Chapter 218: Melted

For half the afternoon, Kraft handled Davus V's indecisive treatment plan and set up the ether extraction apparatus in the clinic's backyard.

The entire fragile setup had been brought here earlier in a velvet-lined box for immediate use; the location was chosen with safety in mind—no explosive operations should be conducted next to the patient wards.

After absorbing sufficient lessons, he could now be certain: the most reliable solution wasn't refining the process or improving technique, but a sturdy table, good ventilation, and a place to retreat when needed.

So they built a shed in the yard and moved equipment out only when necessary.

Green watched as Kraft added green powder bought from the ink shop into a vessel, heated it until it turned red, and distilled a pungent gas that bubbled noisily in water, then concentrated it and mixed it with strong liquor for further heating.

The transparent glass vessels made the entire process visible; the shifting clear liquid eventually condensed into just enough to fill a single small bottle.

No cryptic symbols, no ritual gestures, no suspicious materials—by process alone, it was cleaner than the alchemists', and involved no arcane theories of elements, souls, or flesh.

The only possible objection was reliability, which Kraft answered by demonstrating a full-anesthesia artificial pneumothorax procedure.

"Do all of them do this?" Green picked up the bottle and observed the liquid sliding along the glass under the light. It truly exceeded all knowledge—before seeing it with his own eyes, he would never have believed such a thing existed.

"No, not at all. Dosage is hard to control; based on my current statistics, roughly one or two out of ten people experience side effects of varying severity—worst case, intraoperative awakening, meaning they retain sensation, even movement. That's extremely bad."

Kraft snatched the ether bottle from his hand and wrapped it in black cloth. "Handle carefully—this substance doesn't tolerate strong light or long-term storage."

Green fell silent for a moment, mainly out of reluctance, then reluctantly discarded all his recent work. "Yes, this is pure medicine. I must admit—you've achieved remarkable things."

"I'm glad you say so. May I take it as an official certification from the Inquisition?"

"No. We do not assume responsibility or provide guarantees for medical matters—that's the physicians' guild's domain. I imagine they're all your people." He drew a clear line on jurisdiction. "I can only guarantee no one will come knocking on your door for heresy from now on."

"Even though rumors still spread widely that I can cure tuberculosis by touch?"

"As long as you're not spreading them yourself. Most people lack the ability to distinguish truth. Any rumor becomes something entirely different after three retellings. After all, they say the king's touch cures tuberculosis—should I arrest the king?"

"Alright." Honestly, apart from the attack, Kraft felt he and Green would get along well. "Now that I've demonstrated the full process, it's your turn."

"What?"

"The rubbing. I want to see it." The professor extended his hand, as naturally as asking for a note.

In all his time in this position, Green had never seen anyone demand a key piece of evidence so casually, though they had indeed made a verbal agreement.

"Yes, but..." The Inquisitor paused, searching for a better phrasing. "You know about the fire—if my suspicions are correct, the medical college isn't as peaceful as it appears. Someone is willing to pay any price to erase the trail."

"So far, two professors and one lecturer, plus several future physicians, have been officially written off. Since the purge began, adding one more is simple."

The outstretched hand did not retreat, unmoved.

"You're not of the Inquisition. Even supreme swordsmanship won't stop a dagger thrust from behind—this isn't a duel." This was said with practical concern. As a devout church member, he had no spouse or descendants; his workplace was also his home—but not everyone was like him.

"I think I can." Kraft raised an eyebrow. If they thought this would make him back down, they were terribly mistaken.

"Just out of curiosity?" Green looked at him as if he were insane.

"Perhaps. I believe honesty is a virtue demanded by the Father. A devout believer shouldn't renege on a promise."

"I hope no one regrets jumping into a swamp... The evidence cannot be removed. You may view it only where it's stored. If you insist, and don't mind visiting the Inquisition, then come." Green felt he had fulfilled his duty.

"This isn't what I imagined."

"What did you imagine?"

"Hmm... A pitch-black dungeon, spiked benches like chestnut shells, iron coffins, that sort of thing."

The guard who opened the door with the key gave them a strange look, unsure what sort of person the priest had brought back.

"About a hundred years ago, you might have seen such things in unregulated private trials," Green led them into a room filled with strange objects. "I said it before—everything changes after a few retellings, until enough people gain the ability to understand and analyze."

Wild bone artifacts with strong naturalist overtones, a three-ring nested symbol resembling a religious emblem, grotesque horned idols. Kraft thought his grandfather would have loved this place—every item radiated mystery.

"Some heresies themselves are embedded in distorted doctrines," Brother Wading explained to the slow-moving visitors. "That three-ring symbol, for instance—its original owner tried convincing farmers it was a special form of the Father."

Green moved with practiced ease to his target, pulled a book from a pile, opened it, and extracted the copied pages—sandwiched between parchment and flattened—then drew back the curtains to let the evening light fall on the table.

"Now's the time. We don't use open flames here unless necessary."

"Thank you." Kraft set down the human-faced, sheep-bodied idol he'd been handling and stepped to the table to study the old paper.

He saw the rubbing Green had described as a honeycomb—the pure black hexagonal pattern held an undeniable allure, stemming from its style belonging to no known era or contemporary period.

He understood the strange feeling upon first seeing it. Ancient relics, even centuries or millennia old, sometimes inspire awe—but one always finds some shared connection. These offered only an indescribable alienation, as if their maker had stepped onto a forest path and severed all ties to the main timeline.

Two distinctly different shapes were discernible: one, geometric arcs and rings, fragmented and stretched into elongated, splattered lines; the other, sinuous engraved grooves, like flowing water or serpentine torrents intertwining.

They sometimes merged, sometimes separated; in extreme cases, they switched back and forth within a single hexagon, becoming hopelessly confused.

To one who had seen the original, it was immediately clear: this was clearly a clumsy forgery by a confused mind, lacking the spiritual resonance capable of conveying rich meaning, and marred by added secondary embellishments.

Those were melted, smudged cuts—resembling wax softening or glacial melting—rendered with startling realism. Unlike the first two, they expressed a single, unambiguous meaning:

【Melted】