I had expected to find rows of buildings after traversing this ruin. But the sight before me instantly dispelled that notion.

For what lay before me was a colossal hall, supported by eight immense pillars. Each of these columns was as thick as three men grasping hands, soaring seven or eight meters high.

They appeared to be carved from white marble, pure white throughout, though the base was stained a pale yellow from centuries of seawater erosion. Yet, what truly surprised me was not the pillars, but the gigantic statue standing guard before this immense edifice.

The statue depicted a middle-aged man with a full beard, his hair slightly curled, his torso bare, and a simple loincloth wrapped around his waist. The man's upper body was sculpted with powerful musculature; one arm was raised high, the other extended flat, holding a three-pronged trident.

His gaze was fixed upon the distant sea. Though the face of the statue was significantly weathered by time and elements, I could still discern that it was a figure strikingly similar to Poseidon from Norse mythology.

Poseidon, the sea god in Norse myths, was the elder brother of the chief god Zeus, commanding all the oceans of the world. This fictional character is familiar to many; the famous American city of Boston was even named after him.

While Poseidon's origins are ancient, and legends concerning him are still revered in modern Greece and Nordic countries like Sweden, it was somewhat surprising to find that the Kingdom of Durban, the world's most advanced civilization thousands of years ago, also revered Norse mythology. According to what André told me, the Durban Kingdom was considered god-like in its era; for even gods to worship Norse myths was perplexing.

After deep consideration, I concluded perhaps I was mistaken—perhaps the cradle of Norse mythology was the Durban Kingdom itself, merely misrecorded by history? Regardless, racking my brain now wouldn't solve it.

I circled the statue but found nothing else noteworthy, so I proceeded toward the magnificent hall situated behind it. A thin mist gently coiled around the lower sections of the eight pillars, lending the vast structure an air of mystery and serenity.

I ascended the dozen or so steps with painstaking care, fearful of disturbing anything. When I reached the space between the two central pillars, I finally saw the palace gate, previously obscured by the mist.

It was a massive white stone door, four meters tall and three wide, adorned with carvings of extreme intricacy and delicacy. These fine carvings depicted dozens of marine creatures—whales, octopuses, eels, and more.

They were scattered across every corner of the door, seemingly haphazard, yet upon closer inspection, a certain pattern emerged. Countless strands of seaweed and coral motifs decorated the spaces between the sea life, vividly portraying the teeming chaos of the ocean floor.

Surrounding this menagerie of flora and fauna, at the very center of the door, was a war chariot drawn by four Hippocampi, upon which a figure, Boston, stood braced against the wind, trident in hand. The fluttering of his garments lent him an untouchable aura of sanctity.

Gazing at the engravings, I murmured to myself, "Strange, could this be Poseidon’s official residence?" I said this because this structure stood only halfway up the slope, yet its architecture rivaled that of a royal palace. Clearly, the importance of this hall was comparable to the Royal Palace; short of a temple, I could conceive of no other explanation.

I placed my hands upon the immense temple door and felt a cold, heavy presence emanating from it. I pushed hard, but the door remained utterly immovable, showing no inclination to open.

I frowned, surmising that the door must be barred from within—perhaps by massive stone beams or the ancient mechanisms of gears and counterweights used in citadel construction. In either case, it was far beyond the capacity of human strength to move.

So, I gave up wasting energy and began examining the door closely, searching for any mechanism that might grant access. I searched for a long time without finding any discernible trigger.

The surface of the door was smooth, and even the carvings were shallow; there was no visible place to press or slide. A wave of disappointment washed over me, and I shook my head before stepping back two paces.

With a sudden surge, I delivered a powerful kick to the door. My foot immediately went numb, throbbing painfully as I hopped around on the spot.

After sitting down to rub my throbbing foot, I started scanning the surroundings, looking for any alternate path around this temple. Although deep curiosity about the hall persisted, since I couldn't open the door, I decided prioritizing the lighthouse was more important for now.

But just as I was looking around, I heard a whoosh sound from the gap beneath the door, and something slipped out. I quickly stood up to investigate and spotted a small object wrapped in white paper lying near the bottom crack of the door.

The gap was about seven or eight centimeters wide, and the object was roughly ten centimeters thick. It must have been wedged in the crack, and the slight tremor caused by my kick must have shaken it loose from its higher position.

It took very little effort to pull the paper-wrapped package from the gap. I didn't immediately open it, however, because directly beneath the package, I noticed a grayish-white object resembling a fuse.

I brought the package close to my nose and inhaled deeply; a potent scent of sulfur immediately assaulted my senses. I understood instantly: this was a packet of homemade explosive, the sulfur mixed with the sharp smell of saltpeter.

While finding a charge wasn't inherently bad news, I couldn't help but offer a wry smile. I knew the power of such rudimentary charges—they were often weaker than a firecracker.

Even a package this large probably couldn't breach an iron cauldron. Furthermore, the wrapping paper in my hand felt damp, clearly having absorbed moisture from the persistent mist over the years; whether it would even ignite was questionable.

I couldn't fathom why the person who placed the charge years ago had ultimately abandoned detonating it, but now that it was in my hands, I felt obligated to try. Ever since I was isolated in Heilongjiang’s Black Bamboo Valley, a lighter had become an essential item.

I carried it everywhere, even when I had no cigarettes left. I carefully tucked the explosive packet back into the door crack.

This time, I didn't place it dead center. I knew that a crack represented an unimpeded channel; stone was too dense.

If the charge went off, the flame and shrapnel would vent harmlessly up and down the length of the fissure, neutralizing its force. So, I placed the packet low, close to the ground, and then jammed a shard of broken brick on top of it to hold it firm.

This way, the charge's explosive force would be contained on four sides, allowing it to exert its maximum potential.