# 470
Chapter 470 – Underground Altar
Seventh Seat’s brows knitted slightly. She gave a cold laugh. “Worthy of First Seat—such airs…”
“So what exactly is our operation this time?” Ninth Seat skipped the topic of First Seat and went on. “Mobilizing five Believers at once is rare.”
“Is it? I seem to recall an even larger mission not long ago.” Seventh Seat spoke in a faint, eerie voice, her gaze drifting toward Shen Qingzhu. “Seven Believers attacked the Purification Chamber; six of the senior Seats died, and only one rookie came back alive… Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Shen Qingzhu met her stare, his face darkening.
“What are you implying?” Ninth Seat’s voice turned icy. “Questioning Lord Yiyu?”
“No, I wouldn’t dare.” Seventh Seat shook her head. “I merely find it curious. Since this little friend joined us, Believers have lost more members in one year than in the previous twenty. Maybe the boy’s a jinx—whoever gets close to him dies.”
“Oh? Then how am I still alive?” Ninth Seat stepped in front of Seventh Seat, eyes frosty. “Woman, keep spewing that crap and I’ll tear your mouth apart.”
“You? Just you?”
“Enough!” Third Seat’s voice cracked through the room, freezing the tension.
He moved between them, drooping eyelids lifting slightly. “This isn’t the place for infighting. Save it for after the mission. Here, you work—quietly.”
Both fell silent.
“Follow me.” Third Seat turned toward a broken stairwell in the corner that led underground.
Seventh Seat, Ninth Seat, and Twelfth Seat followed. Shen Qingzhu narrowed his eyes at Seventh Seat’s back for a long moment before bringing up the rear.
The stairs descended the equivalent of three floors. Empty darkness pressed in on both sides; only Seventh Seat’s high-heels echoed. It had to be a vast subterranean space.
At the bottom Third Seat flicked his hand; dim lights flickered on, revealing a corner of the underground.
Shen Qingzhu froze.
In the gloom, the outline of a huge altar—gray-black, the size of a football pitch—lay at the chamber’s center. Cracks webbed its surface, as though it had been shattered and re-assembled. A chunk of the upper-right corner was missing, patched with some yellow-brown substance that looked grotesque.
“This…?” Ninth Seat stared, shocked.
“Altar of the Underworld God,” Third Seat said slowly. “A divine artifact from beyond the Mist, repaired into its present form. Our task: pour our mental power into it and fully awaken it.”
“Just pour in mental power?” Seventh Seat frowned. “A task so simple needs all of us?”
Third Seat glanced at her. “Do you know what a divine artifact is? To unleash its might requires divine force. Relying solely on mental power—even a simple activation—demands astronomical amounts. Even the six of us, working day and night, would need two months minimum to barely rouse it.”
“So we’re stuck in this hole for the next two months?” Twelfth Seat’s face soured.
“Exactly. And it’s Lord Yiyu’s order.”
At that, Twelfth Seat swallowed whatever protest he’d been about to voice.
Shen Qingzhu studied the altar, thinking. “What happens once it’s awakened?”
“You’ll know when the time comes.”
He pressed on. “If this artifact came from the Mist, how did something this big reach the underground of Lintang City? You can’t sneak something this size across the border.”
“That’s not your concern.” Third Seat shut the topic down.
Two questions unanswered, Shen Qingzhu’s frown deepened. While the others dispersed to inspect the altar, he circled it alone.
He crouched, pinching something from the floor.
Dirt?
He stared at the pinch of soil, surprised. Looking around, he noticed scattered clods everywhere—barely visible in the dim light. The basement should be tiled; where had all this earth come from?
He rose and walked into the gloom. Most lights were broken; only scattered bulbs still burned. He rubbed his fingers and a small flame sprang up, lighting his way.
Following a straight line he reached the wall, dusty and cob-webbed.
“Wind…?” The flame in his palm flickered. Eyes narrowing, he tracked the faint draft.
Eventually he stood before the opposite wall. It looked like the others, except a huge black tarp—ten metres long—covered its center. The cloth’s corner fluttered in a faint breeze.
Shen Qingzhu stared, then gripped the tarp and yanked.
RIP!
The cloth fell away, exposing a round hole over four metres across. Jagged bricks showed it wasn’t man-made. A cool breeze breathed from the black depths that plunged downward to nowhere.
Shen Qingzhu’s puzzlement deepened.
A hand settled on his shoulder.
He spun round. Third Seat stood behind him, gaze fixed on the hole.
“Too much curiosity… is unwise, rookie.”