Chapter 245: Concealing Reality in Illusion

Through the corridor echoing with bell sounds, Green saw the man who had come specifically to find him before the massive mural.

Just minutes earlier, he had been enjoying a precious midday nap near the prayer hall. The quiet scent of incense lingered, and chanting drifted from the adjacent room, soothing the fatigue and irritation left by sleepless nights.

As always, they seeped into the deepest corners of his dreams, piercing through unconscious fears, doubts, and confusion.

Only now did those descriptions become tangible spiritual support, solid arms, the heavy security of church walls. The omnipresent power of the Heavenly Father sheltered him, keeping all disturbance at bay.

His agitated spirit settled, restored by restful sleep.

This was, in a sense, a safehouse—just like a child's secret hideout, and in truth, it was much the same.

Many privately admitted they disliked the place, for its solemn silence, forbidding casual talk, always felt oppressive. But Green liked staying nearby; it helped him recover distant memories, as if returning to the small church near his childhood home, where he thought of nothing but the Heavenly Father's mercy.

Only those who knew Green well understood the special moments when he could be found in a small alcove near the prayer room.

Of course, this included Brother Vading. It was he who opened the alcove's door and informed him that someone had come to say, "An unknown visitor from Shenxue Academy is looking for Father Green."

Members of the Inquisition held no other posts in other departments and rarely had extraneous personal connections; anyone who came specifically to call him by name was unlikely to be here for trivial matters.

So, unfortunately, Green's midday nap had been interrupted. Vading understood this well, yet he still did it, because he knew even better that the priest disliked delegating reception duties to subordinates—it would seem careless and arrogant.

When Green arrived at the meeting spot, he saw a figure with golden hair.

He wore a plain scholar's robe with no distinguishing features, no attendants, and held a holy scripture in his clean hands, gazing upward intently at the mural before him.

The priest circled uncertainly beside him and spotted on the man's chest a leaf-shaped gold badge, unmistakably academic in style—nothing else adorned him. Perhaps this was why the messenger had mistaken him for some old-fashioned Shenxue Academy figure who disliked showing off.

"May I ask, do you have a younger brother in Faxue Academy?"

"You're disappointed—I only have a cousin who's bad at cultural studies." The visitor tossed the scripture from one hand to the other.

This gesture instantly shattered the rare aura of faith he carried, exposing a hereditary, ingrained irreverence toward the divine.

Of course, it also confirmed to Green that the man before him was not some professor's twin brother—he was the man himself.

"What brought you here to play priest? The university's drama club?"

"Do I look like I have time for that?" Kraft tossed the scripture again, then tucked it under his arm. "If anyone misinterprets my appearance, that's purely their problem for judging by appearances."

"But the main reason is, I discovered our communication channel is one-way. Can you imagine a Faxue Academy person walking into a church demanding to see the Inquisition? To turn himself in? Or report an accomplice?"

"Thanks. First time I've met someone from Faxue Academy who knows what he does is illegal."

"Alright, enough small talk—I'm here to tell you I've handled the hand. The black granules in the vessels were filtered and bottled; the stone is locked in a box. You can inspect it anytime."

"What about the rest?"

"Burned thoroughly. If you did the same, when he reaches hell, even the devils won't catch him without a sack."

Green stood shoulder to shoulder with Kraft, as if about to sigh. "It'll take some time. From past experience, there won't be a clear response within three days."

He also looked up at the mural. He had seen this corridor's paintings many times; when he first arrived, he deliberately took detours to admire them daily. Now he was numb to them—genuinely couldn't see what was worth looking at.

"So I have to wait three more days?"

"If fast, three days from now they might call a few parties back to recount the events. Further steps will take longer. And this time… their stance seems unusually vague. I suspect something wasn't fully cleaned up."

Green held a pessimistic view regarding the efficiency of the bishops who could determine the course of this matter.

Even if the shock of a mutated corpse was strong enough, it didn't guarantee that decision-makers long removed from the front lines—or who had never dealt with such matters—would grasp its true severity.

Those who had never faced such things could never empathize with unspeakable experiences, and found it hard to fully believe them.

Without the physical evidence brought back, this would almost certainly have been a fatal blow to Green's career.

"So today you came here just to tell me you dissected a hand?"

"What do you mean 'just'? I worked overtime to examine its anatomical structure." His dark circles and inverted circadian rhythm received severe disapproval.

"Don't Faxue Academy people consume an entire corpse in one night? By the next day, there's nothing left to check."

"I suppose you mean—cannibal family dinner." Kraft's sharp remark proved stereotypes were everywhere. "Alright, I didn't come here only about the hand."

"Though I did gain significant findings from it. It may be the least mutated part of the original body—nearly normal in overall structure. Perhaps the black substance was indeed used to suppress transformation—at least, it must have had that function."

"Now we need to run some tests."

Green caught his implication. "What do you need?"

"Someone to test it on… well, obviously I'm joking. I need a sufficiently safe location—for us and others—and some animals."

"That will take time."

"I know. And I can wait. The stone won't rot." Having said all he needed to, the professor turned back to the mural, unusually captivated by its mythological content.

As Green assumed the conversation was over and prepared to leave Vading's contact details behind, he was called back:

"There's a third matter."

"Hmm?"

The book returned to the professor's hands. His pale, slender fingers danced across the pages, reaching the desired spot without looking, "I'd like to ask—how do you view the stories in the holy scripture?"

"Records of the Heavenly Father's traces on earth, exemplars for teaching and guiding humanity toward goodness and righteousness, standards for conduct." The priest answered without hesitation—any pause would have disrespected his own competence. "All virtue and wisdom stem from it."

"I don't deny that. In fact, if more people followed the principles laid out in the scripture, the world would be far better." Kraft quickly cut himself off—he hadn't come here to debate theology with Green. Even without formal training in argumentation, Green's philosophical and theological depth could easily crush him.

"I mean—do you believe the stories themselves are true? For instance, was there once, somewhere, someone named Saint… who walked on fire or vanished into thin air?"

"It doesn't hinder us from acting according to the teachings. We need these stories to help more people accept universal moral standards."

"So you believe they never happened."

"..."

The priest stared at him, wondering if this man had come here just to pick a fight—especially choosing a quiet spot to avoid being beaten to death by a mob.

"But I think some part of it—at least the parts closer to us—likely contains truth." The professor kept his gaze fixed on the mural, as if trying to slip through cracks in the wall paint into the scene itself.

The mural's colors varied in age: some faded, others repainted, thickly layered, even altered to suit changing aesthetics. Yet even the oldest portions were far younger than the corridor itself.

Beneath deeper layers of paint lay untraceable originals—the same theme repeatedly reworked on the same wall, reenacted in different yet similar ways.

Weapon colors had been whitewashed then yellowed; knights and servants added or removed; helmets alternated between practical durability and ornate decoration; scales and armor shattered into meaningless texture.

He opened the page he'd turned to and handed it to Green. "Here. I'd like to hear the interpretation of a top Shenxue Academy graduate. It's too hard to find a relevant expert in a doctor's network."

"Didn't expect you went to the trouble of buying a holy scripture just to play pretend."

"Borrowed. I'll return it in a few days." Kraft's attitude toward religion was never careless when pretending. The owner clearly favored this section—he'd opened it frequently, loosening the spine enough that one could flip to it by feel alone.

"You think this relates to what we encountered?" Green glanced once—it was all content he could recite from memory. He recalled this passage primarily illustrated the knightly virtue of "spirituality"—understanding the divine will.

"And so the Heavenly Father granted him the authority to draw that sword… and servants brought bricks, steel, and dragon scales—cutting through them as easily as slicing through the tips of grain stalks." The professor recited the passage easily, then asked, "Doesn't that sound familiar?"

"A stretch."

"This book was borrowed from Mo Lisen's home. His daughter said she often saw her father suddenly take interest in the scripture, flipping through it often."

"When?!" The idea of borrowing directly from Professor Mo Lisen's collection was unexpected. "But this won't convince anyone."

"Quite early—when he first arrived in Dunling." Kraft tilted his head upward, his gaze rising past the smooth-cut limbs and cardboard-like armor piled at the mural's base. The mural's antagonist fled in panic or knelt in supplication; even winged lizard-like monsters had lost parts of their bodies.

"Think, Green. Think. Such a famous sword—has anyone ever told you what it looked like? Single-handed or two-handed? What kind of scabbard held it? What was the guard like? What was it forged from? Did the royal family ever display it?"

"Coins, murals, reliefs—none ever depicted it with a fixed form. All we know is it cut through iron like butter—yet that still doesn't describe its sharpness. Good heavens, what kind of thing is this?"

"Could we have misunderstood? Maybe such a weapon exists—but not as a literal 'sword.' Perhaps it's a specific, extremely difficult-to-master 'sword technique,' briefly held and used only by royalty."

"Then why did they stop using it?"

"You've seen what things connected to it look like." The logic now connected—explaining the deliberately destroyed water channels. "Yes. That's the early kingdom's destruction mark. They tried sealing it off."

"So I need you to find every church record you can, from that time period."