Chapter 117: Legend (First Chapter — Requesting Monthly Votes)

The main entrance to the underground cemetery lies at Martyr’s Square near the Intis Observatory; the building housing the entrance is supported by rows of pillars, with a dome overhead covered in stone carvings, resembling a miniature memorial or the aboveground portion of a grand mausoleum.

When Lumian arrived, twenty or thirty people had already gathered beside the descending staircase; they wore varied attire, mostly formal, both men and women.

At the front of the group stood a man in his thirties, wearing a blue vest and yellow trousers, with wavy brown hair, a thick beard, slightly upturned eyes, and a dark iron-colored acetylene lamp in his hand, unlit.

He called out loudly to the twenty or thirty people:

“I am Kendall, one of the cemetery’s overseers, and today I’ll be guiding you through the ossuaries.”

“Has everyone prepared a white candle? If not, tell me immediately.”

Tourists? Lumian turned his gaze to the stone staircase behind Kendall.

It stretched endlessly downward, vanishing into thick darkness with no visible end.

Not far from Kendall stood an open heavy door, made of thick wooden planks: one half painted gold with the Sun’s holy symbol, the other half marked with a sturdy triangle filled with symbols of steam, levers, and gears.

After receiving confirmed replies, Kendall lit his acetylene lamp and turned to descend underground; the tourists followed closely behind, some carrying lanterns.

Lumian lagged five or six meters behind, carrying the acetylene lamp he’d obtained from Lamayen, descending the stone steps at a steady pace.

With his ears enhanced by supernatural improvement, he easily caught every word Kendall, at the front, was saying:

“After descending 138 steps, 26 meters beneath the streets of Trier, you’ll see the bones of nearly fifty generations of Trier residents.”

“That’s a conservative estimate—there are far more than fifty generations; some ossuaries in the underground cemetery date back even to the previous era…”

“Forty-seven years ago, cemeteries like the Cemetery of the Innocent and the Priests’ Burial Ground had run out of space; white bones were scattered everywhere, and the stench drove nearby residents to protest daily, demanding the city hall move the burial grounds outside the city…”

“In the end, the city hall chose the underground, connecting certain tombs from the Fourth era with multiple nearby underground quarries to form an enormous, enormous, enormous cemetery… what you’ll see today is merely a fraction of it…”

Kendall’s voice echoed through the silent, dark, endless staircase, stirring an instinctive dread of the cemetery and the depths below.

As they descended step after step, Lumian finally saw a path divided by stone pillars and partitioned walls.

Unlike other parts of the underground world, this path had clearly been repaired and maintained regularly; not a single pothole marred its surface—it was flat and wide, yet profoundly eerie, with occasional chilly gusts of wind sweeping through.

Along this path, gas lamps were installed at intervals, emitting a yellowish glow that alternated light and darkness as they stretched far into the distance.

Kendall, in his blue vest, reminded the visitors again:

“You must stay close to me at all times—do not wander off alone!”

“There are too many areas underground we don’t fully understand; if you lose your way, you’ll be nearly impossible to find.”

“Once inside the cemetery, don’t stray from the marked paths—some routes lead deeper into burial chambers where malevolent spirits of the Fourth era slumber in the dark. Praise the Sun, praise the Light—only by walking the routes confirmed by priests can you avoid all danger.”

Some visitors spread their arms and praised the Sun; others traced triangles over their chests.

After following the cemetery overseer Kendall for nearly two hundred meters, Lumian saw the underground cemetery.

Before him rose a massive natural stone archway, later modified, its sides adorned with intricate reliefs of skulls, white arm bones, sunflowers, and steam symbols.

At the very top of the lintel, two inscriptions were carved in Intis script:

“Stop!”

“Beyond lies the Empire of Death!”

Overseer Kendall turned again to the visitors:

“You may now extinguish your lanterns and light your white candles—everyone must do this!”

“If you don’t wish to enter the cemetery, you may stroll around here, but don’t wander too far, or you’ll easily get lost—and that will be troublesome.”

“Once inside, if you accidentally fall behind the group, don’t panic—look for signposts. If there are none, look upward and follow the black lines painted on the ceiling—they lead all the way back to the main entrance…”

Soon, the lanterns went out, and dozens of orange-yellow candle flames flickered to life in the darkness.

The visitors raised their white candles together and followed Kendall into the underground cemetery.

Lumian watched from afar, as if seeing a slow stream of faint yellow flames drifting gently into the depths of darkness.

He did not enter; instead, holding his acetylene lamp, he circled the cemetery gate searching for the fake wizard Osta Trul.

A few minutes later, Lumian spotted a bonfire.

It burned beside a pillar, its upper stone wall covered in damp moss.

On a rock behind the fire sat a man in a black robe with a hood, high nose bridge, deep brown eyes, and a full beard of flaxen hair, staring intently at the dancing flames.

Lumian walked over and asked directly:

“Are you Osta Trul?”

The hooded man lifted his head, gazing at Lumian, speaking in a deliberately subdued, magnetic, and resonant voice:

“Lost soul, why have you come to me?”

Firelight and shadow danced across Osta Trul’s face, making his exact age impossible to judge—perhaps under thirty, perhaps nearing forty.

Lumian spoke with sincere earnestness:

“I’ve heard of you—they say you’re a miraculous wizard who can help me solve my problems.”

Osta Trul replied in a hoarse, magnetic tone:

“Witchcraft is taboo, witchcraft is a curse—I do not offer aid lightly.”

“What do you require of me?” Lumian pressed urgently.

Osta spoke low:

“The principle of witchcraft is equivalent exchange—first, tell me what help you seek.”

Equivalent exchange? You’ve read too many novels. Lumian suppressed the urge to mock and taunt, his expression instantly turning pained:

“I’ve lost all my family. I feel abandoned by this world. Every night, every night, I cannot sleep. I want to forget all of this, to start my life anew.”

Osta Trul studied Lumian’s expression and found no trace of deceit.

He gave a slight nod:

“I, too, have lost much—that is the curse brought by witchcraft. I understand your pain and your desire.”

“But forgetting pain is a difficult thing.”

“Alright…” Lumian sighed deeply, turned his body, and prepared to leave.

Osta quickly called out to him:

“Wait—difficult doesn’t mean impossible.”

“Really?” Lumian spun around, his face alight with excitement.

Osta gave a slight nod:

“Have you heard of the Well of the Samaritan Woman?”

“No,” Lumian shook his head.

Osta glanced at the burning bonfire and explained simply:

“In one of the ossuaries within the underground cemetery lies a murky spring called the Well of the Samaritan Woman, also known as the Spring of Forgetting, the Spring of Oblivion—drink from it, and you will forget all your pain.”

“Of course, it’s false—a puddle left behind by a construction error during the cemetery’s building, later packaged as a legend by the overseers.”

Seeing Lumian’s eyes dim from bright to dull, Osta Trul added:

“But as a wizard, I can tell you—in the deepest reaches of this underground world, within a tomb suspected to be a Fourth era relic, there is a true Well of the Samaritan Woman.”

“There, many corpses sing: ‘Drink the water of blissful forgetting, forget the primal pain.’”

“I can help you retrieve it—but the principle of equivalent exchange must be honored. You must give me one hundred Faelkin.”

One hundred Faelkin? Your appetite is too small. For such a dangerous quest to find a legendary object, wouldn’t you demand several thousand Faelkin to make it believable? Lumian had been listening intently, but the absurd pricing made him find it ridiculous.

Could such a precious spring be worth less than two months’ salary for a junior attendant?

He’d read about the Well of the Samaritan Woman in the magazine *Spiritualism*; Aurora had muttered a word he didn’t understand—pronounced something like “Meng Po.”

*Spiritualism* also considered the Well of the Samaritan Woman a legend fabricated by cemetery overseers, yet they believed such a legend must have a source—somewhere in the Northern Continent, a true “Spring of Forgetting” might exist.

Lumian’s eyes widened; he rushed to Osta’s side and gripped his shoulder:

“Really?”

Osta brushed off his hand and nodded steadily:

“It is the promise of a wizard.”

“Good, good!” Lumian exclaimed excitedly, “But I don’t have that much money—I’ll go back now and come here tomorrow to find you?”

Osta nodded in satisfaction:

“Fine.”

Lumian thanked him repeatedly, picked up his acetylene lamp, and left the area in high spirits.

Once out of Osta’s sight, he suppressed his smile, raised his right palm, and sniffed faintly at the barely noticeable scent of perfume.

Before reaching the Observatory District, he’d sprayed his right hand with cheap perfume—just now, he’d deliberately touched Osta’s body.

Back on the surface, Lumian sat behind a pillar, concealed, and waited patiently.

As dusk deepened and twilight approached, he caught the faint, familiar scent of perfume.

Lumian didn’t rush to follow; after a while, he emerged from hiding and trailed behind, keeping a distance so great that Osta’s figure was nearly invisible, guided only by the faint trace of scent left behind.

Carriages passed by him, occasionally accompanied by exaggerated mechanical contraptions.

ps: First chapter—requesting monthly votes~

(End of chapter)