Anna sincerely said, “Even then, to be able to present her words in your own way is impressive.”

Ovid was a little started by these words, as he never expected to receive such praise from Anna, or anyone else in this matter. Since his earliest memories, he always listened to his mother and rarely spoke. Was it because he was influenced by the original Ovid, the constant rabblings of Cai Hua?

After a while passed, he replied, “In the end, it is just copying someone else. If you want to admire someone, my mother should be the person receiving the praise.”

Once it was dawn, and the firewood has been exhausted, they departed the big tree and approached the temples.

Anna’s complexions were better than before, her face full and red, like a bright apple being proudly displayed at a market square.

After the conversation, Anna seemed to have grown more attached to Ovid, looking at him with eyes as bright as those she would show infront of a new specimen, a great bargain or the writings on an ancient building. Once, she had the thought of grabbing the corner of Ovid’s sleeves, though recalling that Ovid places a great deal of emphasis on personal space, she ultimately decided against it.

Anna was already quite familiar with Ovid, though the two had never discussed any matters heart to heart, or had told each other their history.

Since Anna was quite intelligent, it was not too difficult for her to infer Ovid’s past. Thinking of how fascinating that world is, she could not help but feel a little inferior about her life, no matter how many millions dream of it, in her eyes, it was far too dull in comparison.

Only Irene was aware of this, as Anna had been meticulous on concealing the matter. Irene herself placed little thought on the matter, as far as she was concerned, this matter was a private matter between two individuals that would not result in any harm for the two.

She was really grateful that she had met Ovid in that damp cistern.

When the four had finally stood infront of the tomb, Anna could not help but say with irreverence, “It’s all black, and not even as grand as the estate Julia owns.”

Ovid thought about it and commented, “The building is also a bit like the bridge built across the Straton Confluence.”

Anna nodded with a chuckle, she said, “The person that built it doesn’t have any tastes in aesthetics.”

The entire building was black, darker than the darkest of pitch, with no windows or gardens to speak of except for a single fence, which immediately leads toward a passage surrounded completely by black walls.

While the building had deteriorated, the structure of the roof stood untouched, as it was reinforced with many spells to prevent burghers and thief.

Aegis, who attempted to carry herself with respect toward the tomb, could not feel a little shocked at what Ovid and Anna said. Although she was somewhat dull, she understood the grandeur and majesty of those things saints had created… even the ground they walked on would be worshipped for many years, much less the tomb containing their body.”

Of course, if one takes into consideration that Anna had lived with Julia, one of the most powerful saints, and Ovid, who had the privilege of becoming Cai Hua’s disciple. With that in mind, it was far simpler to understand the mindset of the two, to them, a saint was probably something like the cabbages sold in every village, town and city.

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That is not to even mention the saint standing beside them at the current moment.

Ovid glanced at the sky and saw that no more snow was falling. Without idling for long, he took a step past the black metal fence that surrounded the building.

When his feet came into contact with a stone path, some dust began to rise from the bottom of his shoes.

Without a sound, an arrow coated in wolf’s blood whistled through the air, piercing through Ovid’s thigh.

Within moments, red blood began to seep into Ovid’s clothing, yet he was not concerned in this matter. Taking out his blade from the spacial ring, he very calmly sliced off the portion of his body the arrowhead had struck, as if the flesh was not his own.

Checking that the poison had not been infected into his bloodstreams, Ovid finally showed an expression of his face, biting his lower lips, he turned toward Irene.

Irene retrieved a potion from her slab, as she passed it to Ovid, she said, “Not coming.”

Irene’s words were not only in reference to herself but everyone beside Ovid.

The area outside the forest was already so dangerous, so undoubtedly, the tomb would be many times more so.

The ancient elves placed high emphasis on one’s death, as their gods had promised eternal life, they would naturally seek to perform countless rituals to ensure the most comfort could have, for example, the darkness of the building is meant to connect one’s soul to the night sky.

Yet the most crucial of these rituals would be the preservation of the body, which serves as the link for one’s future rebirth.

Thus, the tomb which contained the body was highly protected, countless traps and spells had been placed ingeniously to such a degree that even a bishop would struggle to arrive before the burial chamber.

This design contained the intelligence of a humanoid, while simultaneously contained no life, an ideal location for Ovid to horn his abilities.

When the flesh on his thigh had begun to regrown, Ovid approached the steps once, wielding the sword infront of him, he had a very solemn expression.

A few steps and a smudge of yellow light suddenly glowed in the distance, as if a star had been lit among the void.

Ovid stared in the distance, preparing to pierce through whatever it may be.

In the next moment, the second smudge of light flashed in the depths of the tomb, where the path took a sharp turn left. Presumably, there was much more light that Ovid could not see.

After a long time passed, footsteps be could be heard crushing snow once more.

Since the light was rather far away and was not moving toward him, there was no purpose to divert his attention. Using the mana surrounding him, Ovid closed his eyes began to perceive the various intricacies on the stone floors.

When Ovid’s eyes were opened, he began to walk along the passageway, the steps he took appeared irrational and inconsistent, the distance of each tread varied greatly. Occasionally, his momentum would stop, and under the soft brilliance of the distant light, he would poke a tile with the blade, and intercept the arrow that flew towards him.

After walking for a while, he realised that although the path seemed straight, he could no longer see the entrance of the tomb. Suddenly, Ovid felt a vague chill in his heart. Returning the gaze to the scene infront of him, he had unknowingly reached the light that seemed so distant.

The light was actually a seemingly ordinary stone covered in moss and full of cracks that displayed its ancient age.

Looking at it, Ovid felt unbearable pain in his chest, as if a surgeon’s knife was constantly making cuts on his heart. Although he had yet to sweat after the incident at the silver river, the pain was so intensive that his stola became completely drenched in sweat!

The stone that was full of cracks was actually full of invisible sharp edges so that people who saw them would feel endless resentment, unwillingness and stubbornness.

When the painful sensation continued, Ovid could not help but clunch his head and curl up on the ground, paying no attention if he was going to get shot at by an arrow!

Ovid had never felt such pain in his life, not even when he was on the hospital bed when the doctor had given up on prescribing medicine.

In trance, tears began to pool in his eyes.

Strangely, this actually awakens him, shaking his head in sweat and blood that had came from biting his lips, Ovid repeated to himself.

Man can’t cry.

Using his twitching arm to lift himself, he hit the stone with what strength he can muster. As the stone tumbled down from the platform, countless wounds appeared on his hand, slicing through his thick and hard calluses, warm blood began to pour onto the stone slabs.

Without even bothering to wrap up his hand, he could no longer resist the pain and pass out.

When Ovid woke up, he spat out a mouthful of blood onto a handkerchief. Disinfecting his hand with the strong liquor he carries in the spacial ring, he wrapped it with another handkerchief before eating a pill Cai Hua had given him.

Wetting his lips, he took a swig of the liquor he used to disinfect his hands and continued walking through the strange passage, his phase now much slower due to the pain.