Chapter 56: Chapter 56

The stout Chewell failed to notice Professor Burns's face, right beside him, turn white as a sheet.

"What's wrong?" Jenkins whispered. The professor was an Enchanter, and though only level three, he was still stronger than Jenkins.

"It's a bit chilly down here. Why don't we go back up, put on something warmer, and then come back?"

The professor's reason was flimsy, but Jenkins, Papa Oliver, and a Mr. Sanders immediately agreed—everyone except the stout Chewell. They were all Enchanters.

Seeing that the others were leaving, the portly old antique dealer hesitated, casting a glance into the distant darkness before nodding to follow. But he hadn't taken more than a few steps before his brow furrowed.

"Huh? Why does it feel like a drop of water just landed on my head?"

Jenkins's heart seized. He instinctively started to look up but was immediately yanked back by Papa Oliver, who began sprinting toward the basement exit.

He didn't explain why, but Jenkins could feel the temperature in the area plummeting. In the corner of his eye, something stirred in the sweeping darkness. He activated his ability, his feet moving faster and faster until he was the one pulling Papa Oliver along.

Gasping for breath, they skidded to a halt. Papa Oliver drew his pistol and aimed it behind them. Hurried footsteps echoed from far to near, and the other three men appeared one by one.

Seeing Papa Oliver's pistol raised, they all instinctively threw up their hands.

"What did you see back there?"

Papa Oliver demanded in a low voice, turning to the professor. The professor glanced uneasily over his shoulder.

"A large, black hand."

"You mean... like that one?"

Jenkins pointed behind the group in terror. He knew this level of fear wasn't normal, but he couldn't control it. A horror that felt as if it were etched into his very soul washed over him like a tidal wave, drowning him.

"It's a terror spell!"

Papa Oliver roared and fired a shot into the depths of the darkness. The blast shocked the other four out of their overwhelming fear. Follow current novels on novelꜰire.net

"It's a malevolent spirit with a permanent terror aura! We can't fight it! Run!"

he warned in a low voice. But where could they possibly run?

The kerosene lamps in their hands all flickered at once. A few seconds later, they were plunged into total darkness.

Jenkins felt something tugging at him from the right. The hand was ice-cold, but it had the misfortune of grabbing his right hand, which, with his Frost Punch ability active, was even colder.

With a soft sound, Jenkins felt his fist connect with something.

He whispered his companions' names, but there was no response.

He stood stunned for a moment, but no further attack came. He summoned the candle he had stored away in his spirit for so long. A bright yellow flame flickered in the thin air but stubbornly refused to go out.

A grim expression crossed Jenkins's face. The darkness was temporarily pushed back, revealing he was now facing the stone wall at the edge of the basement. But unlike the rest of the wall, this section had a circular opening in it, from which poured a blinding white light.

"A Mysterious Realm?"

he whispered, a jolt of alarm running through him.

Glancing back into the profound darkness behind him, he could feel something there, some strange entity coiled in the shadows, watching him. But he couldn't see it.

"Should I pray to the Goddess for sight?"

He pondered a solution, his left hand inching toward his pocket. The moment it moved, he felt the presence in the darkness stir—a clear warning.

"Fine, I accept my fate!"

With that, he retracted the candle and stepped into the white light.

The basement returned to silence and darkness. A small, black-and-white kitten padded silently to the spot where Jenkins had just been standing. It let out a soft "Meow~" before turning and melting back into the deeper shadows.

It felt like passing through a thin membrane of water. An indescribably brilliant white light flashed before his eyes. In that moment, the concepts of an instant and an eternity lost all meaning as a kaleidoscope of bizarre phantoms flickered past his vision.

When the dust settled, Jenkins was crouched on the ground, gasping for breath.

He lifted his gaze and was nearly blinded by an overwhelming tide of brilliant gold.

"That's right. It's all gold."

Papa Oliver's voice sounded beside him. His expression was grim, while Professor Burns and Mr. Sanders, much like Jenkins, were still reeling from the spatial transition.

They were in a palace forged entirely from gold. The floor was gold, the grand pillars were gold, and even the distant throne on its high dais, wrapped in the coils of a decorative golden python, was gold.

A layer of gold dust, two fingers deep, covered the floor. The palace was filled with towering piles of gleaming golden artifacts. This was, in every sense of the word, a palace of gold!

"You all know what this place is, right?"

Papa Oliver asked the other two men. They exchanged wry smiles and nodded. "I never expected you to be an Enchanter, Papa Oliver... And yes, we know this is a Mysterious Realm."

"What about Mr. Chewell?"

Jenkins asked in a low voice. Without turning around, Papa Oliver's voice came back, cold and flat. "We all stepped through at the same time. Since he didn't appear with us, he's dead."

This was the fate of those without the gift who set foot in a Mysterious Realm. Barnard's words from the very beginning of Jenkins's transmigration, about "gambling with your life," had been no joke.

But since all five of them had been forced in here, what exactly did that terrifying spirit want?

Before he could ask, a calm man's voice reached their ears.

"Welcome, welcome. Esteemed guests have arrived. Please forgive me for not coming out to greet you personally."

His grammar and accent were quite strange. The four men looked toward the source of the voice and saw that a gaunt old man had appeared on the pure gold throne at some point.

"Fighting is for brutes. We prefer knowledge. Knowledge is gold—I'm sure you all agree on that point!"

He did not rise, yet the four of them found themselves moving uncontrollably, trudging stiffly through the gold dust to the foot of the high dais.

"The rules are as follows: each of you may ask me three questions. If I provide an answer, you have gained knowledge, and you will turn to gold and stay here to keep me company. If I cannot answer, you may leave."

Drawing closer, Jenkins realized that the tall, thin old man spoke without any expression, his tone never wavering. He didn't seem like a real person, but even so, no one dared to meet his gaze.

Jenkins prayed inwardly. His gaze had only briefly swept past those golden eyes—eyes with no whites—and his heart had felt as if it stopped beating. The prayer was subconscious, a habit, yet it brought a great sense of peace to his soul.

The rule-makers native to a Mysterious Realm were impossible to resist. It was just like the black-robed man from before; Papa Oliver had said they were like gods in these fragmented spaces.

Jenkins didn't know if that was an exaggeration, but Papa Oliver's expression at the time had been deadly serious.

He glanced at Papa Oliver, and the two of them moved to stand together, a silent understanding passing between them.