Chapter 189

In the spiritual realm, the disintegrating spirit dissolved into something like fine sand or liquid, uncontainable, mingling with the void's shrill wail as it erupted and splashed, forming a dull ripple that swept across the surroundings of the furnace.

Even without spiritual perception, the others present—including the duke, who had just emerged from his convulsions—felt they had heard some strange sound, as if filamentous, shapeless matter had crawled out from the carbonized, brittle tubing, struggled briefly, then burned away completely.

Wherever that ripple passed, long-dormant mold spots on wooden furnishings revived, seeping like water droplets on paper, swelling into frothy clusters of fungal growth as they sucked in surrounding moisture and organic matter.

Leftover food sprouted dense hairs; mushroom caps unfurled in cups and plates, blooming with rotting, disorienting patches of color. Even the most steadfast guards felt uncontrollable panic and fled in terror.

Kraft sensed its reach; he shifted slightly, and the ripple of decay halted half a step behind him, spent.

"The treatment is temporarily concluded, my lord." He withdrew the needle and pressed cotton gauze against the puncture site. "I advise you to lie flat and rest until at least noon, avoiding any strenuous activity."

"You there, stop staring—help move the bed elsewhere and give this place a thorough cleaning. Better burn it all down."

He was truly glad the thing hadn't been pulled from his mouth. The duke might not have minded for long, but his current state was already far from good—he had first shown a complex expression, fundamentally rooted in revulsion and indescribable disgust.

After being moved elsewhere by the regained senses of the guards and resting awhile, the duke gradually recovered from the oxygen deprivation and spiritual shock, took the water cup offered, and swallowed a sip to suppress the slight throat pain and acid reflux.

"Some dietary changes are mandatory." Kraft spread out the written medical orders and placed them on the bedside table, fearing the patient wouldn't look, then personally instructed: "I recommend permanently removing all fungi from your menu entirely, and at minimum, ensure they are thoroughly cooked before consumption."

"I think I won't touch them for a very long time."

"Not 'a very long time'—never. I'm not certain whether Westmin still has such things wandering about, but to them, you are practically a resort estate."

"Well, what about roasted?"

"For the rest of this year, no mushroom should come near you." Kraft swiftly scanned all cooking methods, recalling the duke's prior behavior patterns, and decided to be unequivocal: "Moreover, I wish to make a request regarding this matter."

"Oh? That's rare. Speak then—I didn't attain all this through stinginess."

"Ahem." Kraft cleared his throat and adjusted his posture.

"I must frankly admit, as a physician, I've encountered unusual illnesses before—those manifesting one or several symptoms similar to known diseases yet distinctly different."

"From your own words, you've witnessed, in environments where nothing was off-limits, phenomena inexplicable by current knowledge."

"It's not hard to reach a consensus: beyond the ordinary norms we observe, there exist exceptions. Beneath their seemingly disparate appearances lies some unified pattern, but due to their extreme rarity and scarce evidence, they remain unsummarized."

"Some scholars have labeled them the opposite of normal—'anomalies.' Such phenomena have never been officially recognized by mainstream views, especially within emerging disciplines. The Church, however, offers vague, non-explanatory justifications, indirectly acknowledging their existence."

"Hmm." The duke emitted a noncommittal nasal grunt, waiting for him to continue.

"Undeniably, if we define anything that disrupts physiological function or social capability as disease, these are diseases of exceptionally high susceptibility and lethality, capable of triggering widespread, collective effects upon occurrence."

"Though viewed across the entire kingdom, they are self-limiting, usually confined to small areas and dying out with the death of the victim, each individual incident still inflicts profoundly adverse consequences."

"I think I know what you're getting at, Doctor Kraft." The duke pressed against the puncture site and shifted into a half-reclined position.

"I recall warning you: those who actively engage with such things have never met a good end. Those who seek to exploit them for their own ends have, in my decades of experience, never succeeded."

His aged but sharp eyes met Kraft's, yet offered no further pressure, soon half-closing as if unwilling to discuss further.

"You are intelligent, gifted, and of high birth, young and vigorous with plenty of time ahead—you will surely bring glory to your family. If needed, Westmin Castle and Rivers are not reluctant to offer a bit of 'minor' assistance."

Anomalies are uncertain, extremely dangerous. Once entangled, even a slight misstep—or rather, inevitably—will bring fire upon oneself. For one with a future, this is the most unwise choice.

"For the individual, the disease caused by anomalies inflicts immense suffering; even if not fatal, it robs the patient of labor capacity, which for many is effectively equivalent to death."

"For broader scope, should anomaly events recur and become systematically exploited, we cannot guarantee that one day a type of anomaly will not emerge—uncontrollably spreading or demanding a cost too great to bear."

That possibility held slight persuasive power; imagining fungi spreading across all of Westmin Castle, the duke showed some reaction, yet still disagreed: "How can you guarantee your actions won't become that unbearable cost?"

"We do not investigate or exploit them—only catalog and summarize treatment methods. You saw for yourself: this treatment could have been completed just as well by an experienced surgeon familiar with the human body."

"Even if we don't go further, when I'm absent, shouldn't there be a physician who understands the pathology to take over if you or others need it?" Kraft appealed to practical necessity, gazing at him earnestly—he could even draft a proposal if necessary.

The room fell silent. The duke's eyes half-closed, as if already asleep.

Kraft did not disturb him, sitting patiently beside him. Not giving an immediate reply was a good sign—it meant he was truly reconsidering. Even if this failed, a step back might still yield some support.

After a long while, just as he thought he might hear snoring, the duke opened his eyes.

"What do you need?"

"A name. A permanent organization under Rivers University. No fixed location or staff required—only that when someone inquires, they receive a confirmed affirmation of its existence."

"And a modest amount of funding—for research into diseases including tuberculosis, printing books, and covering routine operational expenses." Compared to the official title, financial support was indeed negligible—surely insignificant to Westmin's treasury.

"Viscount Fernan can handle it—announce it at that… that academic gathering."

As expected, the duke showed no objection, automatically ignoring the latter half. Kraft seized the moment, hoping to secure further conveniences for future work.

"Also, uh, I'd like… just a tiny bit… a licensed armed force." His voice grew quieter.

The duke's chest rose sharply. Perhaps the requests so far had already exhausted his limits, or perhaps he deemed such matters required force—without hesitation, he agreed.

"I will provide no financial aid whatsoever. That is my bottom line. As before, only the name."

Northern minor nobles—even those with actual fiefs—combined with professors needing funding, could never amount to much. Besides, Kraft would inherit the armed forces within his own domain anyway. To the duke, this was merely incidental.

"I'll write to Professor Fernan. Before that, consider a name—avoid putting those things on display."

"I've already thought of one." Kraft's face lit up. "The Westmin Society for Tuberculosis and Rare Diseases Medicine—a public-interest, academic, nonprofit legal association. We already have three collaborating institutions: Rivers University, Wenden Harbor College, and Comfort Harbor General Surgery Clinic."

"What?"

"The Westmin Society for Tuberculosis and Rare Diseases Medicine!"

"Ah?" The name was long, but not the longest among titles the duke knew—it was acceptable. "So what will you do next?"

"Under the society's name, I will review all reports from attendees, including the late Professor Petri of Dunling University."

…

…

Having secured the duke's approval, Kraft gritted his teeth and stayed with him until noon, confirming that days of treatment wouldn't be undone by a final oversight, then returned to his room.

In this academic gathering, due to Brimmer's betrayal, participants were effectively transparent to outsiders—but they had no reason to suspect surgical intervention would become the key to treating the duke. Petri's records might help lift a corner of the veil.

Those items, along with the relics, were sealed in his residence at Rivers University, awaiting Dunling's envoys to collect or pack for shipment.

Before departing for Rivers University, he still needed to perform one more examination on Yin Feng.

After several days of rest, the girl's back injuries had nearly fully healed; she could walk freely and her spirit was steadily recovering.

Yet the attached fungal spirit showed signs of revival—the wound had sealed, her form expanded. Kraft realized the situation had fallen into a vicious cycle: the spirit's recovery time closely matched that of the fungal spirit.

Leaving aside its effects on the mind, this method only maintained a fragile balance.

He had no immediate solution, so he began routine physical checks. As he lifted Yin Feng's left arm, he again sensed the previously faint tension shift—this time, the range was broader, extending from the upper arm to the forearm and even the wrist.

"Strange—her mobility doesn't seem impaired." Kraft pressed on her arm and continued testing muscle strength. "Come on, lift hard—resist my force."

To match Yin Feng's strength, he deliberately controlled his own force, matching it precisely to her level.

Her slender arm lifted, muscles tightening and hardening—a force utterly incongruous with her appearance broke free from control, nearly prying open his stable, years-trained sword-arm.