Chapter 195

In an era when man-made structures were all relatively low, one's first impression of a city usually began with its tallest landmark—a privilege often monopolized by spiritual rulers.

Entering the city along the old waterway, one inevitably encounters embankments older than the kingdom itself, patched over generations with differing craftsmanship, new and old bricks layered like exposed sedimentary rock.

In the distance, a massive riverside structure stretches upward with weathered, blackened towers, and a deep, resonant metallic clang descends from the heights.

The vibration was so dull it seemed like rusted iron thunder rumbled far away, releasing long-suppressed anguish trapped in its oxidized crust. Tiny white specks, no larger than grains of rice, trudged slowly between the narrow window gaps of the gray-black buildings; the thick hum made them pause, looking up at the sky divided by eaves and arches.

"Every time I come here, my heart feels uneasy. These buildings, and the sounds—they're as ancient as if dug straight from a tomb of the former king's era, still muttering nonsense like 'the Lord saves mankind.'" Professor Lin Deng complained, "They suit certain people whose one leg's already in the grave."

Lecturer Maynard, who had just climbed aboard behind him, chuckled awkwardly, unsure whether to agree or not. He wasn't a senior like Lin Deng, who could afford to ignore everyone's face; with students present, he had to mind his academic relationships.

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"So what is that place?"

"The Cathedral of the Mother, not the largest or oldest church, but certainly the oldest among cathedrals. That's its bell tower." Maynard pointed toward the source of the chime. "It's said—just said—that Westmin coins were originally meant to be called Mother Coins, but someone preferred a symbol more representative of the current kingdom on the reverse."

Kraft found this explanation surprisingly reasonable. "I've never heard this before."

"Just said. On our side is the reverse; on the other side stands the Knight's Island Church, where generations of royalty have rested, including the very first one." He clearly wasn't visiting for the first time—he knew the local details well.

"Smaller than the Cathedral of the Mother, not open to the public, but there's a statue at its entrance, said to be carved after the original himself. Worth a visit."

Referring to the royal family with "the one" was unmistakably specific: the founding, most legendary king of the Nos Kingdom, chosen by the Lord, who drew his sword from the stone. He had recently reviewed the full tale in Hudson Town and could recite it all again if needed.

"We really should go see it." After a rare official business trip, skipping the famous sights would feel like a waste.

Kraft had recently considered adjusting his training approach. Learning without reflection leads to confusion; merely locking oneself in books easily breeds ideological problems. Perhaps touring historical sites, experiencing the vastness of the world and the changes of time, would help one stop brooding over temporary hardships.

He noted this down for now, adding it to the sightseeing list.

The boat drifted with the current, entering narrower waterways deeper into the city, gradually drawing closer to the riverbank as the urban landscape came sharply into view.

As a major port city, Dunling felt utterly different from Weijie Port or Westmin—imbued with a traditional, archaic quality that bustling commerce could never dissolve. It was not a newly built city after the kingdom's founding; humans had settled here long before any historical records existed.

Many building foundations had been smoothed by nature; entirely different materials, from multiple eras, had been stacked atop them in wildly contrasting styles, patched together with remnants of original ornamentation. Walls re-plastered or scraped clean bore inscriptions in scripts Kraft had never seen—simple, unrefined, or indistinct in character; perhaps the most intricate ones vanished first, unable to withstand the unconscious destruction of the populace.

A strange combination caught Kraft's attention: a man in a white robe, likely a priest, carrying a burning metal censer, yet he didn't seem to be preaching; his companion, draped in a cloak bearing a winged circle emblem, had a distinct hard object bulging beneath.

The crowd automatically parted as they passed, clearing a space along the narrow riverside path.

Though he knew the Church had armed followers, he'd rarely seen them escorting clerics. Before he could ask, Lin Deng let out a cold snort.

"I've never understood why Your Majesty allows the Church to wander the streets armed under his very nose—there's nowhere they won't go."

"And certain latecomers with congenital spinelessness—if they possessed even one percent of their ancestors' courage—wouldn't have stood frozen for decades, forcing even slightly capable individuals to flee to obscure places where snow falls half the year."

As the primary victimized discipline, the surgical professor fumed: "I still remember a colleague around my age who could've easily stayed to teach—yet ended up at some obscure Church school, something called Wen..."

"... orry, Professor Kraft, I only meant that the finest actors should stand center stage, receiving applause—just like you."

"I understand your meaning." The truest enemy always knows you best. Kraft hadn't expected to glean this information from Lin Deng before even entering Dunling University. "Do you remember his name?"

"Something like Karlman? Back then, Mo Lisen still taught students. Unlike these recent years—I haven't heard what he's been up to in ages."

The boat passed the cathedral they had seen from afar. Statues and pointed arches clung to ancient buildings hunched by the shore; waves lapped against the solid, broad base of the bell tower, its stone beasts' faces worn into indistinct shapes.

Its luster had faded, yet its core remained unbroken, foundations firm; stone pillars sank beneath the old plank roads, deeply rooted in the riverbed mud.

The riverside face was likely the front, carved with relief figures visible only from a boat. Not surprising—out of faith, builders often did laborious, thankless things, adding countless details beyond normal viewing range to show devotion to beings whose vision wasn't limited like mortals'.

The central relief depicted a man gripping a sword; figures on either side leaned back or raised their hands in astonishment. Kraft studied it a moment before realizing he wasn't merely holding the sword—he was drawing it.

By professional habit, he tried to identify the sword's form. The carving was too low; water level fluctuations blurred the details. His conclusion: the artist was amateurish—the blade appeared as long as a two-handed sword, yet the hilt was sized for a hand-and-a-half sword, only one and a half palms long. Or perhaps the era was too early, and proportions were poorly understood.

The careless style drained all interest. Kraft shook his head and returned to the cabin to pack his luggage, preparing to dock.

Shortly after passing the Cathedral of the Mother, the boat moored at a small, elegant pier. Feiernan stopped the passengers from disembarking and handed the letter to a receptionist who had rushed over upon seeing the ship's flag.

Soon, a bald middle-aged man in a robe edged with red thread arrived, flanked by a retinue whose hair density decreased progressively, his face full of resignation. He ceremonially scattered a few petals—visually identical to the main flowers in the nearby flowerbed—and bowed slightly, minimally.

"Professor Feiernan, welcome to Dunling."

"Long time no see, Samuel! No need for such formality." The old professor stepped off the gangway and gave him a half-formal embrace, then scanned the crowd, searching for someone.

"Where's Mo Lisen? Why isn't he here? Don't tell me he's off doing experiments again? I can't even recall the last time he used that excuse."

At these words, several scholars behind him, who had already been displeased but maintained composure, grew visibly agitated—anger outweighing their resentment over the letter's "subtle phrasing."

Fortunately, Professor Samuel, present here, was truly Feiernan's literal "old friend." Seeing the situation turn sour, he immediately stepped between them and defused it: "No, no, I'm certain Professor Feiernan meant no harm—no sarcasm intended."

Having temporarily calmed his colleagues, who were on the verge of launching a physical theory, he turned to the Lifeng group, his tone weary yet somber: "This isn't anyone's fault—but now is simply not the right time to joke about Professor Mo Lisen."

"I apologize. If possible, may I know what happened?"

"Professor Mo Lisen died months ago in a laboratory fire, along with Professor Karlman and several students involved in the experiment. The details are complex. For now, I'm temporarily managing the Medical Academy."