Chapter 149

Outsiders' initial understanding of Westminster often begins with a request, at which point they realize it is not a fortress the size of a town, but a town fortified into a fortress.

The complex occupying the entire hilltop contains not only residential quarters, storage, stables, and training grounds for long-term garrisoning, but also a small, exquisite chapel, a brewing area with matching cellars, animal pens, and small plots of vegetable and fruit cultivation—mostly lettuce. It is clear that those inside intend to stay until the end of time.

While inept besiegers suffer aerial projectiles along the long, rounded slope where boulders roll for minutes, the castle's lord sips fresh, succulent vegetables and meats on the upper terrace, overlooking their performance with a chilled beer or wine drawn from the deepest cellar.

Of course, various workshops are not absent—handling woodworking, stonemasonry, ironworking, and repairs, as well as luxury artisans catering to elite needs. They and their ancestors have participated in the construction and inherited service to this structure; most objects here, large or small, bear their hands.

But today, the artisans were given a peculiar demand they had never heard before.

"No, no, no—I think a quill won't work; it can't even pierce skin and snaps too easily." With slight force, the quill snapped into a sharp angle, and the demanding outsider tossed it into the nearby furnace. "We need a hollow tube at least this thin, but far harder and more resilient—preferably metal, capable of connecting to an air pump."

Everyone turned to the jeweler, whose deft hands could embed gemstones the size of grains into earrings—he too was stumped. "I've never seen anything like this, but I've seen hairpins made of bird bones—they're indeed hard and fine."

"If you insist on metal, I can try—but I can't guarantee success," he added with a grimace. Unlike most craftsmen who merely follow inherited techniques, he must endure nobles' endless strange demands; this young noble's request ranks among the most absurd of all.

The medieval high-quality client sat in silence, chin propped on his hand—clearly unsatisfied. Today he had already accepted too many compromises: the inflating device might have to be one used for enemas, the tubing only leather stitched and sealed with glue, too short, plus a bird-bone chest needle—like some primitive tribe's shaman preparing to dance.

He fell into self-doubt: had his demands truly been unreasonable? Should he adjust the equipment's form to match objective conditions?

"Is Professor Kraft here?" A hurried clatter of armor interrupted the workshop's conversation.

Kraft stepped out of the crowd and looked toward the door, surprised to see a man who should have left the castle three days ago. "Martin? Didn't you go to the harbor?"

"Urgent matter," Martin wiped sweat from his face, removed his helmet, and revealed damp hair matted and pressed flat like seaweed just pulled from the ocean—salt crystals could be seen drying on it.

"Of course, anytime." It was hard to imagine what it felt like to run all the way to Westminster in full armor under the sun; Kraft believed no one would do such a thing without cause. Martin must have brought the answer he wanted.

Out of respect for the man who had traveled far, he could set aside thoughts of the shamanic aesthetic for now. "Alright, try both. I'll return tomorrow. If any issues arise before then, relay them to my squire. Kup, Yin Feng—watch over this for me, please. If you need anything, tell them. Don't wait dinner for me."

Kraft quickly left the workshop, following Martin down a path he barely recognized; voices faded behind them.

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"Did you find out when this sect first appeared?"

Martin unhooked his water flask from his belt, drained the last sip, and licked his dry lips. Clearly, it wasn't enough to replace lost moisture, but he showed no intention to waste more time. "At the earliest, four months ago—the Church handled the first case, triggered when the man tried to swindle money from followers but took too much and drew attention."

"And then more cases kept turning up," Kraft added. "I recall you said some had believed in them for years. Why, if they could have coexisted peacefully, did they suddenly become active now?"

"Though it makes no sense, and there's only a temporal overlap, I can't help feeling..."

"You think they're meddling in things they shouldn't touch." A statement, delivered with certainty.

This surprised Kraft—he had only grasped vague, uncertain notions from scattered fragments, with no intermediate evidence. Why would Martin think the same?

He reexamined Martin and noticed the knight had somehow slipped his damp helmet back on; even the sweltering weather couldn't stop him from using this gesture to gain some subconscious comfort. "What happened?"

"Do you remember Diego? The steward at the banquet?" Martin now brought up something seemingly unrelated. "We had some acquaintance. When I first arrived at the harbor, I planned to find him, but heard he'd gone outside the city chasing someone involved in the disappearance case."

He did recall—Diego had clearly been familiar with Martin. "Yes, I remember. That slightly stout knight."

"At first we thought he was just chasing some petty thief to pad his tally. Some emotion clung to his tone like mold, coloring the narration with complexity—perhaps regret, sorrow, and something that shook his spirit. 'Maybe he thought the same—twenty men, just outside the city, not far—what could go wrong?'"

He seemed to reconstruct Diego's thoughts—or perhaps couldn't believe them.

"And then?" Kraft sensed something ominous.

"Diego," he paused, then continued forward, leaving something unseen behind him, "Knight of the Duke of Westmin, and my friend—returned to the Father's embrace in a manner befitting his station, proving his loyalty and courage."

Kraft fell silent, confirming he had understood correctly: a man he'd met only once was confirmed dead within days, announced by another man he barely knew—lacking any sense of reality. He could only mutter, "May the Father watch over him."

He swiftly connected the dots, staring at Martin in shock.

"That heresy?!"

He had seen the guards' equipment. A knight under the Duke, with twenty men and retainers, had been wiped out just outside the city. His suspicion was likely correct—any heresy capable of this could easily be blamed for every evil deed.

But now the most urgent issue was this: with Diego's death, the lead he had stumbled upon was severed. The heretics had likely cleaned up and vanished.

"Is it still possible to resume the search? Or can we find something else?" Kraft asked, without hope.

As they spoke, they reached a secluded courtyard—apparently used for training, but the dummies and stakes had been moved aside. The Duke's soldiers guarded several long wooden crates, sized precisely to hold an adult.

Kraft realized what they were and fell silent. He still didn't understand what Martin needed him for, and if these were coffins for a knight or squire, they were too crude—unsuitable for a warrior who died in battle. But it was another's private matter; he would not comment.

"This is where we need your help," Martin drew his dagger and inserted it into a seam, prying open one of the crates.

Surprised, Kraft stepped forward and peered inside—not the rotund steward's corpse he expected, but a grotesque face.

Through the white circular emblem on the robe's chest ran a piercing sword wound, its edges threaded with filamentous matter spreading inward.