348 The Bustling Underground

The carbide lamp emitted a bluish-yellow light, casting an eerie glow over the tunnel, which was divided by stone pillars.

Lumian strolled casually, carrying a black canvas bag that had become popular among university students in recent years. Inside, he had stashed the Flog boxing gloves and a stack of white candles.

After conducting numerous experiments, Lumian had discovered that carrying them in his bag was less risky than tucking them into his shirt or pants pockets. While it didn’t make a significant difference, it was still better than the alternative.

As he followed the route marked on Gardner Martin’s map, leading him toward the underground of Quartier de l’Observatoire, Lumian suddenly perked up his ears, listening for signs of approaching footsteps.

A cacophony of faint footsteps echoed in the air, barely audible.

Lumian scanned the path ahead and to his right, unsure which route the unidentified group would take. To remain inconspicuous, he clambered up to a stone pillar supporting the tunnel’s ceiling, extinguishing his carbide lamp, and disappeared into the shadows.

Before long, a group of men emerged.

Most of them wore tattered jackets or were shirtless, hunched over while carrying heavy crates. Over a dozen burly men, dressed in well-worn attire with sinister expressions, held various firearms and carbide lamps, interspersed throughout the group.

Smugglers… Lumian peered out, examining the crates illuminated by the smugglers’ lights. They appeared to emit a metallic gleam.

Firearms or something else? He mumbled silently, observing the smuggling caravan as it entered the right tunnel.

As they advanced, possibly due to a shadow that moved too much like a human, one of the smugglers raised his gun, took aim, and fired.

With a resounding bang, the alarm ceased, and the group pressed onward.

Lumian clicked his tongue and shook his head, finding their reaction overly tense and excessive.

In Underground Trier, such actions could easily lead to trouble!

It was well known that aside from university students exploring and citizens cultivating mushrooms to eke out a living, most individuals venturing underground were not to be underestimated. The chances of encountering Beyonders were significantly higher below ground than on the surface. Firing upon any passerby could potentially provoke members of secret organizations, bestowed of evil gods, anti-government militants, or formidable cave adventurers.

With this in mind, Lumian drew his revolver and squeezed the trigger in the direction of the smuggling caravan, which was about to disappear at the end of the tunnel to his right.

He wasn’t aiming at anyone, just firing into the air.

Bang! The armed smugglers either spun around or scrambled for cover, unleashing a barrage of bullets at the crossroads.

However, Lumian was no longer concerned. He was already scaling the rock wall, almost reaching the top.

After exchanging gunfire with the empty air for a brief moment, the smugglers shifted their positions nervously, puzzled and flustered.

Lumian observed their backs and couldn’t help but smile.

No need for thanks. Consider it a free lesson!

He leaped to the ground and relit his carbide lamp.

Smelling the lingering scent of gunpowder, Lumian grinned and holstered his revolver before continuing along his planned route.

A few minutes later, he came across a group of quarry police officers dressed in dark uniforms, armed with semi-automatic revolvers.

The officer leading the group, upon seeing Lumian’s youthful appearance, backpack slung diagonally, and well-dressed attire, muttered under his breath, “Son of a bitch, why is it another college student!?”

He then exhaled loudly and asked, “Did you hear anything just now?”

“There was a gunfight over there. Bang, bang, bang. I wanted to go over and take a look, but I didn’t dare,” Lumian replied, concealing nothing about the smuggling caravan.

The quarry police officers exchanged glances and swiftly passed Lumian, sprinting toward the intersection.

…

In the “conversation” room.

Observing the iron-masked skeletal host’s departure, the man dressed in Warlock attire turned his attention to Franca and Jenna and said,

“What did you discover? As I mentioned, you need to find the gatekeeper or his remains to claim your reward.”

Jenna replied calmly, “We haven’t really thought about payment yet. We believe the situation is more complex than you described.

“One night, we infiltrated the Deep Valley Quarry…”

Upon hearing the term “Deep Valley Quarry,” the man, hidden under a hooded shadow, subtly lifted his gaze.

Franca keenly observed his body language.

She had consulted with Anthony Reid and knew the kind of subconscious reactions ordinary humans would exhibit in such situations.

The man’s actions suggested he was highly sensitive to the mention of Deep Valley Quarry.

Only someone aware of the issue would react in such a way.

Jenna continued to recount their discoveries, including the cybernetic-eyed monk and the secret cave adorned with limbs.

The Warlock-dressed man remained composed, making no unnecessary movements. However, to Franca, this indicated that he understood the abnormality within Deep Valley Quarry.

After hearing Jenna’s account, the man deliberately raised his voice and said, “I can’t confirm if it’s related to the gatekeeper’s disappearance, but if you can enter the secret cave, capture a few photographs, or retrieve valuable items, I’m willing to offer half the payment upfront. Perhaps you’ll find clues about the gatekeeper’s whereabouts inside.”

Do you take us for fools? Are you expecting us to take such a risk for a mere 10,000 verl d’or? Franca muttered silently.

Had this mysticism gathering not been organized by her friend, she would have found a way to tail the client and uncover his true identity. She could then extract more detailed information from him and have Jenna sell it to the Purifiers.

…

“Halt!

“The Death Empire lies ahead!”

Lumian once again found himself standing in front of the natural arch, adorned with a peculiar mix of white bones, sunflowers, and steam symbols carved into the stone.

Before he could reach for the pocket watch he had borrowed from Salle de Bal Brise to check the time, Hela, dressed in a mysterious widow’s black robe with withered blonde hair, approached from the other side.

The woman nodded slightly and said, “Since you’re already here, let’s proceed ahead of schedule.”

“Very well.” Lumian opened his bag and produced two white candles.

After lighting them and handing one to Hela, he grinned and remarked, “Aren’t you worried that the information I obtained about the Samaritan Women’s Spring might be incorrect?”

“Success comes after numerous failures,” Hela replied with icy detachment.

A chuckle escaped Lumian’s lips.

“I thought you might say that failure is the mother of success.”

“This isn’t the Research Society,” Hela replied tersely.

Lumian didn’t waste any more time. He extinguished his carbide lamp and advanced toward the rocky arch, clutching the white candle, its flame now an intense orange.

As expected, a figure emerged from the shadows beyond the door.

The figure sported a blue vest and yellow pants, with gray hair and few wrinkles. His light-yellow eyes held a faint cloudiness, marking him as an elderly man.

The old man cast a disapproving look at the white candle in Lumian’s hand and asked with a furrowed brow, “Didn’t you find a guide?”

You… Not you guys? Lumian glanced at Hela out of the corner of his eye and realized that the candlelight around her had dimmed, as if it had been corroded by the underground darkness or shrouded in dense fog.

In this state, she appeared to have vanished from the tomb administrator’s view.

Lumian flashed a smile at the old man.

“I don’t require a guide. I’ve been to the tomb many times, though I’m more accustomed to entering through the Quartier de la Cathédrale Commémorative entrance. Don’t worry, I remember all the taboos, and I won’t deliberately break them.”

The old man snapped, “You college students! Remember, exit before your candles burn out!”

With that, he stepped aside and disappeared into the darkness behind the door.

As Lumian passed through the rocky passage and entered the Death Empire, he turned to the aged tomb administrator and asked curiously, “Why can you hold a lit white candle?”

The tomb administrator’s faintly turbid light-yellow eyes suddenly darkened, and an icy aura emanated from him.

In a deep voice, he replied, “I’m just stationed by the entrance, not venturing too deep.”

Is that so? Lumian, who had already entered the catacombs, rationally abandoned any further inquiry. He focused on the chill in his heart and the unseen gazes from the surrounding darkness.

He couldn’t help but sense a resemblance between the tomb administrator’s current aura and Hela’s presence.

Under the ever-watchful gaze of the corpses in the stone pit and the heaps of bones lining the sides of the passage, Lumian pressed on through the musty air. He walked alongside Hela, passing landmarks like the chapel tomb and the memorial pillar tomb.

Hela broke the silence, her tone frosty. “Which level are we heading to?”

“The fourth level,” Lumian replied, holding the white candle aloft and pointing to a nearby tomb sign, not withholding any information.

Hela nodded once more and picked up her pace, striding ahead of Lumian.

She seemed intimately familiar with the first level of the catacombs. After a few twists and turns, she led Lumian to a staircase that descended to the second level.

Compared to the previous level, there were far fewer tourists here. Occasionally, they encountered university students singing, dancing, or testing their courage under the “gaze” of the candlelit corpses.

Hela showed no signs of slowing down. Soon, Lumian spotted a weathered stone door.

With the candle’s flickering yellow glow illuminating the way, he read the Intisian inscription on the stone door: “Entrance to the Old Ossuary.”

“Down here, we enter the third level. Just beyond the door is the Sun and Steam altar. Keep walking until you reach the Krismona Night Pillar, and that’s where we enter the fourth level,” Hela explained, her voice still cold.

“Do you have a complete map of the catacombs?” Lumian couldn’t help but inquire, aware that only the map of the first level was readily available on the market.

Hela shook her head.

“I know less the deeper we go. From the third level onward, you have to rely on the road signs and the guiding black line on the cave ceiling.”

Lumian chose not to press the matter further. With Hela leading the way, they crossed the threshold of the Old Ossuary and descended a wide stone staircase, imbued with a palpable sense of history.

Upon reaching the third level of the tomb, they encountered a flickering candlelight and a makeshift altar composed of two weathered boulders.

The candle’s flame belonged to a young man with black hair, brown eyes, and a pale complexion.

Upon spotting Lumian and Hela, he rushed toward them as if grasping at a lifeline.

As he ran, he shouted, “M-my friends vanished! Just like that!”