As Ovid’s footsteps echoed through the passageway, the stone slabs gradually transformed into gravel. The gravel dug itself into Ovid’s sole, causing him a great deal of irritation.

At the same time, great mist formed around Ovid, not only blurring his vision by covering all before him but also causing turmoil in the aura of the natural world. If Ovid were to try to perceive the mana fluctuations, he would only find something chaotic.

Ovid brought out the paper in his spacial ring to begin to calculate instead of to perceive, writing on the well-folded piece of Cai Lun paper in serene motions. After filling half the paper, he realised a matter and proceeded to put away his quill.

Fogs always converged then disperse, never remaining stagnant at once place. Since the tomb is at such an age, the fog's appearance should not be something common, for it is too wasteful. Indeed, when several moments passed, the fog in the mid-air dispersed and Ovid could vaguely see the sky at a high altitude. For an unknown reason, the heavy clouds of snow had been replaced with a corner of the summer sky.

The fog discharged faster and faster, and a piece of land that had many green lush trees and snow-peaked mountains entered Ovid’s preception. Because he had been at the forest for many days, he was stunned to find that the landscape was identical to the area near the tomb.

However, he was in the tomb moments ago, and he did not feel the same sensation he experienced when he was entering Cai Hua’s minor world.

So where had the great black walls and ceiling gone? If he had left the main part of the building, there should be a path leading back to the tomb. But the scenery behind him was of the same as the rest, filled with tall mountains and trees, it was obvious something was strange.

But Ovid did not ponder on how the tomb had disappeared, readying himself with the blade, he endured the great pain made as his wounded hand touched the hilt, and ignored the blood flowing from his fingers. Vigilantly, he searched the rich surrounding with his naked eye and mana preception.

The tomb of saint Gael is filled with countless traps and spells, although the scenery was as beautiful as the garden of kings, every piece leaf and every blade of grass could hold the potential to end his life.

The sharp, stabbing tip of his blade moved steadily and slowly, pointing at everything he could see in all directions. It was ready to spring forth at any time, piecing anything that might appear.

However, when the fog fully cleared, the world was still silent. Ovid could not hear the slightest of noise, and the whole basin became silent say for the sound of running streams.

Ovid was not one to trust his intuition. Although he felt no dangers approaching him, only after simulating various possible scenarios did Ovid slowly take back his sword.

His began to walk toward one of the mountain peaks which seemed proud and power, with thousands of years of accumulation of snow atop its peaks, it also possessed the stubbornness and unwillingness similar to that contained in the piece of rock.

The design of this basin could only be described as ingenious, the hardness of stone and the softness of water coming to a perfect equilibrium through the countless streams that carried the essence of the mountain into the grand lake.

When Ovid stepped foot onto the mountain, the irritation of gravel was instantly replaced with deep, stinging pain, cutting into his bone. A moment later, blood spilt onto the grey rocks that lined the surface of the mountains, appearing particularly dreadful.

Maintaining the ever-present indifferent expression, Ovid overlooked the sight below his foot, maintaining his current speed, he slowly climbed the mountain in long strides, walking in the most effective manner possible, soon, he reached the snow-capped peak of the mountain.

The red footprints behind him turned to ice as he overlooked the scenery hidden originally by the mountain. Cupping his face to prevent the snow from entering his eyes, he found that beyond the basin, was another identical scene.

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Furthermore, there was a set of identical impressions leading up to the peak, mirroring the path that he had taken.

No, these were exactly the trail he had left behind. If one were to test the blood sample that laid behind and ahead of Ovid, they would find that the two were completely indistinguishable!

The saint Gael, who had lived for many thousands of years, had locked up all the resentment and unwillingness into the mountains, and his patience and tolerance into the lake at the centre of the basin.

Ovid rubbed his cheeks which had gone numb from the cold.

When Ovid had reached the bottom of the mountain, the feet that appeared more beautiful than the statues crafted from the whitest of marbles, sculpted by the finest of craftsmen was reduced into a bloody pulp.

Although walking through the path, with sharp forces penetrating his body was painful, Ovid was a person who was very accustomed to pain. As he was also a stubborn person, never once did he think about resting by the lake for a little.

Without hesitation, he moved toward a mountain that was left of the previous one.

Leaving behind a trail of blood, when Ovid reached the top of the second, he was once more greeted by the mirror scene. The same lake that was so clear that one could see its foundation, and the same snow-capped mountains which stood high, yet not so steep.

Covering the sorry sight that is ruins of his legs with the red stola, Ovid carefully descended from the mountain once more.

Even the most aloof of persons would care for one’s appearance, that rule applied especially so for beauties. While Ovid did not have much appreciation for such things, it was still uncomfortable to see that his legs were no more than broken flesh loosely attached to bones.

When he reached the lake, he then climbed the third, then the fourth, fifth, six, seventh and eighth snow-capped mountains. Each time, he would see the mirror image of the path he originated from.

With the passage of time, Ovid became weaker and weaker, yet he forced himself to keep a clear mind so as to remain vigilant on threats and ponder on other solutions.

Yet Ovid’s fragile and pale face indicated that he was becoming too weak to walk.

Now, he was supported through sheer will.

As he scaled the ninth mountain, the last mountain, the edges of his stola were torn and revealed that his feet had become a truly horrifying sight. Looking at Ovid’s slim back, the person seemed so lonely.

If it was another person, they would have undoubtedly killed themself either from the torture or the mental strain this beautiful basin had imposed upon them. Although Ovid was not an ordinary person, the thought of suicide had occurred in his head many times.

Halfway up the mountain, Ovid took out a jug containing the liquor he carried around with him, with much effort, he managed not to spill its contents while drinking.

When Ovid reached the ninth mountain peak, and before he could see if his attempts, the cold wind suddenly blew harder.

The next moment, an invisible arrow came from the sky and fell on Ovid instantly!

Ovid felt that his body was really being torn through.

The severe pain caused his eyes to shrink and the back of his neck to become numb.

Even if he wanted to escape the arrow, his body was unable, for he was paralyzed.

But the pain gradually disappeared like the ebb tide.

When Ovid could see once more, he found that beyond the ninth mountain was not a body of water, but a large stone door. The door was enormous and looked even taller than the peaks he had stood on.

Aside from the door to Julia’s residence, there was probably no doors as large as this.

Because of this reason, it was the door in which Gael’s soul shall go through to depart for the heavens.

Ovid turned around to look at the path he walked subconsciously, confirming that he had truly left the dreadful landscape. He was too tired to try to understand how such a large door could have stayed hidden from his sight although all nine mountains were of equal elevation.

The opening of Gael’s true tomb was far easier than finding the tomb. One did not have to recite any spells, nor was there any scary schemes he had to pass. When Ovid’s hand covered in bandage touched the smooth but steady door, there was a puffing sound followed by the splashing of a thick layer of dust that had accumulated over the years. And then, the door opened slowly.

---

Humans are always attracted to the idea of increasing figures. Whether that be numbers of in scale, man (and woman) of ambition would build the most magnificent, ambitious and sacred structure. Just like the bridge that stretched over the turbulent waters, Saint Gael’s tomb was in stark contrast with the small and feeble body of humans.

Ovid did experience the intended emotions the grandness of the tomb had intended, though not in such great quantities, as he had lost too much blood.

The tomb was the largest structure Ovid had personally seen, even buildings such as the Pentagon could not compare to it in scale.

The tomb of Saint Gael was underground. To be more exact, it was built in the heart of the Aeon forest. Saint Gael had created this space by hollowing out a space large enough to be deeper than the deepest end of the world, and taller than the tallest of skies.

The tomb was supported by countless stone beams that appeared in the form of mountains. So thick and strong were they that an army of elephants could easily pass through side by side.

Ovid faintly glanced at the stone beams and noticed that he could not see where the beams end.

If anyone had stumbled upon this world, they would find it impossible to suppress their respects in the face of such a large existence. Ordinary humans would want to kneel and worship it while bishops would feel incredibly small and tear up.

No matter how powerful one was, they were just mere ants compared to such a large existence.

Thus, this could only have been built by immortals.