Chapter 191

"Professor Kraft, you absolutely must try this." Martin carried two large cups, knocking on the partition's wooden door; a fizzy sweetness and the music from outside flooded the space, then were cut off again by the door.

He set the items down on the only uncluttered spot on the desk, picked up one cup himself, and sipped slowly, "I heard the owner made enough from this to buy an entire estate."

"What is this?"

Kraft moved the dangerous, dripping cup away from the pile of papers on the desk and held it beneath his nose to sniff.

It was a light, naturally sweet alcohol, brewed from beer, infused with cool, fragrant leaf fragments and a thick, sweetening syrup; sparse bubbles occasionally rose from the pale golden liquid, joining a thick, snowy foam.

A layer of condensation had formed on the cup's walls—those droplets came from there.

"Alcohol? Iced?" It looked expensive—it was summer, after all.

"Honey beer. Only one place in Riverside sells it. Hope it suits your taste—I haven't met anyone who didn't like it." Martin blew away the foam and mint fragments, took another sip, and gestured with the cup: "Please."

A drink brought back from an off-campus vendor on a sweltering day? It was nostalgic—even the fizzy, sweet flavor felt nearly identical.

"Thank you very much, but I shouldn't drink before getting down to serious business."

"Just a sip—it's very light, and it wakes you up."

"Fine, one sip." Kraft lifted the cup. Few could refuse a fizzy sweet drink, and he was a seasoned enthusiast.

The taste differed from what he'd imagined: the sweetness wasn't heavy, but crisp and effervescent—like suddenly stepping out of a stifling room and back onto the widest stretch of the Tem River, where a cool wind swept in after the rain. His best memory of Westmin was nothing more than this.

He couldn't help taking another sip. "It's truly good. Tastes like an estate's worth."

"This place is awful—not just hot, but noisy. That band—if the invitation hadn't said so, I'd have thought it was a banquet."

"Formal occasions need atmosphere. Can't have it too quiet, can we?" Martin glanced at the papers on the desk. "Is this your speech draft?"

"No, of course not. These are Pittari's. And they're not even a speech draft."

"Pittari? Why are his things here?"

"What do you mean 'here'? These are documents requisitioned by the Riverside University Society for Tuberculosis and Rare Diseases Medicine under the guise of a gathering—to preserve the academic reputation of deceased attendees and posthumously award honors."

"Huh?"

"As chair of the society, I'm reviewing these manuscripts to extract valuable information." Kraft finished scanning the pages, still uneasy, held them up to the sunlight, examining the translucent paper for any unusual recording methods.

"Ah… ah?" Martin's tone turned respectful, but other questions arose. "Besides you, who else on the committee will review them? After all, Pittari's death involved heresy—could there be content unsuitable for disclosure?"

"No one else. Just me."

"Then what about this society?"

"It's a legitimate society with solid authorization." Kraft offered no further explanation, disappointed, set the paper down, pulled out another sheet, and used the cup to wet his throat—talking too much in this heat left him parched.

"Besides, I haven't found any 'inappropriate content' openly displayed. This is already my third pass, which is why I brought them here."

"Clear surgical records, operational insights—about the same level as our anatomy instructor. Oh no, human anatomy lecturer."

"Mostly standard procedures, no major innovations or process improvements. Probably due to insufficient case exposure—even the surgeries took longer, and there's no follow-up."

"Lacks uniqueness, small sample size—not the kind of thing you'd present at a gathering. Either he's a lazybones like me who doesn't write until the last minute."

Martin didn't understand the technical details, but one point was clear: Kraft hadn't found the evidence he wanted.

"Or someone took away the part you needed."

"Correct. I asked the custodian." Kraft chewed the fragments in his mouth, swallowed, then continued, "Brimmer came too—under the guise of an academic gathering. I don't know if he took anything."

"Must admit, this title is incredibly useful. The only regret is I wasn't the first to use it."

"But Brimmer's actions themselves reveal much. Whether he took anything or not, it shows that at the time, he believed Pittari had encountered something. That's why I'm still spending time on these scraps."

"Any findings?"

"Of course." Kraft glanced at the door, confirmed it was firmly shut—even if someone tried to eavesdrop outside, they'd hear only the noisy crowd and the intermittent band music.

"Pittari's amputations were genuinely slow."

"You mentioned that already."

"True, but several were absurdly slow and overly meticulous—rigorous vascular control, using beak clamps to pull out each arterial end one by one, ligating with sutures, even small arteries. It took an extremely long time."

Martin imagined the scene: picking out each severed vessel stump. "I'd just use a cautery."

"That procedure benefits the patient's prognosis, Martin. Cautery is faster, but Jiaohu wounds heal poorly. His problem was the sheer length—can you imagine an amputation lasting long enough for the band outside to play five or six songs?"

Twenty to thirty minutes—under general anesthesia, negligible. Just blink and it's over. Without anesthesia, it was almost certainly a blink and never wake again.

"That's terrifying."

"Indeed. Even with iced anesthesia, it wouldn't help much. That's terrifying." Kraft spoke with deep meaning. "But it's about to become history."

He gave a light shake to the box beside his foot; the glassware inside chimed like wind chimes.

The music outside faded. The host's announcement drowned out the noise; the cumbersome honorifics echoed and layered, as if a team were about to take the stage together for an award.

"... and Honorary Professor of Riverside University, Lecturer at Winden Port College, and also a knight who inherited the heroic bloodline of his ancestors, coming from the distant northern kingdom to Westmin..."

"Uh, honestly, a bit awkward. Before I knew it, it's my turn. See you in a bit—keep an eye on these papers." Kraft clinked his cup with Martin's and drained the last sip.

"May angels bless your lips."

"Thanks, but no thanks." At the mention of angels, Kraft remembered the pendant still hanging beside him, glowing faint red.

"Don't rush. From my experience, there's still plenty of time before they get to this point. Too early an entrance looks unseemly. Best to appear right on cue."

"Oh right, speaking of angels, there's something I almost forgot to tell you. That weird guy—before he died, didn't he say something?"

"What did he say?" With days spent tending to the Duke's and Yin Feng's illnesses, Kraft had pushed the forest incident to the edge of his memory; only by rummaging through recollection did he recall the details.

【... tell them, do not fear, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be for all people...】

"I asked a contact at the theology college—someone absolutely reliable—what it meant." Martin leaned back lazily in his chair, sipping his iced drink slowly. It didn't sound like bad news.

"It's a passage from when a saint saw angels descend. Don't worry—it's not a curse. Thank goodness he didn't say it was a heretic's chant, or I'd have been accused of blasphemy and had to fight him."

The black-robed figure paused at the door. In his crystal-clear memory, the unrecognizable face still lingered before him—beneath the mottled fungal scales, the remaining features twisted into a discernible expression of "surprise."

Now reflecting on it, that "surprise" contained nothing of regret for death. Rather, it hinted at subtle delight—even fulfillment.

The crawling creature's carcass had long been dismembered by chaotic layers far away—he couldn't have seen it. But that final, faint sweep, like a breath, was likely his spiritual perception—limited to his immediate surroundings, unable to extend beyond the window.

"Thank you. I appreciate you looking into it." Kraft pushed open the door, stepping into the main hall, entering the roaring tide of sound.