Lord of Mysteries 2: Circle of Inevitability - Chapter 115

Chapter 115 Legend

The catacombs’ main entrance was tucked away in Place du Purgatoire, close to the Intisian observatory. The structure enclosing the entrance was supported by grand pillars, crowned by a dome adorned with intricate stone carvings, reminiscent of a miniature memorial hall or the base of an immense mausoleum.

As Lumian approached, he noted a crowd of 20 to 30 people already assembled near the stairs leading down. Their attire varied, but most were dressed formally, both men and women alike.

A man in his thirties, sporting a blue vest, yellow pants, and a thick beard, stood before the crowd. His brown curls framed upturned eyes, and he held an unlit iron-black carbide lamp.

Addressing the gathered group, he announced loudly, “I’m Kendall, one of the catacombs’ administrators. I’ll be guiding you through the ossuary today.

“Does everyone have a white candle? If not, please let me know immediately.”

Tourists? Lumian’s eyes swept over the stone staircase behind Kendall.

It plunged down into impenetrable darkness, its end hidden from view.

Beside Kendall stood a massive wooden door, half of it emblazoned with the Sun Sacred Emblem in gold, while the other half was adorned with an intricate triangle filled with symbols of steam, levers, gears, and more.

Upon receiving confirmation, Kendall ignited his carbide lamp and led the group into the depths below. The tourists trailed behind him, some bearing lanterns.

Lumian followed, keeping a four to five-meter distance. Clutching the carbide lamp he had obtained from Ramayes, he descended the staircase at a steady pace.

Thanks to his Beyonder-enhanced hearing, Lumian easily heard Kendall’s informative spiel at the front.

“After 138 steps, you’ll find yourselves 26 meters below Trier’s streets, surrounded by the remains of nearly 50 generations of Trieriens.

“That’s a conservative estimate. In truth, the history of some of these ossuaries can be traced back to the previous epoch…

“Forty-seven years ago, there was no more space for the dead in Cimetière des Innocents or Cimetière des Prêtres. White bones lay scattered, and the stench drove nearby residents to protest daily, demanding the relocation of the cemetery…

“Ultimately, City Hall opted to go underground. They repurposed graves from the Fourth Epoch and adjacent underground quarries, creating a vast tomb… Today, you’ll be visiting but a mere fraction of it…”

Kendall’s voice echoed through the silent, never-ending staircase, imbuing the atmosphere with an eerie sense of foreboding.

As Lumian continued downward, a path lined with stone pillars and walls came into view. This passage, unlike other subterranean areas, was well-maintained and frequently repaired. It was smooth, wide, and unnervingly sinister. An icy breeze occasionally swept through the corridor.

Gas lamps were strategically placed along the path, casting a dim, yellowish light that allowed shadows to mingle with the illumination, stretching into the darkness.

Kendall, clad in his blue vest, warned the visitors once more, “Stay close and don’t wander off!

“There are countless underground areas we know little about. If you get lost, it’ll be nearly impossible to find you.

“Do not stray from the path once inside the tomb. There are passages that lead to deeper, more sinister chambers. The Fourth Epoch’s malevolent spirits lurk within that darkness. Praise the Sun and the Light. By adhering to the routes endorsed by the padres, we can avoid all perils.”

Some visitors outstretched their arms in praise of the Sun, while others traced a triangle over their chests.

After trailing Kendall and the others for nearly 200 meters, Lumian caught sight of the subterranean tomb.

Before him lay a natural boulder cave, modified over time. Its walls were adorned with intricate reliefs of skulls, skeletal arms, sunflowers, and steam symbols.

Above the entrance, two Intisian inscriptions commanded: “Halt!

“The Death Empire lies ahead!”

Kendall, the catacomb administrator, turned to address the visitors once more, “Extinguish your lanterns and light the white candles. Everyone must do this!

“If you’d rather not enter the catacomb, feel free to explore this area, but don’t stray too far. It’s all too easy to lose your bearings, and that would be a problem.

“Should you find yourself separated from the group inside the catacomb, don’t panic. Locate a road sign. If there isn’t one, look above and follow the black line drawn on the tomb’s ceiling. It will guide you back to the main entrance…’ Soon, the lanterns were snuffed out, replaced by the flickering glow of orange candlelight.

The visitors hoisted their white candles and trailed Kendall into the catacombs. Lumian observed from a distance, watching as the yellowish flames merged into a stream that meandered into the darkness.

He refrained from entering. Grasping his carbide lamp, he circled the tomb’s entrance, intent on locating the phony warlock, Osta Trul.

A few minutes later, Lumian discovered a small bonfire.

Beside a pillar, damp moss clung to the stone wall above.

A man was seated on a rock behind the fire, garbed in a hooded black robe. His high-bridged nose and dark brown eyes were framed by a flaxen beard that obscured his chin. He stared intently at the dancing flames.

Lumian approached and inquired, “Are you Osta Trul?”

The hooded man raised his gaze to meet Lumian’s and replied in a deliberately subdued, magnetic voice, “Lost soul, why have you sought me out?”

Flames and shadows danced across Osta Trul’s face, obscuring his age. He appeared to be somewhere between just below 30 and 40. Lumian spoke earnestly, “I’ve heard whispers about you. They say you’re a mystical Warlock who can help me resolve my dilemma.” Osta Trul responded in a low, magnetic tone, “Witchcraft is taboo. Witchcraft is a curse. I won’t render aid without cause.”

“What must I do?” Lumian pressed, anxiety evident in his voice.

Osta replied softly, “The essence of witchcraft lies in equivalent exchange. Reveal the nature of the help you seek first.”

Equivalent exchange. Have you been reading too many novels? Lumian suppressed the urge to ridicule and antagonize him, instead adopting a pained expression. “I’ve lost everyone I cared for. I feel forsaken by the world. Sleep eludes me each night. I want to forget these burdens and begin anew.”

Osta Trul scrutinized Lumian’s countenance, finding no trace of deception. He nodded slightly. “I, too, have suffered great losses. It’s a curse borne of witchcraft. I can empathize with your sentiments and thoughts. Yet forgetting pain is no simple task.”

“Very well…” Lumian exhaled a long sigh and turned to depart.

Osta hastily called out, “Wait. Just because it’s difficult doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Really?” Lumian whipped his head back, excitement flooding his features.

Osta nodded subtly and continued, “Have you ever heard of the Samaritan Women’s Spring?”

“No.” Lumian shook his head. Osta glanced at the burning bonfire and explained simply, “In one of the ossuaries within the catacombs, there’s a murky spring known as the Samaritan Women’s Spring, or the Fountain of Oblivion. Drink from it, and all your pain will be erased from memory. “Of course, it’s a fabrication. The spring is merely a puddle left by a construction error during the catacombs’ creation. The administrators spun it into legend.” As Lumian’s eyes sparkled with hope, Osta Trul carried on, “However, as a Warlock, I can reveal that deep within this subterranean realm lies a genuine Samaritan Women’s Spring, hidden in a tomb believed to be a relic of the Fourth Epoch.

“Many corpses there chant: ‘Drink the blissful waters of forgetfulness and be purged of primordial pain.’”‘ “I can help you recover it, but the principle of equivalent exchange must be honored. It will cost you 100 verl d’or.”

100 verl d’or? Isn’t your asking price a bit too low? How can anyone believe that procuring a legendary item as perilous as this could be genuine without demanding a few thousand verl d’or? Lumian had been listening closely, but the absurdly undervalued service left him amused.

How could such priceless spring water be worth no more than an apprentice attendant’s two months’ wages?

He had read about the legend of the Samaritan Women’s Spring in Psychic. Aurore had murmured a word he didn’t understand. Its pronunciation likely resembled ‘Granny Meng.’ Psychic also asserted that the Samaritan Women’s Spring was a legend fabricated by the catacomb administrators, but they were convinced the tale had its origins. The Fountain of Oblivion might genuinely exist somewhere on the Northern Continent. Lumian’s eyes widened as he hastened to Osta’s side. Clasping his shoulder, he exclaimed, “Really?”

Osta brushed his hand away and nodded composedly.

“This is a Warlock’s vow.”

“Alright, alright!” Lumian responded, thrilled.

“But I didn’t bring that much money. I’ll head back now and return here to find you tomorrow?”

Osta nodded approvingly.

“No problem.”

Lumian expressed his gratitude profusely, seized the carbide lamp, and departed with excitement.

Once out of Osta’s view, Lumian’s smile vanished. He raised his right palm and sniffed the faint fragrance. Before reaching the Quartier de l’Observatoire, he had deliberately sprayed an inferior cologne on his right hand and touched Osta’s body.

Back on the surface, Lumian took cover behind a pillar, concealed himself, and waited patiently.

The sky gradually darkened. As twilight descended, he detected the faint and familiar scent of cologne.

Lumian didn’t rush to pursue Osta. After a trailed while, he emerged from his hiding spot and the lingering fragrance, maintaining a distance so great he was nearly invisible. Carriages whizzed past him, and extravagant mechanical contraptions appeared sporadically.