Chapter 322: The Sculptor

“Should we go down and find that ‘trigger’?”

“I think this place isn’t suitable for everyone to go down together.” Kraft pulled out his last two sample vials; the bounty of this journey far exceeded anything before, and the variety of samples might soon overturn established understanding.

“More precisely, no human should go down—but unfortunately, I can do nothing here.”

He did not avert his gaze like the others, instead fixing his eyes on the living sculpture oozing black fluid, patiently waiting for those indescribable things to react.

But they did not; they merely moved slowly in a fixed rhythmic cycle, seemingly uninterested in the living creature and its heat and light so close at hand.

“I have an idea.” Kraft tossed the burnt-out torch into the pit—still no further reaction—“Do we still have the rope?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just in case, I need someone to pull me up if necessary.” Kraft took the rope from Vading, tied a secure knot around his waist and shoulders.

The rope was heavy, with strength befitting its weight—hard to believe Vading had carried it all the way here; originally meant to secure the boat or traverse special terrain, it had finally found its use.

“I suggest those in a daze turn away. When I need help, I’ll tug the rope three times quickly—then pull me back with all your strength, as fast as you can.”

He tugged hard on the rope, certain it wouldn’t snap even if he were torn in two; its diameter, roughly the width of two thumbs pressed together, was sturdy enough to wrestle a carriage.

“See you soon.” The professor set down his pack, tossed the rope loop back into Vading’s hands, handed the near end to the priest, and took his first step toward the pit—a scene resembling hell.

He spread his arms for balance, placing his weightless feet upon the sturdier petrified limbs; the blindly swaying slender branches scraped his boots, leaving white streaks and a sound like sandpaper rubbing.

His center of gravity shifted slowly, leaning past the edge until his second boot lifted and stepped in as well.

Then came several seconds of long waiting; Green saw Kraft give a behind-him “all clear” gesture, then stepped forward with the lantern held level.

Just a single step forward, and the figure stumbled—as if suddenly entering a thick, viscous environment, where bodily and mental pressure was buoyed, becoming slow and weightless.

His hands instinctively gripped the rope; he nearly expected the signal any second—or feared the other had already lost the ability to send it.

But Kraft immediately regained his balance and took another step forward, seemingly adapting swiftly.

It didn’t feel like walking voluntarily; it felt like a fish carried by the tide, drifting toward its destined place—always this way, meant to be this way.

Hundreds of slender fingers gathered knowingly, becoming the most attuned servants, always preemptively laying down red carpets beneath his footsteps, forming a path that shifted with his direction.

Pain temporarily faded; his mind became clear and empty, and the environment adjusted itself to his will.

Everything was inverted yet comfortable: the path advanced with his steps, objective rules obeyed subjective intent, spirit determined matter.

The situation was strange, yet his empty consciousness felt light and free—profoundly soothing. He walked further, letting his arms hang loose and swing naturally, handing the lantern to his bare hands.

As he descended deeper, the extended rope grew heavier, tugging his upper body slightly backward. He diverted a sliver of awareness to instruct his hands to lift it—the feedback felt indistinct; the thick rope felt as light as cotton thread.

Another stepwise descent; black fluid pooled here. He reached out, cupped his foot, lifted himself higher, away from the scaly, rippling surface.

His body no longer felt as light; sluggishness hindered his mind’s control over his limbs—he needed greater focus to perform fine movements, like waking from a long nap in a library, stretching numb arms while the heavy weight pressing them remained unchanged.

In the countless spiral levels, towering bookshelves stood in orderly rows, filled with books bound in four colors, arranged in pairs facing each other—immensely orderly.

His consciousness naturally accepted the offered book, opened and flipped through it. Pages teemed with dense text and impossibly intricate illustrations; his gaze spilled like ink, swiftly sweeping over and devouring words, seeping deeper into the pages below.

New knowledge flowed through his consciousness—novel, brilliant, unheard-of; some soared above mainstream views, others emerged from unimagined mental blind spots, revealing entirely new pathways, interconnecting previously unrelated concepts, expanding his vision from point to whole.

His prior learning couldn’t even fill the prologue; countless gaps, errors, and fallacies rendered it embarrassingly crude.

The first insight granted him immediate identification of probable causes for several diseases whose mechanisms were traditionally unclear, followed by the formulation of targeted treatment plans.

His consciousness opened like a dehydrated man’s parched lips, receiving the torrent of information—but it lingered only briefly, slipping through, barely moistening his tongue, even that moisture evaporating.

This left him bewildered; he raised his hand to search for leaks, pressing against both cheeks, clutching his jaw, trying to grasp the pulsing esophagus. The rough, gritty texture against his skin felt alien.

Kraft pried open his eyelids—when had they closed?—trying to observe his surroundings; the sudden, intense burning on his cheeks prevented him from turning his neck further.

The lantern’s light was far behind, barely perceptible; multi-toed limbs clustered around him, their petrified texture pressed against his face.

A multi-jointed, flexible arm extended from the darkness below, grasping his left hand tightly; its uneven, slender fingers threaded through his fingers, wrapping his palm and wrist; the pale geometric shards embedded along both arms shimmered in mutual reflection.

A sharp pain in his palm reminded him something had pierced his skin—yet the pain vanished swiftly within his consciousness.

【Trigger】

He “held” something—but not with his palm; it was an irregularly shaped hard object. His elongated “fingers” slipped into its crevices, gripping small depressions on its surface, twisting inward until he fused with it.

Space sharply narrowed—but not in the way that severed mental senses; his body seemed returned to an amnesiac embryonic state, the amniotic sac flattened beyond movement, the thin amniotic fluid insufficient to submerge his entire form, while undeveloped tissues floated and grew within.

His self was infinitely diluted, like ink dropped into a lake, merging into a new bodily awareness—the space hadn’t shrunk; he had expanded.

He must sever this connection immediately—but before doing so, he needed to do one final thing.

He summoned all his mental capacity, temporarily extracting a fragment of knowledge he had once seen: how to rapidly precipitate and solidify a substance into a resilient structure.

It could form the most basic support framework for advanced movement, or, under extreme use, transform those frameworks into inward-pointing spines.

It remained in his consciousness for only an instant—but even that instant was enough.

【Calcium】

Focusing on a single theme, his consciousness wove it together with “pacemaker,” gently stirring the ripples enveloping the thin “amniotic fluid.”

In that moment, Kraft knew he was satisfied. He was a sculptor, having completed his desired work with a crude carving tool in hand.

Under the opposite effect of digitalis, cells expelled vast quantities of calcium ions; the second command, through the mechanism already slipped from his mind, caused the secreted calcium to precipitate a millionfold faster—transforming it into true stone—hydroxyapatite, calcium phosphate, calcium carbonate, calcium oxalate... all the damned substances impossible to reabsorb.

Sand and stone formed within tissue gaps and circulation, clogging vessels, locking joints, turning soft tissues into coarse calcified lesions.

The only one who could understand this work had died not long ago—even if alive, he likely wouldn’t share this joy.

The remaining ignorant ones could only glimpse, as an illusion on the ground, a fleeting flash of celestial light.

Before they could react, the sculpture was complete—the rope in their hands tugged three times in a regular rhythm.