The black-robed leader turned sideways and dipped his shoulder slightly, as though making room for someone. The black-clad figures behind him spread out to either side, revealing the figures who had been standing behind them all along, most of their bodies concealed by shadows and the hems of robes.
Light filtered through gaps in the ruins, falling in mottled patches over those figures and making their outlines flicker between light and shadow.
"I don't need you to remind me. I know what I'm here for." An aged voice came from the figure on the far left, hoarse and dry, like rock weathered by wind and sand for a thousand years.
He was an old man. No, he could not be called an old man; he merely looked like one. He was thin, his back slightly hunched, and wore an unadorned grayish-white robe of coarse cloth, its cuffs and collar worn pale.
He had lost all his hair, and his scalp was covered in age spots and crisscrossing wrinkles, like a sheet of parchment that had been crumpled and smoothed out again.
But his eyes were not an old man's-those eyes were dark brown, with a ring of dark gold around each pupil, as though some ancient beast, long asleep, lay dormant behind his eyelids.
[Duke Desolation].
One of the foremost powerhouses in the continent's northwest, he lived in seclusion in the Far Wasteland and regarded that barren expanse as his territory. No one knew how long he had lived. Some said hundreds of years, others thousands, and some even claimed he had existed since the previous era.
He neither denied nor confirmed it, merely living quietly in a solitary tower of black stone deep within the wasteland. Occasionally, adventurers unafraid of death would trespass on his territory, and he would send them out of the wasteland before they even saw his face-alive, but never daring to return.
"Elder Ku, there's no need to rush." The black-robed leader lowered his head slightly, his tone respectful, but there was not a trace of respect in his grayish-white eyes.
"Heh heh." A mocking voice came from the right, carrying an indefinable, elegant chill that sent shivers down the spine. "I certainly hope they weren't lying. After coming all this way, if we find nothing, that would be... rather uninteresting."
The speaker stood opposite Duke Desolation, more than a dozen paces away, as though deliberately keeping his distance from the others. He looked much younger than Duke Desolation-no, "young" was not the word to describe him.
His features were as exquisite as a porcelain statue's, his skin so pale it was almost translucent, with bluish veins faintly visible beneath it in the sunlight. His hair was jet-black and reached his waist, left untied and draped loosely behind his shoulders, its strands stirring gently in the breeze.
[Marquis Darkblood]. One of the oldest elders of the blood race, an heir to the royal bloodline.
The blood race was not a popular race on the continent. Humans disliked them, other races disliked them, and even those ancient beings who harbored no prejudice against either humans or other races disliked them.
They fed on blood, feared sunlight, and moved through shadows, living as though they were forever hiding from something. But Marquis Darkblood was different.
He did not avoid sunlight. It merely made him a little uncomfortable, much as humans sweated profusely in the heat of a midsummer noon. Nor did he avoid silver, holy water, crosses, or such things-those objects, deadly poisons to ordinary members of the blood race, were nothing more than somewhat pungent smells to him.
No one knew how long he had lived. Perhaps even longer than Duke Desolation.
Standing a short distance behind Duke Desolation.
He was a man whose age was impossible to discern. Call him young, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes; call him old, and he stood as straight as a pine.
He wore a dark blue robe with no unnecessary ornamentation, save for an intricate silver geometric pattern embroidered on the chest-the emblem of the Inscription School. His expression was calm, his gaze tranquil, like the still waters of an ancient well.
Since his appearance, he had not spoken a single word, merely standing there quietly, watching everything before him.
[Keyin Yidu], head of the Inscription School of the Eastern Continent.
Inscription Magic was an extremely obscure branch of the magical system. Its core was neither incantations, nor magic arrays, nor elemental control, but "marks." Mana was compressed in specific ways, solidified, and branded onto objects or living beings to produce permanent or semipermanent magical effects.
Several centuries ago, this school had enjoyed a period of immense prominence, driving countless mages and scholars wild, but it had gradually faded from mainstream view.
And Keyin Yidu was that school's last orthodox successor, as well as the consummate master of Inscription Magic. Several papers he had published had sparked debates lasting decades among the continent's mages, with no conclusion reached even now.
These were the continent's true pinnacle fighting forces.
Not the nobles who pontificated in the imperial parliament, not the scholars who wrote books and expounded theories in magic academies, not the knights who patrolled the borders and occasionally wiped out a few mountain bandits. These were beings who stood above mortals, looking down upon all living things.
"Everyone, that thing... is just ahead." The black-robed leader spoke again, his grayish-white eyes sweeping over every face present. "Please."
No one moved. The black-robed figures stood there like statues. Duke Desolation folded his arms and closed his eyes, as though dozing. Marquis Darkblood looked down at his pale fingers, as though admiring a work of art. The other figures standing farther away remained silent as well, showing no intention of moving.
The black-robed leader did not hurry them. He turned to face the collapsed mine and stood there quietly, as though waiting for something.
Wind blew across the ruins, stirring up a few dead leaves. They spun through the air several times before settling on the rubble with a faint scraping sound.
"Enough." Duke Desolation opened his eyes, lowered his folded arms, and stepped forward. "So much dawdling."
He walked up to the rubble and raised a withered, wrinkle-covered hand.
There was no incantation, no gesture, no unnecessary movement whatsoever. He simply raised his hand, then lowered it.
Like turning a page.
The rubble moved.
It did not explode or collapse. Like sand gently brushed aside by an invisible hand, it slowly slid outward from the center.
Large rocks, earth, broken timbers, rails, the wreckage of mine carts-everything blocking the mine entrance lost its weight in that instant, drifting silently to either side like fallen leaves floating on water.
Sunlight poured through the opening, illuminating the mine tunnel entrance that had been buried for who knew how long.
It was as though a hole had been torn in the darkness, revealing the mottled, moss-covered stone walls within and a slope that descended out of sight.
Duke Desolation withdrew his hand, brushed nonexistent dust from his cuff, and walked in first.
Footsteps echoed through the empty mine tunnel, tap, tap, tap, like some ancient, steady drumbeat.
The black-robed leader followed close behind, his grayish-white eyes glowing faintly in the darkness like two dim lamps.
Marquis Darkblood went third. His steps were light, so light they made almost no sound, like a shadow gliding over the ground. The other figures followed, some silent, others exchanging a few quiet words, but no one stopped.
The mine tunnel was long, winding downward. The timber supports along the stone walls had rotted, and in places, traces left by the miners of those days were still visible-names carved into stone, kerosene lamps hanging from wooden posts, mine carts tipped over beside the path. Time had frozen here, like an ancient specimen sealed in amber.
Duke Desolation walked at the front, his pace unhurried but every step steady. His eyes saw everything clearly in the darkness-the rotten wood, the mottled stone walls, the water-filled hollows. Nothing escaped his gaze.
Someone who had lived for over a thousand years had eyes sharper than an eagle's and better adapted to darkness than a cat's.
After roughly a quarter of an hour, the mine tunnel came to an end.
No, not an end. It had broken off.
Before them lay an enormous, bottomless pit. At least a hundred meters across, its edges were jagged, as though something had taken a vicious bite out of it from underground.
The pit's walls were covered in rough rock and mineral crystals, with wet droplets clinging here and there, dripping steadily downward. Looking down, they could see nothing-only darkness so thick it seemed impossible to dispel, as though it could devour light.
"So... it really is here." The black-robed leader murmured, a glimmer flashing through his grayish-white eyes.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward into the darkness.
His body fell, the hem of his robe snapping in the wind.
The others jumped down after him.
Wind howled past their ears, blowing the hems of their robes inside out.
Two hundred meters.
Three hundred meters.
Three hundred and fifty meters.
The pit was far deeper than imagined. The fall lasted nearly ten seconds, long enough for an ordinary person's heart to leap into their throat. But for these beings who stood at the continent's pinnacle, it was merely the time it took to blink a few times.
Duke Desolation landed first.
He landed on a protruding rock, his knees bending slightly, like a leaf blown down by the wind, soundless and without disturbing so much as a speck of dust. He straightened, brushed the hem of his robe, and surveyed his surroundings.
Marquis Darkblood landed to his left. The instant he touched down, his body turned into a cloud of black mist. When it dispersed, he was already standing firmly on the ground, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his expression unchanged.
The black-robed leader landed in the center, his grayish-white eyes lighting up in the darkness like two lamps being lit. He said nothing, merely turning slowly to face the depths at the bottom of the pit.
The others landed one after another, some with light leaps, some with dull impacts, and some floating amid glimmers of magic.
This was an enormous underground space.
The bottom of the pit was several times wider than the mine tunnel above, as though the tunnel had suddenly burst open in the depths, forming an irregular dome.
The rocky ceiling stood at least forty or fifty meters above the ground, covered in stalactite-like protrusions, some still dripping water. A thick layer of grayish-white mineral deposits covered the surrounding walls, like some ancient skin solidified by time.
But most breathtaking of all were the murals on the walls.