Martin and Satan ignored Diddy, who was still prostrate on the ground. The two of them, one in front and one behind, entered the mosque with a few soldiers following.
The grand front entrance had already collapsed, but the remains of the wooden doors could still be seen scattered on the ground.
They passed through the prayer hall's square interior, walked by two broken minarets and a series of alcoved walls, finally arriving at a large hall.
The ceiling had long since caved in, and part of the left wall had also collapsed. Still, the main frame of the structure was intact.
Satan tapped a wooden column and was surprised by the solid knock. "What kind of wood is this? It's been here for centuries and still hasn't rotted."
Martin stepped closer and examined it. "Most likely palmwood. It was probably soaked in oil, dried, and then coated with resin or sap to preserve it. It's not unusual for it to last this long."
He looked up and pointed to a broken crossbeam. "That's gingerbread tree timber. And look—those remnants of piping and vent holes are made from ceramic."
He gestured toward the wall carvings. "The sculpting style blends Sahel and Sudanese elements—rough at first glance, but with intricate detail. See this relief? It shows a teacher instructing students. This mosque wasn't just for sermons—it was also a school."
Martin had recently brushed up on African history, having pored through a pile of books supplied by Nama, the African history expert. In just half a day, he had absorbed everything.
In terms of general knowledge about the region, Martin now rivaled even Nama himself.
He led the group as he explained, heading toward a specific location.
Inside his satchel, a small, fluffy head popped out—it was Arthur, the lion cub, who had slept the entire way.
Due to congenital weakness, the little cub loved to sleep. But when he was awake, he was incredibly playful.
He began pawing at the edge of the satchel, trying to climb out, only for Martin to "gently" push him back down.
"Chiip, meow-oo!"
The cub let out a disgruntled roar, which to Satan's ears sounded more like a spoiled child whining.
The seasoned soldier chuckled. "Who would've thought a baby lion could be this cute? It's just like a cat."
"They're felines," Martin said flatly. "Of course they're like cats."
Anyway.
Martin, Satan, and five soldiers made their way from the mosque's front courtyard to the rear, checking room after room until they arrived at what appeared to be a storage chamber.
The walls here were full of cracks, much like the rest of the ruins—old, decayed, and unremarkable.
In one corner sat a large cauldron carved from stone.
Behind it, the wall had partially collapsed, revealing a narrow corridor roughly two meters wide.
Before Satan could assign someone to scout it, Martin simply jumped down and disappeared into the passage.
Satan quickly followed with the others.
They moved through the winding tunnel, passing five or six bends, before a staircase descended sharply downward.
At the bottom was a large underground chamber, roughly a hundred square meters in area.
One corner of the basement had caved in, allowing some sunlight to filter in, so it wasn't completely dark.
"Gold?!"
Even though Satan had mentally prepared himself, he was still shaken. No matter how ready you are, the sight of so much gold piled high is a shock to the senses.
As for the mound of gemstones, he barely spared it a glance.
Most ancient gems were valuable in their time because they were hard to mine or rare in trade. In modern times, however, without those limitations, many are worth little.
Take green chalcedony, agate, red coral, rose quartz, and citrine—nowadays, even antiques of these types don't fetch high prices.
The pile before them mostly consisted of glass, garnets, and topaz—common stones across Africa. Even with historical provenance, they wouldn't sell for much.
Martin didn't care about the gold either.
All his attention was focused on sixteen large trunks lined up at the far wall.
Just think—if the owner had carelessly tossed aside treasures like gold and gems, what must be inside those chests?
Whatever it was, it was clearly of greater value than all this wealth combined.
Martin had a theory.
He believed the trunks held the "vanished knowledge" from the Timbuktu Manuscripts—books long thought lost to time.