealistic; emotionally, no one liked the “Theodore” priest of the other group—even Greene, who spoke of unity, harbored resentment.

Kraft resolved to stay far away from that “Theodore.” Anyone who could make Greene barely contain himself must have serious moral or behavioral flaws—likely both.

So it was no longer a choice.

They decided direction by randomly throwing arrows and began aimless rowing.

The boat was flung too far; a moment of dizziness in the giant waves equaled minutes of rowing.

Their exact position couldn’t be determined, but based on impressions before losing consciousness, they likely entered deeper waters.

Changing observation angles only confirmed once again that none of the previous reference points remained.

With only distant colossal pillars as references, they rowed for a long while before realizing their direction consistently deviated from expectation. The lake wasn’t as calm as its surface suggested; beneath lay restless, unquiet currents that constantly dragged the boat off course, making any attempt to correct it demand double the effort.

This discovery led the group to abandon futile efforts, conserving energy and surrendering control to the lake itself.

Once they accepted their efforts were meaningless, their mindset grew calm. Members gathered around the flame in the round shield, drying and sharing food.

These solid wheat flour cakes were apparently the best waterproof material here; after drying the surface and breaking them open, the insides remained dry. Paired with salted, air-dried meats preserved by oil film, they were the pinnacle of current food safety.

The taste wasn’t ideal, but their satiety and energy replenishment earned perfect scores.

Don’t dwell on nitrite issues—it’s far better than mold spots forming inside the food.

Food supplies were still adequate; under rationing, they could last days. A palm-sized cake stuffed into the stomach wouldn’t guarantee sufficient calories, but the digestive tract wouldn’t want anything else for hours. Some things are unpleasant for a reason.

The current had taken control. Perhaps it wasn’t the Father’s hand deciding their fate, but the lake’s will.

Though imprecise, their speed now matched active rowing—the boat wasn’t spinning in place but was carried along, as if hidden preset paths existed beneath the water.

Time underground couldn’t be measured, but during their meal and rest, Kraft sensed his speed had increased slightly again.

Direction remained unclear, path curved unpredictably; frequent minor jolts implied uneven motion. The underwater sensation was chaotic and complex—rapid surges and heavy drags interwoven, colliding into countless swirling eddies, yet still guided.

They passed another colossal pillar supporting the underground world. Beneath this grand spectacle lay scattered remnants of the same structures they’d seen before—larger, denser, like a wheat field cut by a scythe, abruptly terminating midair, the break forming a smooth, even cut.

The cut extended along the pillar’s curve, leaving a scar that took half a circle to fully trace. Rock strata had released stress here, fracturing and compressing into fang-like shapes. The grotesque misalignment made the entire structure visually unstable, giving the impression it might collapse at any moment, taking the ceiling above with it.

Compared to the lakebed activity they’d recently experienced, that had been nothing more than a sleeper’s breath. When fully awakened, the pain released could inflict irreversible damage on structures that seemed solid but were in fact precariously fragile.

Before such power, it was impossible to imagine what a few humans could accomplish—even if some had stolen scraps of that greatness, it meant nothing.

They merely drifted, watching the pillar fade again into mist behind them, becoming a vague outline. The fear radiating from that terrifying scar still made their bodies tremble faintly after it vanished from view.

This was no return journey—it was being swept inward by the vortex.

Clusters of prismatic reef formations confirmed it: the dark current dropped the boat here, dumping it into treacherous shallows ahead, where water conditions were unknown.

The water’s surface shimmered faintly—but didn’t flow with the current, pinned between rising waves. Instinct drove Kraft to look up: countless starlike points embedded in the distant ceiling reflected into the deep lake and his eyes.