Chapter 213: Selective Materialism

The voice gave the swordsmaster, who had lost his target, a new direction.

The response was swift, sharp, and silent. From the moment he heard the first syllable leave the speaker's lips, he moved—transitioning from a still, sword-hanging posture into motion.

Using the voice to mask the friction of his long strides closing the distance, the hidden whistle of the blade blended with the tremor of speech; as he thrust, he slightly lowered the angle, aiming for the chest to increase accuracy.

Before the words were fully spoken, the blade's tip was already at his side.

Kraft nearly believed the man could see in pure darkness, but observation confirmed the swordsman's movements were based entirely on limited non-visual judgment—sensitively probing the air for cues, then striking with swift precision.

The technique was supremely flexible and entangling, as if shedding the rigid nature of metal, moving with icy, serpentine grace to lock onto its target.

"I think there's some misunderstanding—you've formed a wrong impression of an innocent scholar," Kraft said, like a performer shaking a red cloth to lure a bull; at the last instant before the blade struck, he sidestepped, letting the man crash into the wall with his momentum.

The weapon jammed into a pile of bones and stones, producing a grating, teeth-chilling, heart-rending screech of friction and stick.

The bone pile loosened; skulls from above tumbled down, rolling far across the ground, scrambling the source of sound.

And that calm voice, maddening in its serenity, sounded at his ear: "A cultivator? Or should I say priest? Sorry, I'm not quite sure how to address you—after all, as an ordinary person, I lack understanding of the Inquisition."

The swordsman tried to wrench his weapon free, but a force twisted his wrist, forcing him to release the hilt.

He chose not to resist, instead reaching toward his waist. Kraft instantly understood the intent; he had planned to strike the man's ribcage, but considering the lack of conditions to treat major abdominal hemorrhage, he instead pressed the hilt of his sword against the armpit.

A numb, tingling sensation—like waking after sleeping on one's arm—interrupted the counterattack; the short sword slipped from his grip. Seizing the moment the opponent was utterly stunned, the "innocent scholar" yanked the lantern with movable parts from the man's other hip, stepped back, and opened its metal hinge.

Light returned to the chaotic scene.

"You see, we can speak in the light," Kraft said, stepping away from the sword buried in the bone pile, and calmly sheathed his weapon.

Kup and the armored man retreated warily, each taking a side. One moment dark, the next bright—their battle had ended before it truly began, leaving only a rich symphony of sound.

And the astonishing swordsman—the leader of the church party seen on his first day, dressed as a priest—stared at Kraft with wary disbelief, slowly approaching the wall, using both hands to draw his sword.

"That doesn't sound like a professor."

"Do all priests in Dunling fight like this?"

A strange silence stifled further exchange, but the brief clash had given the Inquisition's men a clear understanding: force would not improve the situation.

If this professor suddenly developed some bold idea, in this place where the Heavenly Father was distant and Hell was near, they might not return to the Medical Academy walking, lying down, or in batches. Better to choose civilized means—for now.

"Even beneath the Heavenly Father there are sword-wielding angels, for reason and justice cannot subdue evil." He traced his hand along the blade to the winged guard; he was not surprised to be recognized—after all, from the moment he struck, he never intended to hide his identifying marks. The embarrassment lay in finding no tangible evidence, yet being countered nonetheless.

He possessed neither reason nor spirit; the man was a person of status, behaving properly—utterly exasperating. "Does a professor of the Medical Academy need a sword to heal? Or do you have a patient here who requires one?"

"No, not when treating patients. But sometimes we encounter those who hold different views on diagnosis—professionalism alone cannot persuade them." Like most scholars in the Academy, the professor maintained that surface courtesy.

Given their recent intense exchange, such restraint was among the best one could find in a university.

He even added a friendly, humorous smile—but its slight dissonance made it feel like a habitual mask, formed by years of upbringing and learning: the brittle shell of a mollusk or cocoon, concealing the writhing, shifting truth of inner thoughts, emotions, or something more hidden.

His experience in the Inquisition gave him this visceral sense—he had never found such a feeling in anyone attempting to conceal secrets, yet he could intuitively perceive its uniqueness through some a priori recognition.

It seemed as if some irrational pain had been suppressed, and he was certain his proud swordsmanship had caused not even a scratch.

"So… cultivator? Priest? Or Your Honor of the Inquisition?"

The calm, even tone inquired—and he realized, for an instant, his awareness had drifted; at this professor's level, he could have easily led him through several rounds before the gates of Heaven.

Yet those long hands remained folded before him, as harmless as his expression.

"If you must address me, call me Father Green." He could no longer hold the weapon without appearing fearful; the man calling himself priest shoved his chipped sword back into its sheath, savoring that fleeting odd impression—but it vanished like a flicker of flame sparking a strange vision, gone as unrecallable as a fading inspiration.

"You haven't answered my second question: why are you here?"

"To investigate the number of deaths from tuberculosis in this region—it will help me understand the scale of my upcoming workload." Kraft patted his empty pocket, confirmed he hadn't taken anything, and straightened up confidently. "I haven't touched anything. Is there a rule saying only mourners may enter a cemetery?"

"Is that your reason?" The priest felt he must raise a question, or today would become a great stain on his life.

"As the head of the Duke's own Society for Tuberculosis and Rare Diseases, I believe no one should question this. You may write to River University—or even Westminster—to verify. Assuming, of course, you truly have the means to contact the latter."

Enough. Nothing more needed asking. From the Duke onward, the rest could be ignored. Anyone who could cite such backing—even if caught dissecting something in the lab—would be a nightmare to handle, let alone without concrete proof.

The upside: no need to fear accidentally stumbling upon a secret and being silenced. For a person of this stature, such action would be utterly unnecessary.

Green understood this—and realized he was stuck in an awkward position: further questioning had no justification, yet walking away felt unacceptable.

But the professor, who had seemed eager to converse, raised the topic himself: "If it's not too much trouble, I'd still like to ask: how did a law-abiding physician like me come to attract your interest?"

"In recent days, we've heard rumors in the New District," Green explained, and the more he thought, the more certain he became his deductions were sound. "Claims of someone who can heal diseases through touch—and they've spread rapidly."

"That's exaggerated. I can only alleviate certain symptoms of tuberculosis. But what's wrong with that?" Kraft felt genuinely innocent—before this, the public even believed the King's touch could cure tuberculosis.

"We oppose any public promotion of unnatural forces."

"Huh?" This line would be normal coming from anyone, but here it feels like a character mismatch.

Seeing Kraft's disbelief, he firmly reiterated: "We oppose any public promotion of unnatural forces. Only the Lord possesses abilities beyond the mundane. All true extraordinary power comes from the Lord—and His gifts are never meant for mortals to display or boast. To do so teaches people to believe in miracles, not in reason."

"So openly promoting existing, tangible unnatural abilities is inherently heretical; and openly promoting such powers while gathering large numbers and spreading rapidly within a short time…" It was clear now.

【Heretic】

It was hard not to admit—he had a point. From an outsider's view, his argument was highly persuasive.

"We investigated. We heard you came to Dunling carrying a transparent liquid that 'temporarily removes all perception,' and that it was 'extracted.'" He paused, fixed his gaze on Kraft, the fire reflected in his pupils sharp and flickering, searching for any emotional leakage.

Hearing this, the ever-calm professor frowned, then relaxed.

"And this is very similar to something you previously investigated?"

I just finished my exam! |w｀)

By the way, I recommend a book: The Shadow of Great Britain—I found it on NGA, and it's quite interesting.

(End of Chapter)