Chapter 709: Deep Underground

Prepare for what exactly?

Bard Wendell looked up, gazing at the colossal canopy that blotted out the sky, and the countless vines and pillars hanging beneath it. This “plant” was so immense and otherworldly it could have come straight from myth. It far exceeded anything in his experience or knowledge. Even the ancient tomes of the Cult of the End of All Things contained no descriptions remotely like this…

No, not entirely none. He recalled that in the Cult’s library, among some religious texts inherited from the ancient Druidic Church, there were mentions of something similar: deep within the unreachable divine realms, the ancient nature god—the great stag Amon—dwelt beneath a colossal tree called the “Cycle.” This tree’s canopy blocked out the sun, bearing a city called “Life” atop its branches, while its roots plunged deep underground, entwining a vast tomb known as “Death.”

Could this giant tree before him be a byproduct of the Cult’s forced creation of an artificial god?

Faced with something like this, there was really no way to prepare.

Relax. Write a decent farewell letter, eat a good meal, and if he were still General Wolf, he could deliver a few stirring words to rally the troops—though, as a prisoner now, such speeches were pointless.

He lowered his head. “I’m ready.”

Gawain nodded and signaled to the soldiers nearby. Soon, the necessary equipment was brought over.

Though Bard was a former cultist needing to atone through service, and his mission was essentially a suicide squad operation, Gawain hadn’t brought him here out of spite or for punishment. This task genuinely required someone like Bard—a Cult of the End priest who understood the situation. Pittman was no good; he’d left the dark sect years ago, and many of the dungeon’s mechanisms had changed since. But Bard knew the layout below and how to disable the latest magical traps and wards.

Setting aside his cultist past, Bard Wendell still held value to Gawain. He didn’t want to simply lose him on this expedition. If possible, he wanted Bard to come back alive—and to that end, he had the soldiers prepare a full set of gear to assist him.

The soldiers brought a large crate containing a set of lightweight steel armor designed for rangers—currently the best magic-augmented armor Cecil had for special operations, offering excellent protection and support. There were also pre-measured emergency potions, extra shield devices, and weapons for self-defense.

Knowing Bard was unfamiliar with magical gear, Gawain chose items that operated automatically or were very simple to use. The swords were traditional enchanted steel blades. He trusted this would be enough—after all, Bard himself was a formidable supernatural, capable of defending himself.

Bard examined the equipment—unusual in style but clearly well-crafted—and immediately understood Gawain’s intent.

“I don’t know if you’ve already resigned yourself to dying to atone,” Gawain said with a slight nod, “but at least this time, you need to come back alive. These will give you the best protection possible. Try them on first, then I’ll explain the details.”

With help from two soldiers, Bard quickly donned the full set. He moved his limbs, pleased by the armor’s lightness and comfort. He could feel the elemental protections and physical enhancements built into the suit. Then he picked up the short sword and a dagger, swinging them a few times—nothing legendary, but valuable enchanted weapons, well-balanced and comfortable. Clearly, they had been carefully selected.

This mission was indeed important.

Once Bard adjusted to the gear, Gawain pointed to a strange metal device on the ground nearby.

“You need to carry this with you—never let it leave your side.”

Bard glanced at it. It was a triangular base embedded with a crystal about the size of a human head. The base had a clasp, apparently to attach to the chest strap of his armor. He lifted it, noting it wasn’t heavy, but carrying it would inevitably affect his agility.

“What is this?” Bard asked, curious. Without knowing its purpose, he only saw it as a hindrance. But since Gawain insisted, it must be important. He knew he had no right to pick and choose, but at least he wanted to understand what he was carrying—even if it was some kind of self-destruct device meant to blow up parts of the dungeon.

After all, these Cecilians were experts at blowing things up. Last time, a treacherous knight threw a metal box that nearly cost him his life…

“It’s a communication device,” Gawain explained casually, unaware of Bard’s thoughts. “It transmits what you see back to the surface.” He then ordered a nearby magic network terminal to activate.

The device on Bard’s chest glowed faintly in response. Bard noticed the terminal nearby projected an image of what lay ahead of him—an astonishing sight that reminded him of the magical projections floating in city streets.

Similar technology?

“It might slightly hinder your movement, but this is the most advanced, miniaturized equipment we have. And you’re a supernatural—you should be able to handle it,” Gawain continued. “Its range should cover your mission, but underground conditions are complex and may interfere with the signal. You must be careful. If the signal weakens, we’ll notify you. If the crystal goes dark, return to a spot with good reception, and we’ll arrange the next steps.”

Bard listened intently. Every instruction before the mission affected his chances of survival. He also understood that beyond communication, this incredible device allowed those above ground to verify the situation below without relying on his word alone.

As a prisoner still under observation and a heavily guilty cultist, his words weren’t fully trusted. The Cecilians placed more faith in their magical technology.

Bard accepted this calmly—it was the price and proof he had to pay to redeem himself.

“I understand.” He nodded firmly.

“Good. Then let’s move out,” Gawain said with a slight bow. “Be careful. Come back safe.”

Come back safe…

For a brief moment, Bard was stunned. His eyes blinked, and his yellowed memories stirred. Buried beneath the haze of his bleak life, he recalled one last warm afternoon: clad in armor, mounted on horseback, his daughter clinging reluctantly to his coat, his father standing by the roadside. The last words his family ever spoke to him seemed to be those very words…

Now, he no longer had the right to face any of his loved ones.

Turning, Bard stepped toward the dimly glowing triangular opening, his figure gradually swallowed by darkness.

Gawain withdrew his gaze and looked to a clearing beside a massive root. There, a metal pedestal supported a glowing crystal, slowly rotating in midair. Its abundant magical energy steadily radiated, lighting nearby magic crystal lamps and activating the magic network terminal set on the clearing.

This was a high-powered magic energy obelisk, maintaining the power supply for the “Solrin Great Tree” trunk area. It was also the signal hub for Bard’s communication device. Throughout the mission, the crystal would transmit all information from the root zone below.

Nearby, a soldier monitoring the magic network terminal reported loudly, “We have visuals, Your Majesty.”

“Let’s wait over there,” Gawain nodded, speaking to Amber and Pittman. “Bard will be down there for a long time.”

…

Dim, deep, winding—the path seemed to lead into an endless abyss.

Glowing moss clung to nearby vines and roots, casting faint light. But the weak illumination only made the shadows ahead more treacherous. After some distance, Bard activated the portable light he carried.

Cecil’s magical technology was indeed convenient, he thought.

The path was rough. Though theoretically a wide ramp should have led here, massive collapses and the rampaging artificial god had destroyed the upper dungeon structure near the surface. The fallen earth formed a steep slope, but tangled roots from unknown origins created a more gradual “road” atop it. Normal passage was still possible.

Bard followed the root-formed path, guided by broken stairs and corridors, carefully choosing his way deeper into the ancient underground palace.

He knew this place well, but like almost every Cultist of the End, he had no idea who built this ancient dungeon.

Yes, though it was the Cult’s lair, it had existed long before the dark Druids took it over.

The Cult had only rebuilt the uppermost ramp and corridors connecting to the surface for secret access. But the palace spanning the subterranean canyon below—there was no way the Cult’s engineering could have created it.

That palace might be older than the Ansu Kingdom, perhaps dating back to the Gondor Empire.

Or… even older.

Following the path in his memory, Bard cautiously pressed deeper. He passed the upper ramp, the shattered assembly hall, and the twisted, broken entrance corridors. Ahead lay the original structure of the underground palace.

Slanting walls stretched into view, scarred by half-ruined magic network units. In the distance, some magic crystal lamps still flickered faintly. These modern “Cecil technologies” appeared in the Cult’s dark lair, which itself was built atop an even older, mysterious ruin. The layers of time and space stirred a deep feeling in Bard. He shook his head and carefully avoided slippery vines as he moved through the corridor overrun by giant roots and moss-covered tendrils.

At the same time, he heightened his vigilance, constantly monitoring his mental state.

Deep within this underground chamber lay a strange force the clergy called the “Echoes of the Divine.” It might have been a reality-warping effect caused by the dark druids’ forbidden studies, or perhaps it was an ancient power inherent to the catacombs themselves. The deeper one ventured, the stronger this eerie influence became. Those with weak minds would start to hallucinate in the mid-levels, their thoughts twisted by horrific, corrupted knowledge. Descend further, and even flesh and bone could mutate in unpredictable, sinister ways.

In theory, these forces were suppressed at the lowest levels, and for years there had been no sign of them seeping outward. But after the recent upheaval, who could say if the ancient seals still held? Bard wasn’t afraid of death—but he hadn’t come here just to throw his life away.

He entered the council hall.

This was where the sect’s priests gathered to discuss matters, and as a mid-level cleric, it was one of the places Bard frequented most.

He caught faint whispers, as if someone was speaking in hushed tones. But when he focused, the sound seemed to come only from a tangled mass of twisting roots.

The “communication device” on his chest hummed softly, runes and crystals glowing faintly. Bard fumbled for a button on its surface and pressed it, lowering his voice. “This is the council hall. I’m not very familiar with what lies below. Should I keep going down?”

There was no reply—only a hollow, low wail echoing through the device.

Back on the surface, Gawain and Amber stood by the magic network terminal, which projected a holographic image of the catacomb’s depths.

Under the glow of the lights, the area around Bard was clearly visible.

The image hadn’t moved for several minutes, but faint breathing still came through—he was alive.

Amber scratched her head, puzzled. “Why is he just standing there, not moving?”

(End of chapter)