Chapter 155: Heavenly Chatter

The fake priest, his hands bound behind his back, struggled desperately to escape; after knocking over two rows of pews, he tripped and fell hard onto the stone tiles, yet he kept crawling away from the pendant without feeling pain.

It seemed fear had temporarily stripped him of reason; had his attendants not pinned him against the wall, he might have tried to smash his way straight through it.

Such an intense reaction startled many, causing them to instinctively step back half a pace and then scan the echoing main hall, wary of every dark doorway and window that might conceal something.

For a moment, Kraft suspected the object clamped in the tongs might be a smoking grenade or some kind of trigger device, but it merely emitted its usual faint glow—like a stone eye embedded in metal, its disdainful red pupil observing their disgraceful behavior, too contemptuous to even sneer.

The tongs twisted the hanging cord twice in midair; the pendant obediently swung in a few pendulum arcs before becoming entangled around the tongs' jaws—nothing happened.

"What? Is the angel too far away to come when called?" Kraft pushed the tongs forward; Hoel instantly recoiled as if shocked, but his attendants held him firmly in place.

"I remember this thing," he said, regaining some composure after the initial panic. "When the angel came to take the priest, the man's chest glowed with something just like this."

"That man?"

"I only saw him once, but he was the only one whose robe had a ring like this—I assume…"

"Assume he was someone of some standing among them?" Kraft placed the pendant back into the lead bottle's lid; the man's expression eased slightly.

"Yes, yes—he told me to find the priest after the stone dimmed, saying the angel had already come. Even now, fear lingers in his voice; that experience left deep psychological scars."

The heretics called themselves the "True Faith," and they entered the church to announce to the priest, who had served God for over twenty years, that the angel would take him—and it happened immediately.

Even the most terrifying imaginings of the faithful could not have conceived such a scene. At this point, if some demonic spirit had truly broken into the church to wreak havoc, it would almost be a relief—but what if it wasn't?

"So this thing shouldn't stay lit all the time, right?" It didn't sound like something that would trigger a Geiger counter, but rather functioned like one—indicating proximity or distance of some object.

Martin listened for a while, and the more he thought, the more it felt wrong. This object had never gone dark since it was pulled out—it had glowed steadily from Westminster all the way to Hudson Town. "If that's the case, then hasn't the 'angel' been with us all along?"

These words instantly shifted the atmosphere; an unspoken thought spread through the group. The companions exchanged glances, subtly adjusting their postures, drawing closer together, not explicitly stating it but collectively adopting a posture of vigilance.

Until Sir Barro strode forward and slapped Hoel hard across the face. "Spreading heretical lies, do you think this trick meant to fool peasants will scare us? Confess—where is the murdered priest's body?"

"No, I'm telling the truth! I watched the priest argue with them, then return to rest. I locked the room myself—but he simply vanished."

The blow, delivered through armor and thus blunt, didn't make him change his story; he only clutched his face and clung to this tale of rural superstition.

Barro raised his hand again, half convinced the man refused to repent, half furious that such nonsense had genuinely shaken the group's morale—he was about to deliver a symmetrical slap to the other cheek.

Fortunately, Kraft and Martin stopped him; otherwise, Hoel might have suffered a fractured jaw and concussion.

"Calm down, Barro. It doesn't have to come to this."

"What? Don't tell me you believe him."

"After that beating, you won't get a chance to speak even if you wanted to," Kraft halted the physical exchange. "Besides, what he saw may not be the full picture. Questioning him further is pointless."

"Have him show us the room where the priest vanished, then search the church thoroughly. We'll return to the manor before evening."

As expected, this matter was likely concluded. Catching a fake priest was already a lucky bonus; they could guess the room would hold no clues—just like the two missing guests at the banquet—this was merely a formality.

After all, Hudson Town's church was tiny; turning it inside out wouldn't delay their return for dinner.

"By the way, send someone to notify the town mayor," Martin said, dragging the priest into the church, while the others scattered to search for clues.

But Kraft doubted this group would find anything useful; at best, only a third could fluently read the holy texts, and not half a person had any real religious knowledge—they might not even spot errors in the heretics' scriptures.

…

…

As predicted, they led Hoel to a room that showed no signs of anything unusual. The broken door latch remained unrepaired, hanging half-open to welcome any intruders and investigators arriving months too late.

The damp bedding, long untouched by sunlight, clung to the straw mattress, leaving dark stains. Unsurprisingly, they found patches of blackish mold—grown during the rainy season, dried and re-wet repeatedly, soaked deep into the clumped cotton, looking like spoiled, pickled meat.

A wooden cup lay overturned on the table, fused to the surface by a hardened, unidentifiable substance. When lifted, it pulled the entire table with it, stretching long, syrupy threads like dried molasses.

According to Hoel, it might have been some sugary drink mixed with ground grain and cinnamon powder. As for where so much sugar came from—that tied into why the original priest deserved to die; perhaps even without the heretics, someone would've knocked him on the head eventually.

They found nothing useful, barely even any identifiable clues—except a few mushrooms growing from the laundry basin. But the number wasn't unusual; it gave Kraft the eerie feeling of returning to his dorm after a long university break.

The church was small, its interior layout like a tightly packed New Year's gift—empty, with almost no usable space beyond the main hall. As the sun dipped westward, they climbed through every level of the simple building, finally emerging from the attic window to sit atop the dome.

According to standard church design, the ceiling fresco depicted heaven overlooking the mortal world—so now they sat, quite literally, on the Father's head.

A bit irreverent, but honestly, it felt uncomfortable. Kraft shifted position, finding a flatter tile to settle on. "The view's decent. You can see the whole town."

"Too bad we can't see where the heretics are. Should've brought a churchman along—but then we'd have to watch what we say." Martin leaned on the window frame, removed his flask, and joined the professor in gazing down at the rising smoke from the houses. After hours of travel and now this frantic search, he felt weary.

"By the way, where's your… uh, female attendant?"

"Oh, you mean Yin Feng," Kraft said, realizing belatedly who he meant, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She's more or less my student. She couldn't help, so I left her in Westminster with two weeks' coursework, entrusted to Mr. Wilbert for care."

"Few women enter Rivers University, and none as young as her—even among exceptions. So her talent must be exceptional?" Martin was genuinely curious; if not for Kraft's youth and their lack of resemblance, he might have assumed she was his sister—or even daughter.

"It's not that complicated. Just a coincidence. What I know isn't difficult. Nothing here requires extraordinary talent or insight to grasp."

"Ha. The professors and lecturers at the university might not agree."

Kraft stared at the sun nearing the treeline, seemingly lost in thought, silent for a moment. Just as Martin thought he'd retreated into his own mind, he suddenly spoke: "Speaking of university, I just remembered something."

"Hmm?"

"Since we can reasonably assume the vanishings are all heretical tricks, we should start asking why they're targeting the university—specifically a surgeon, Pitry. What's the logic?"

"You're no different—you just didn't encounter the 'vanishing trick.'" Martin still shuddered at the memory. That handful of devil cherries was a masterpiece of assassination, pure and simple. No one knew how it had been uncovered.

"That confirms this isn't random—it's tied to Pitry's identity as a medical scholar." Kraft clasped his hands in front of his chest, an old habit—like supporting his chin, or preparing to act. "They could've killed anyone at the banquet, yet they chose Pitry, the visiting lecturer. Why?"

"Do I share anything with Pitry? Both of us are surgeons in the outside world?"

"So they want to stop surgeons from discussing the Duke's illness?" Martin speculated, then dismissed it. "That makes even less sense. Even if the Duke's condition were leaked—hypothetically—why assume only surgeons could help?"

Do the heretics have specialty prejudice?

"Exactly. That logic doesn't hold. I've never discussed this treatment with anyone, nor heard of any precedent. Unless they possess prophecy—and accurately predicted the existence of trauma therapy."

According to general understanding, Kraft knew internal medicine would remain superior to surgery for centuries; no one believed physical intervention could halt tuberculosis.

"So we can only wait for your people lying in wait near that mushroom forest to find something?"

"I hope so. But I doubt they're that foolish." Clearly, based on what Martin had seen so far, it was unlikely.

They fell silent, watching the sun inch closer to the treeline. Below, the sounds of searching and conversation had reached the uppermost floor.

"By the way," Kraft stood and brushed dust from his back, "if we don't limit our view to the Duke, I've thought of another possibility. I recall someone telling me during introductions that Professor Pitry performed some kind of surgery. What was it again?"

"Ah yes—the chilled analgesic amputation technique. Now that you mention it, he was researching anesthesia too?"

"Forgive my limited knowledge, but could you explain what possible connection this might have?" Anesthesia was still cutting-edge surgery—this fell outside Martin's expertise.

Kraft waved his hand dismissively. "No, I just thought of it. Pitry and I share this one thing. Also—he's from Dunling University, right?"

"Yes." Martin nodded. He'd noted this during the post-event investigation; thankfully, explaining it to Dunling was Wilbert's problem.

"That's going to be a headache."

"Indeed."