Chapter 218: Melted

For half an afternoon, Kraft helped Emperor David V revise his 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 for safety—no explosive operations should be conducted next to the patient wards.

After absorbing sufficient experience and lessons, he could now be certain: the most reliable solution was not refining the process or improving technique, but a sturdy table, good ventilation, and a place to retreat if 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 the vessel, heated it until it turned red, distilled the pungent gas that bubbled noisily in water, then concentrated it and mixed it with strong liquor before reheating.

The transparent glass vessels made every step 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—its process was cleaner than that of 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 was truly beyond his knowledge—before seeing it with his own eyes, he would never have believed such a thing existed.

"No, actually the dosage is hard to control. From my personal records, roughly one or two out of every ten people experience side effects of varying severity; worst case, the patient awakens during surgery—still conscious, even able to move. That's terrible."

Kraft snatched the ether bottle from his hand and wrapped it in black cloth. "Handle carefully—this substance can't withstand 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 results."

"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 duty. 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 accusing you of heresy from now on."

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

"As long as you're not spreading them yourself. Most people lack the ability to distinguish truth from distortion—any rumor changes completely after three retellings. After all, they also 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 if asking for a note.

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

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

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

The outstretched hand did not withdraw. Unmoved.

"You're not of the Inquisition. Even the finest 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 gravely 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 true believer wouldn't go back on his word."

"I hope someone won't regret 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 private trials beyond official control." Green led them into a room filled with strange objects. "I told you—everything changes after a few retellings, until enough people gain the ability to understand and analyze."

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

"Some heresies themselves are embedded in distorted doctrines," said Brother Vadin, introducing the Inquisition's seized artifacts to the slower-moving visitors. "For instance, the original owner of that tri-ring symbol tried to convince peasants 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 upon the table.

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

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

He saw the rubbing Green had described as a honeycomb—the pure black hexagonal pattern held an undeniable allure, born of its style alien to any known era or contemporary design.

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

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

They sometimes merged, sometimes separated; in extreme cases, they switched back and forth within a single hexagon, becoming utterly 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 traces—fused, blurred cuts mimicking the surface texture of melted wax or glacial thaw—rendered with startling realism. Unlike the first two, they expressed a single, unambiguous meaning:

【Melted】