Because I had no idea if the owner of that stone hand was still lurking nearby.

Before, the stone fingers had stretched out from the vines, and then a static charge built up around us; especially during the final burst of electricity, I had heard a faint, strange giggling.

Clearly, the appearance of the electric current was intrinsically linked to the owner of the stone hand.

If that intense surge of electricity hit again, I figured I wouldn't survive it.

And besides the ability to summon such current, who knew what other tricks this stone-handed entity had up its sleeve?

Thinking this, I reached to draw my Silverfish Dagger for defense.

But a quick pat revealed it wasn't on me.

Recalling the sequence of events, I realized the dagger must have flown out of my hand during the electric shock, vanishing somewhere.

I searched through the wisteria beneath me and found a flashlight snapped in two, but the Silverfish Dagger remained missing.

Perhaps the rustling sounds I made while searching alerted whatever moved within the vines.

I watched the branches and leaves of the wisteria stir again.

But whatever it was didn't charge toward me; instead, it retreated at incredible speed.

I felt a pang of surprise, but an overwhelming wave of relief washed over me internally.

The wisteria here was composed entirely of limp, yielding flower vines, offering no material for a makeshift staff.

So, I was forced to rely on my own strength, attempting a complex series of movements to stand. After what felt like an age, I finally succeeded in getting upright.

Once standing, I surveyed my surroundings: a dense maze of wisteria, interrupted only by massive, whitewashed jade pillars inlaid with gold, jutting abruptly from the greenery and anchoring the golden ceiling overhead.

Calling it a ceiling was generous; it was merely a vast, flat sheet of gold, mirroring the floor, etched with simple lines depicting mountains and vegetation.

Not far behind me, on the ground, was a patch of earth scorched black, as if struck by lightning, with the surrounding vines appearing partially burned, leaving a smell of char hanging in the air.

That had to be where the lightning erupted; I wondered vaguely about Long Jia...

The thought struck me, and I violently shook my head, forcing myself not to dwell on it.

Then, balancing on one leg, I hopped and skipped my way through the vines toward the scorched patch, nearly tripping several times on the fine, tenacious tendrils.

After expending a monumental effort, I finally reached the blackened ground where the electric current had detonated.

The sight instantly made my scalp prickle, and I clamped a hand over my mouth in horror.

Long Jia was gone. On the ground lay nothing but countless chunks of material, black as charcoal—some as large as steamed buns, others reduced to fine, dark powder.

Scattered among these charcoal fragments were occasional scraps of fabric, recognizable as the clothes Long Jia had been wearing.

I truly hadn't expected that the ice-cold beauty who was alive not long ago could now be reduced to such a gruesome state.

I let out a long sigh, my brow furrowing deeply. I reasoned that, after all, we had been companions for so long; I couldn't simply abandon her remains.

So, hopping on one foot, I began picking up the scattered pieces of charcoal, one by one, depositing them into a large disinfectant bag I carried.

It took incredible effort, until I was drenched in sweat, to collect every last bit of Long Jia.

Then, I found a patch of soft earth nearby and buried the bag of black fragments.

This spot was marked by a dense cluster of vibrant pink roses, some bearing blossoms as large as a child's head—stunningly beautiful, much like Long Jia in life.

Thinking this, I knelt on the ground, bowed my head several times toward the rose bush, and whispered, "Sister, rest well."

Having finished, I stood and resumed my rather comical, hopping journey forward.

Spinning around in place, I found no sign of the Silverfish Dagger. Furthermore, that large white dog, Xi Wei, was also missing—I had no idea if it was alive or dead, or if it had simply fled in fright back to find Zhuoya.

Logically, the most sensible thing now was to return to Zhuoya and properly tend to my injuries.

But for some inexplicable reason, watching the people around me perish ignited a stubborn streak in me. I felt compelled only to move forward, hoping to find a passage back that could restore everything to "normal."

Or, as Andre suggested, to uncover the secrets of the Ancestors and use that knowledge to stop my grandfather.

Focusing on that objective, I couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle as I walked, realizing that the very predicament I now found myself in was entirely due to Andre’s words.

Yet, the truth was, I had no concrete idea what I was looking for or what tangible thing I could use to stop my grandfather; I hadn't even formulated a solid hypothesis.

If tomb robbers adventure for treasure, and archaeologists for historical discovery and truth, then I seemed to be deliberately seeking affliction, and what's more, enjoying the process.

Once again, I was stumbling around like a headless fly, dragging a group of people only to watch them meet their end inexplicably.

This sense of impotence and helplessness forced a deep reflection, making me begin to doubt if all the sacrifices and efforts were utterly in vain.

The more I thought this way, the more restless and desolate I felt, convinced I was either a masochist or completely insane.

I desperately needed someone to step forward and tell me precisely what I was searching for.

The justifications I had voiced myself sounded too flimsy, incapable of convincing me, let alone the people who had died because of these absurd quests.

Torn by doubt and regret, I continued onward.

It wasn't until I reached the terminus of the wisteria and jade pillars, standing before the massive wall cast in gold, and saw a colossal portrait etched upon it—a figure over ten meters high—that I suddenly felt I had come exactly to the right place.

This portrait was rendered through intricate carving in the golden wall. It depicted a warrior clad in armor, wearing a heavy helm, gripping a long spear. His muscles were defined, his limbs long, and his features possessed a fearsome martial spirit.

Holding the spear aloft, gazing into the distance, he possessed a stern, distinctly chiseled face: a sharp jawline, thick, curved eyebrows resembling a coiled dragon.

The man’s eyes stared straight ahead. Though merely an etching, I felt an undeniable sensation that he was looking directly at me, as if he had a thousand unsaid words for me.

Seeing this enormous image, I involuntarily reached up to touch my own face.

For no other reason than this: the man looked almost exactly like me.

How could my portrait be here? I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, and looked again to make sure.

But upon further thought, I realized this wasn't the first time I’d seen myself clad in armor; I had already encountered this spectral figure bravely fighting beasts back in the Colosseum.