Chapter 321

Some things are inherently sacred, as the embodiment of the Highest Will did—dividing His body into loaves of bread, His blood into fine wine, forever driving hunger and thirst from those who received this grace. Such supernatural power thus entered mortal flesh through matter.

And they stood upon such a body, regardless of whether the Church chose to acknowledge its sanctity.

It was as if entering the ruins of an immense, glorious banquet, taking seats long reserved, where food and drink on the long table remained fresh and untouched, coated in dust and webs, while the host and other guests had departed long ago.

The gods once distributed their bodies and powers here to all.

“This…” All cultivators stared in stunned silence, their minds paralyzed by the sudden shock, unable to accept this truth.

What could have spawned a heresy, erected a kingdom, with just a trace—was nothing more than a sliver of shed skin here, a crumb fallen from the plate, neither charity nor malice.

Solidified blackness crept across the ground like spilled broth on a tablecloth, spreading wildly before drying.

The two were tightly fused, as if born as one.

It was hard to distinguish them from dangerous fissures, for both were composed of bottomless darkness, where light entered and never returned.

They also noticed artificial traces—seemingly enlarged versions of the niches on the outer rock clusters, hollowing out the ground in whole sections, deeply burrowing into the pale white wrapped in black textures, evoking thoughts of unsealed tombs.

As they passed these, someone curiously lowered their torch to shine into the pits.

These regularly shaped depressions were generally two to three people tall—deep enough that anyone falling in could never climb out; the bottom was even wider than the opening, with smooth walls offering no grip, as if to prevent something from climbing out—or to await the birth of something.

Light barely pierced the clear water filling them, revealing faint glimpses of the bottom.

Partially petrified bone-like matter fused with the rock, resembling the so-called “molds used by the gods to create life” occasionally unearthed during limestone mining—but far less ancient than those layers where only vague biological outlines could be discerned.

Parts with discernible prototypes were assembled in strange yet logical ways. After what they had seen before, they could no longer believe these were mere mixtures of different skeletons.

Traces of soft tissue remained, their texture similar to extreme pathological calcification foci, where organic components were gradually replaced by inorganic matter, shriveling and hardening into living sculptures bearing signs of life.

The pale white stone had fully seeped into these bones—into the swollen skulls, into the new spines, into the chain-linked long bones and the complex, withered tissues attached to them, freezing the human body mid-transformation into a fossil specimen.

They had nearly regained life, but the black salt around them, showing signs of secondary melting, revealed why they had failed—the deep forces’ activity caused the black salt to temporarily transform into a potent inhibitory liquid.

These things greedily absorbed more moon-bone components, yet even as most of themselves turned to stone, they could not overcome that overwhelming inhibition, eventually losing all vitality and becoming reliefs on the rock.

Or was this the purpose? Were they attempting, through this method, to slowly melt and separate the two entangled substances?

If so, the ritualistic nature of this act far outweighed its practical meaning—no mere drop in the bucket could describe it.

Yet this did not stop them from tirelessly bringing the dead here, generation after generation; the deeper tombs grew larger, and the piled, petrified bones at the bottom fused into colossal, unseen entities, their tentacles climbing the pit’s edges, their unshed toes gripping the ground like centipede legs.

Blackened, melted, and re-solidified material encased them; the larger the entity, the more pronounced this phenomenon became.

What unsettled them was that the newly condensed black substance seemed insufficient to fill the emptied fissures.

One day, this massive celestial remnant would wash away foreign impurities and shed its chains—but that day would come very late.

It did not care about timing; time stood on its side. Those who sought to gain something here would, after their fleeting, insignificant lives, ultimately offer their spirits and bodies, becoming yet another stone in the temple’s construction.

Kraft partially understood why the sewer leading here was almost entirely sealed—someone had tried to slow the underground lake’s intake of nutrients from the surface through the water system.

But it was never water that brought new offerings here—it was the endless gaze of inquiry, piercing through deliberately confused and erased myths, peering into this secret.

One tribe failed; another would always come.

“I don’t see any meaning in this.” Even the most optimistic cultivator felt a flicker of despair; what kept the remaining group moving forward seemed now only the obsession to reach some unknown, perhaps nonexistent end.

Learning more brought no benefit—it only reminded them again of this power’s inevitable victory.

“At least we might have a chance to delay the terrible outcome a little longer.” During a rest break, Kraft quietly pried off another fragment of petrified tissue.

His actions no longer drew opposition; instead, they had a calming effect, suggesting they still had a chance to return with the secrets and small souvenirs from here.

“Doesn’t this make no sense? Why did the moment these heretics arrived, the entire underground of Dunling erupted?”

“Including that guy just now—despite his surprising methods, he shouldn’t have had the power to stir up an entire lakebed that had lain peacefully for centuries—the scale just doesn’t add up.”

“So there must be a key point—like…”

The professor paused, searching for clearer terms. “Like the trigger mechanism of a ballista. The archer lacks the strength to launch a bolt heavier than a spear over the city wall—he merely knows how to use the large tool to release the stored power within.”

“So you think we’ll find a ‘trigger’?” The idea was exhilarating. Though its reality remained uncertain, and its use unknown, at least their efforts now felt meaningful.

“Perhaps the thing large enough to affect the entire lake lies beneath our feet. I think there must be such a trigger—something that temporarily activates it, perhaps a scaled-up ‘spell’ or similar.” Kraft explained; he had no other explanation.

“I hope this trigger actually exists—and isn’t some damn one-time use device, or some impossibly complex mechanism.”

“What if it’s not what you think?”

“Then we turn back, row home, and pray our hard work and the Father’s blessing carry us back to the start—and that we can run as far as possible before this city collapses entirely.”

No one asked further questions; perhaps they were silently praying.

Their prayer was answered soon after—perhaps the Father had finally found a crack and reached his hand into this forgotten corner.

They halted before a structure eerily familiar: the ground descended in terraced steps, each geometric plane adorned with relief-like petrified tissue.

Though they had seen enough twisted things, the sight before them still induced an indescribable unease.

These “reliefs” seemed not entirely dead—they twitched and contracted faintly, oozing deep black liquid without any reflection.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news.”

“I guess the good news is—you were right.” Green tore his gaze from the liquid; he knew the flowing darkness held a latent allure for the mind.

“The bad news is—the trigger is below.”