The interior of the Spider Cave was damp, its air thick with filth and decay. Stagnant grime had accumulated in the corners, and the stalactites overhead lacked the crystalline purity of natural formations. Instead, they were suffused with a murky mist, their surfaces coated in an eerie, filth-ridden sheen.
Punk didn't rush forward. He conjured a small, dim orb of light—just bright enough to rival a flickering flame—and let it hover at his fingertips. Lowering himself to the moist ground, he studied the terrain carefully.
Such damp soil wouldn't preserve clear footprints, and most traces left behind would have been eroded beyond recognition by the pervasive moisture in the air.
But as long as creatures frequently passed through, Punk could still find traces—if he looked closely enough.
Formal Conjuration Spell – Microscopic Vision: Enhances the target's sight to magnify details, providing a level of clarity akin to a low-powered microscope.
For caution's sake, Punk only cast the spell on one eye. A translucent gray film spread over his right eye, filtering the world through an energy-infused lens. Instantly, the hidden world unfolded before him—dust motes floating in the air, microorganisms writhing in the filth, and, most importantly, the faintest of scratches on the cave floor.
Upon closer inspection, he found countless minuscule scratches, layered over one another in chaotic yet familiar patterns. Only a dense swarm of arthropods scuttling through repeatedly could have left such uniform marks.
Punk carefully plucked a speck of dirt from the ground with his crystal-like fingernail.
As expected, among the decayed filth, he found what he was looking for—Duo Wei Hua.
Duo Wei Hua was a common plant often used in crude perfume-making. In this backward world, with its primitive purification techniques, the plant's fragrant oils were simply extracted by boiling its petals in water. Due to the flower's loose petal structure, even the most basic methods could draw out its scent.
If something had indeed moved the missing Duo Wei Hua from the lush forest, it would have inevitably left behind traces. Though invisible to the naked eye, these tiny flecks couldn't escape Punk's enhanced sight.
Brushing the dirt off his nails, he straightened up.
The mystery behind the flowers' sudden disappearance was now solved. A swarm of small arthropods had transported them into the depths of this cave, explaining how the entire supply outside had vanished in mere weeks. The efficiency of countless tireless insects far exceeded that of lazy, distracted human gatherers.
But why?
Duo Wei Hua was nothing more than an ordinary fragrant plant. It held no magical properties, nor did it serve any known alchemical purpose. Yet someone—or something—had gone to great lengths to harvest it.
There had to be more to this.
Though the faint remnants of shattered petals and claw marks revealed part of the story, they failed to explain the purpose behind it all. But considering the scale of the operation… Punk had no doubt that something grand was unfolding.
Dismissing Microscopic Vision, he advanced deeper into the cave, the golem trailing silently behind.
Whatever the enemy's scheme was, it undoubtedly promised profit. And if there was profit to be made—why should he let them keep it for themselves?
Meanwhile, in Niailan Town…
Diccito leaned against a marble pillar in the town square, his fingers idly plucking at the strings of his harp. His voice wove through the cool air, carrying a melody both elegant and sorrowful. His tone rose and fell, shifting from the lark's playful trill to the deep, somber weight of flowing water.
With each note, he breathed life into the poetry, his voice a vessel for its beauty and meaning.
But despite his skill, the once-eager crowds had dwindled.
The Tishachar Church had tightened its grip on the town, its influence spreading like wildfire. More and more discontented youth were "willingly" joining its ranks, lured by the promise of purpose and prosperity.
The missionaries weren't violent, but their aggressive persistence was enough to send chills down people's spines. There was no walking the streets without being cornered and preached to with fanatical fervor. Even the city guard and the priests of other deities could do nothing to intervene.
After all, by law, any god held the right to spread their faith—unless irrefutable proof of evil could be presented.
And so, to avoid these tireless zealots, most townspeople simply stayed indoors. As a result, Diccito's audience dwindled, and his earnings plummeted.
Yet, even as hardship loomed, he remained steadfast. A true bard must never let personal misfortunes taint his craft. His voice remained as rich and powerful as ever, his poetry a rare beacon of joy in an increasingly oppressive town.
As he finished an epic ballad, preparing to bow and step away, his gaze suddenly caught on a familiar figure in the crowd…
A figure he had not seen in far too long.
A figure he had dreamt of time and time again, ever since they had parted beneath the great oak tree that fateful day.
Bilan.
Diccito's lips moved, barely forming the name—a whisper lost to the wind.
The ache of longing, buried for so long, surged through him with renewed force. He forgot his exhaustion, ignored the dryness in his throat.
With renewed passion, he lifted his harp once more.
He would sing a song never before sung for another soul.
A song for her.
Bright Star
I pray to be as steadfast as you—
Yet not alone, suspended high in the night sky.
Not a silent guardian, watching eternally from above.
Like a sleepless hermit, gazing upon the restless tides…
No.
I wish only to remain unwavering,
To rest my head upon my lover's gentle breast,
To feel her breath rise and fall—
And with every heartbeat,
To be forever awake, drunk on sweet devotion…
(A tribute to the great poet John Keats, 1795–1821.)
For the first time, Diccito felt as though he had become one with his poetry.
The hardships of life, the missionaries' incessant preaching—everything melted away.
Only Bilan remained.
Her green eyes, deep and luminous as the night sky, locked onto his.