Chapter 219: Merging the Pieces

When the professor extended his finger for the third time to trace the paper's surface, attempting to transcend its medium and touch the engraved grooves, Greene finally couldn't hold back and spoke up to stop him.

"Don't be fooled by its decent preservation—it's at least a hundred years old; handle it carefully."

"Oh, sorry. I never expected to find this here." Kraft withdrew his hand, wiped the faint sweat from his palm onto his tunic hem, and gently lifted the paper to turn it over.

Recognizing the true nature of these imitations did not reassure him; instead, it stirred an inexplicable revulsion, like encountering a narrative where primary and secondary elements were hopelessly confused, or a face with misaligned features crudely stitched together.

The molten appearance added further unease to the design. He had never before associated melting with solid stone carvings and could not guess whether this imagery stemmed from deliberate intent or was merely an imitation of some unknown form.

"Have you seen anything like this before?"

"Not exactly. It's different from what I know. Same style, but clearly a copy."

The copyist left very little narrative—few words on both sides, even omitting the time and location of discovery. A few hastily drawn, distorted letters were sketched, comparing some forms mentioned earlier, yet no logical lineage could be established; all one could do was convince oneself it was merely a personal, spontaneous creation by the author.

"Two symbolic designs have been merged together." Those who had seen the full image could distinguish them far more easily—or rather, their distinctive features remained irreducible even after being scattered and reassembled.

If they weren't coincidentally encountered both in the kingdom's northern frontier and in Dunling, then their influence must be far broader than imagined.

"What do they point to?"

"I'm not sure." The arcs and straight lines pointed toward the solitary celestial body suspended in the depths, while the winding, meandering lines depicted something that could not yet be clearly conceptualized in the mind.

The former couldn't be explained; the latter, one couldn't explain to others what one didn't understand oneself.

"I've only seen similar things on ancient relics—definitely pagan symbols." Kraft declared with even greater certainty than Greene, his conviction so firm it made one suspect he held a personal grudge against Mo Lisen.

"Has no connection to that potion? We've encountered cases where cultists were given hallucinogenic drugs; after ingestion, with a bit of suggestion, they could be easily convinced of absolute truth. From a medical standpoint, is such a possibility plausible?"

Kraft shook his head. "Very unlikely. I already said—such effects could be openly obtained with far greater results."

A silence settled over the desk as both parties digested the information.

"Where did you encounter this thing?"

"Far north of the kingdom—at least two or three months' voyage, then several more days' ride into the mountains. You wouldn't know the place even if I told you."

"Then there's nothing more we can do. Calling it pagan symbols won't help." Greene exhaled heavily, tilted his head back to stretch his neck, and glanced sideways at Kraft. "If that's all you know."

The latter had no interest in such casual provocation. He hesitated to reveal information he himself hadn't confirmed—partly fearing misdirection, partly uncertain what dangers lay ahead, and wishing to retain control over the investigation's direction and pace.

He believed Greene felt the same way; this priest, who held authority within the Church hierarchy, didn't seem the type to be easily led.

Moreover, Greene could mobilize considerable local manpower and resources—he could easily operate alone, leaving others behind.

Kraft flipped forward several pages and found the other fragments seized alongside it, pulling them from their protective parchment to examine: a severely damaged burial site outside the city, some ditch, then a drainage channel.

"Have you tried locating this thing? Based on the imprint's area, it's clearly larger than the paper—add the supporting medium, and its full size rivals some steles. There may even be other related components."

And since it was accidentally discovered by an amateur architect, it likely wasn't hidden in some inaccessible location.

"I've asked several enthusiasts of ancient architecture—some even involved in cathedral repairs. They said if such a thing truly existed, it wouldn't be obscure."

"Could it be underground? Looking at these—like sewers, for instance... hmm, sewers wide enough for a person to walk through—could you narrow the scope?"

Greene gathered the papers, slipping each back between the parchment sheets. "Would you try searching the Tem River for one specific drop of water?"

"Huh?"

"Dunling has no shortage of such places. No one can say where they exist or how long they stretch. Or rather, one should ask where they don't."

"I don't understand." This clashed sharply with his conventional notion of sewers in this era—he felt it was more like describing a colossal ant colony sprawling beneath the city, its tunnels hollowing out building foundations.

"Forgive me, but are you digging sewers or underground rivers? Who funded such an engineering project?"

"No. We rarely bother with drainage systems."

"Are you telling me these sewers grew on their own?" Planning a drainage and sewage system for a city the size of Dunling—especially one wide enough for walking—was an enormous undertaking.

Yet he hadn't expected Greene to nod in agreement. "You could say that."

"They've always been there. Dunling merely repurposed them—and possibly even harmed them. In truth, only a small portion was built by 'Dunling people.' You must understand: 'Dunling people' is a concept that only emerged after the kingdom's founding."

"Then who built the rest?"

"No one knows. They've always been there—just another kind of relic. You'll find them throughout the city and its surroundings, like any other ancient structure." Greene spoke as if stating the obvious.

On this unchanging land, the oldest things were the most abundant—even the foundation stone of the Cathedral of the Mother was younger than this copy by a multiple of its age.

"Then who built them?"

"Perhaps everyone? Each generation repaired what the last left, until it became this. Probably." Even his vast knowledge of Church texts couldn't lend conviction to his tone.

Unlike above-ground structures, the city's underground sections had always received little attention; their function as sewers made them even less likely to be visited.

"They're ideal for housing everything unfit to appear aboveground—sewage, trash, even those who break the law. Occasionally, one finds a hiding place down there, forcing us to descend and drag them out."

"So I know how vast it is—countless branches, levels, and elevations, a stone-and-brick web so dense even gangsters hiding from pursuit dare not venture far."

One could reasonably infer how the ability to draw a blade in darkness was learned—practical necessity breeds technique.

"Even the Inquisition couldn't try?"

"The Inquisition isn't my personal domain. Even the Bishop couldn't order everyone into the sewers based on an unverified lead. And there are plenty who resent a colleague of low birth—they'd welcome another reason to impeach me."

"Alright, I admit this is genuinely troublesome." Kraft now understood the magnitude of the challenge before him.

There was a lead—but scant. Likely buried in the sewers, requiring him to dig it out himself, and the sewers were slightly larger than he'd imagined.

Moreover, they didn't even know if this lead was useful—they were blind travelers in darkness, rushing toward the only light in sight.

But Kraft had another thought—a possible way to connect the clues both sides held.

"If that's true, then beneath our feet, the sewers must be densely packed—so dense that digging down anywhere would likely hit them."

"A bit exaggerated, but essentially true. Hollow collapses during foundation digging aren't new."

"What if it were a quarry?"

"What do you mean?" Greene asked, and almost simultaneously recalled today's tracking of Kraft's movements. "You mean..."

"Not long ago, I reviewed the Academy's library loan records—don't ask how I accessed them." Seeing Greene's sudden realization and urgency, Kraft pressed his palm downward, signaling calm.

"Coincidentally, I recognized the handwriting of one professor—he repeatedly declared surgical instruments unfit for return, citing exposure to highly contagious patients. The same procedure was repeated many times over several months."

"Assume—just assume—this has meaning. Whether it's an oversight or a subtle hint from a conscience still alive, I can only think of one place: the most likely final resting place for plague victims rejected by ordinary graveyards."

"The problem then was: I didn't know what to look for." A search without direction could shatter any confidence in one's own deductions.

【But now I probably know】

"That proves nothing." After a few breaths of silence, Greene suppressed the urge to immediately summon personnel and re-examined this purely subjective speculation with objectivity.

"Even if we dismiss it as a mere pretext, it could equally mean their targets were patients seeking cure—under threat of death, any price becomes acceptable if even a sliver of hope is offered."

"There are no recorded surgical cures for current plague cases. The academic consensus holds that only potions help—and even those are barely effective."

"Isn't inserting a needle into the chest cavity a surgical procedure?" From a layman's perspective, the objection was easy: "Besides, Mo Lisen has a potent potion that can easily create 'miracles.'"

"But right now, we only have this one lead. Will you keep chasing grave robbers on the streets—or will you try?"

"..."

"Wading, tell our people to be here tomorrow in plain clothes."

Kraft removed his gloves and extended his hand to Greene. "My grandfather told me that on the battlefield, when temporary trust was needed, they'd remove their gauntlets to show they were unarmed, then shake hands—it was the simplest form of alliance."

Their hands clasped firmly, then released after a brief moment. Nearby observers faintly heard the low, sharp crack of compressed joints.

"By the way, don't let the Academy know. I don't want my reputation ruined in the field."

"Indeed—the simplest alliance."