Chapter 313: The Boat

Greene was certain Kraft wasn't telling the truth, at least not the whole truth.

No evidence is needed; anyone who has dealt with this kind of person for long enough reaches a similar conclusion: a group of well-disguised outsiders whose greatest pleasure is obsessively probing forbidden subjects, especially those others avoid or rarely dare to touch.

For these people, even gaining no benefit from it is irrelevant—they simply regard the answers, and even the process of inquiry itself, as their reward.

If they occasionally reveal even a hint about their current research, it suggests their actual progress is already at least one or two steps ahead.

Like the theory that the book *On the Structure of the Human Body* must have unpublished sections—sections severe enough to warrant a death sentence for the author.

Similarly, Kraft belongs to this category. Although Greene once thought there was a distinction between this professor and the other, his view was later revised as he came to understand better: a “Morrison with stronger social conformity and higher moral standards.”

This man couldn’t possibly be using “magic” for the first time.

I can swear by years of experience—he’s definitely not. In fact, he should have noticed long ago: during their first encounter in the dark, and later when he was pursued through the tomb’s labyrinth.

It felt less like night vision or intuition, and more like another eye, suspended “above,” observing from an angle untouched by darkness or walls.

That kind of observation, one imagines, is downright chilling.

Of course, he didn’t think so then. Some people simply perceive the world differently, more deeply—it’s not particularly strange.

That’s precisely why he was willing to collaborate with him: working with “ordinary” people who have moral boundaries is always preferable, regardless of whether they believe in the Heavenly Father, since they share similar views and can easily reach consensus.

But this place is different—he felt it was alive, a person stepping into its stony passages and flowing digestive fluids, their skin digested, their inner self exposed, intensified, or transformed, emerging as something alien, yet convinced they are still themselves.

Kraft, this professor, had no divine faith to subvert, no loyalty to betray, no rigid belief to shake. He was adaptable, observant, understanding, and had grown accustomed to it.

And he was growing more accustomed by the day.

This was precisely what Greene feared. Ships capsize in storms; rocks don’t, because they are already deeply rooted in the water.

If what came before was still within acceptable bounds, how could one possibly interpret this man slicing in half something that belonged in nightmares—even for others?

During their gaze, Greene found not a trace of surprise; he could guess what the man was thinking: observe, understand, then apply—what’s wrong with that?

At first, it seemed like a classic scholar’s fallacy: applying theoretical concepts to reality.

But he couldn’t even clearly articulate what he understood—yet he was certain that understanding made everything feel reliable.

In his mind, cause and effect were perfectly clear; he simply couldn’t explain them to these ordinary people or these dogmatic churchmen. In his hands, tearing open a “line” was as natural as swinging a sword.

Greene felt a chill run down his spine.

Without anyone noticing, the lake had sent onto the boat a “person” whose mind and power were drawing ever closer to those beings.

“You’ve been looking up all along.”

The boat sailed into the cluster of reefs, unlike when they had landed before—this area wasn’t the shallow water surrounding the giant pillar; the rocks here were different, sloping outward, taller and more jagged, like bone spines piercing the water’s surface.

Turbulent lake water swirled around them, crashing and tugging at the hull. The recovered monks simultaneously raised four oars, struggling against the force hurling them toward the rocky protrusions.

The water here wasn’t deep, but it was swift; bubbles rising from crevices and holes on the lakebed revealed swirling vortices and suction patterns below—apparently, the bottom wasn’t solid, but piled high with shattered rocks.

While the boat rocked violently, Kraft clearly paid more attention to what was above; only when asked did he turn his gaze back. “Yes, I’m watching those ‘stars.’”

“Anything special about them?” Brother Vadin asked, curious—or perhaps just curious about Kraft himself.

Thinking, “Since Greene hasn’t said anything, the issue probably isn’t serious,” he took the initiative to strike up a conversation with Kraft.

In truth, he didn’t understand why his partner had suddenly fallen silent, as if he’d just figured something out—he himself found that strange power quite fascinating, even if it didn’t quite align with church doctrine.

Whether they became allies or enemies later, it never hurt to build rapport while things were still amicable.

“They look far away.”

“Not as far as you think. If the ‘stars’ wish, they can land on our heads within three breaths.” Kraft shifted position, moving closer to the ship’s rail for a better view, wrapping thick rope around his hands to avoid being thrown overboard. “But fortunately, I haven’t observed them moving yet.”

“Say less, we’re preparing to land...” Greene felt every word sounded like an ill omen.

The underwater rocks quickly rose near the water’s surface; a muffled scraping echoed as arrows brushed against hard surfaces—the arrow shaft embedded in the boat’s hull trembled, then snapped with a sharp crack.

The boat ran aground on a stony beach that rhythmically sucked in and expelled water, as if stuck over a clogged vent.

Steep clusters of rock tilt outward, their surfaces marked by orderly, niche-like depressions that clearly show human craftsmanship; it's impossible to know what once stood inside, likely washed away by the rising and falling lake waters.

Kraft stepped weakly from the boat, tripped on the stony beach, and landed on his hands. Water surged from the crevices, lapping at his fingers, flooding over his palms, gripping them tightly; his skin tasted something unusual.

A piece of “rock” floated up, drifting toward his bleeding palm—among the countless similar stones, it went almost unnoticed.

But not quite. Kraft instantly rolled away, snatched his sword scabbard, and struck the stone several feet away; beneath the cracked surface, a dull, sickly white hue emerged.

Before he could act further, the thing used its soft underside to pry open the shattered rock and burrow deeper into the beach.

As if startled, a series of faint rustling sounds followed, and several similar “stones” vanished from their sight.

“I have to say, the ecology here is quite thriving.” The attempt at a light joke fell flat—who knew how many of these unique lake snails lurked beneath the stony beach?

“The good news is we’ve definitely come to the right place. Stay alert.”

These dangerous little things didn’t blend into the lakebed—they clustered here for a reason.

“Mind if I collect some samples later? The last two might not be enough.”

“As long as we make it back, you can fill a whole tank.” Greene scanned the surroundings warily, searching the mist for any larger creatures—experience told him they rarely strayed far from one another.

They walked along the shore, tapping the ground with their sword scabbards, like hunters in the mountains using staffs to scare off hibernating snakes.

No creature larger than a human, or anything moving, was found. But at the edge of sight, beneath the waterline rocks, there appeared to be a long, streamlined shape—one end resting in the water, the other shattered against the reef during its violent approach to shore.

[A boat]