Chapter 251

"Then who wrote this book?"

"My teacher—a researcher driven by curiosity, but with skill equal to any professional herald. Most of this was compiled during his spare time from the library." Marco proudly showed a name Greene had never heard, printed on the book's final page.

"I've added a few things on top of his work. I doubt you'll find another book of its kind more complete or reliable."

The priest strained to recall, but the author's name left no impression. Such people were common—rarely known, spending lifetimes buried in libraries, leaving behind writings that might never be noticed.

"May I ask where your teacher served?"

"My teacher returned to the Father's embrace many years ago."

"I'm sorry." Greene felt an immoral pang of relief—he was glad he'd never continued studying history or pursuing an academic degree.

"No need to apologize, Father. He lived a quiet, fulfilled life, exhausting every book before ascending to heaven to question the saints directly. No better day could be wished for."

It made sense. Greene fell silent. Some people were paid by the Church to pursue their hobbies in its libraries. He had no grounds, no right, to pity them.

"By the way, is there anything else you'd like to know?" The successful monk was far from finished. Summarizing the current state of royal heraldry was barely a warm-up for him. He hadn't even reached the details yet—those were where true expertise showed.

After the initial fear of the Inquisition's purpose faded, the scholar's professional curiosity stirred: what could be so secretive about this inquiry?

Greene turned the book toward himself, flipped through a few pages, and reluctantly admitted the gap between professional and lay knowledge—measured in years—could not be bridged by short-term cramming.

After much hesitation, he pulled out the holy scripture he carried, opened it under the man's puzzled gaze, peeled apart two protective white sheets, and extracted the carefully preserved paper within.

A chaotic smear of ink covered the paper; without the solemn manner, it would have been dismissed as the result of a spilled inkwell.

"What is this?" Marco frowned at the rag-like object, examining the paper's age.

Confirming it was new, he rubbed his hands, cleared a space on the table, placed it in the center, and smoothed its edges with his fingertips.

Greene said nothing, watching silently.

One could only say the amateur's rubbing technique was truly terrible—the monk hadn't recognized it as a coat of arms at first glance.

"This is abysmal. Even the clumsiest apprentice wouldn't produce something this bad." He muttered complaints while tracing the outline, attempting to interpret it.

Based on the re-drawn boundaries, the outer ring was entirely discarded—the shield itself occupied less than a quarter of the area.

Everything else was subsidiary—important, perhaps, but merely ornamental, not essential to the coat of arms.

"The paired, maned creatures on either side are probably lions—the supporters. Likely a powerful family with their own patrons. The base below is just for the supporters to stand on; ignore it."

"These blurred marks are probably floral or vine patterns—irrelevant. Used only for decoration, to signify status; they have no fixed meaning and can vary."

"As for the center, let me look again." After explaining the outer ring, Marco studied the shield itself: "The sword in the stone—yes, unmistakable. No other downward-pointing half-sword design exists in the center."

"But the rest is hard to decipher. Who gave you this? The technique is too crude—key details weren't emphasized. This should be sent back to the Academy for a refresher in heraldry."

"I don't know. Just make do with it." Greene urged, feeling guilty.

"If you insist, alright. These small bumps don't look like stone or tools—could they be rust from a metal object?"

"But this section is more regular—striped, not feathers or fur. It looks more like… scales?" The scholar let out an astonished hum. "That's rare."

"Why? Aren't fish common in coats of arms?" Greene immediately revealed he was the one who needed to retake heraldry.

"Usually, yes—but royal coats of arms are different. Only one family, linked by marriage to a merfolk, uses fish motifs, and even among fish emblems, those depicting scales are few."

The monk flipped rapidly through the pages, skimming to the beginning, "Not fish scales. Dragon."

"Does this resemble it? Likely derived from the legend of the sword slaying the dragon." A nearby, simpler coat of arms showed a long-necked dragon's head and body on either side of the sword shape.

"Interesting. Then where is the heir to this coat of arms?"

Marco didn't flip forward—he scratched his head. "Uh, it's not far from us."

He pointed out the window. Greene followed his gaze.

The Tem River, swollen by rain, shimmered. Several boats neared the shore, steering clear of the island where the small chapel stood.

"This coat of arms belongs to the kind with chaotic lineage—only recorded in the early years of the kingdom, then vanished. Back then, the royal branches weren't far apart; most were likely there."

Knight's Island Chapel—the resting place of royalty and site of major ceremonies. If the lineage died out, all its members were buried there.

"Thank you for your answers, Brother Marco." Greene felt he'd extracted all he could.

He stared at the island as if seeing it for the first time—the statue of the first king, mounted and reins in hand before the chapel, his empty right hand raised as if summoning attendants—or clutching something unseen.

If possible, could I have a copy of these untransferred coats of arms? A friend of mine is quite interested. We'll remember your help.

"I happen to have a draft copy—you may take it." Of course, better if you forget me, Marco thought, quickly retrieving his manuscript and seeing off this unwelcome Inquisitor.

Greene left the library with his gift and met his deputy, Brother Vadin, at their usual spot.

He recalled Vadin had nothing urgent to report—this Inquisition's top operational team was currently focused entirely on the sewers, and the next move awaited approval.

"So the bishops have changed their minds already?" That was the only reason Greene could imagine for Vadin's sudden urgency.

"Far from it. In fact, it's even slower than expected. By the time they decide, heretics could have moved house ten times over."

Vadin was deeply dissatisfied with this pace, his tone lacking respect. In his view, it was unimaginable anyone could remain unmoved by such evidence.

"There's another rumor—don't know if it's true. I heard the main reason is the Archbishop's attitude has changed—vague, ambiguous—and the other bishops won't take a stance either."

"Where did you hear that?"

"I have a friend who's close to one bishop's scribe…"

"That's not our business to investigate," Greene rebuked. "Don't do this again. Knowing it now changes nothing. What about the Inquisitor-General?"

"He's even more impatient than we are. That's why I came to find you."

It wasn't hard to imagine—his superior, who had entrusted Greene with so much, probably wished he could jump into the sewers himself and burn every heretic and their foul creations to ash, then flush them away.

Vadin's lowered voice carried a smoldering fire of excitement and vengeance—perhaps from recently comforting the families of martyred brothers. "So the Inquisitor-General is willing to give us some private support."

"We can now 'limitedly mobilize personnel to prevent heretic escape,' including within the sewers."

"That's the best news I've heard." Greene stretched his limbs, joints cracking faintly. He'd rather do something practical than grind through heraldry.

"There's one more thing—information from the clinic. They noticed something unusual."

"Unusual? Did that professor do something again?"

"No. They say someone's been loitering near the clinic—but never going inside."

"As far as I know, half the New District wants to see the doctor. They're just too crowded to get in." Assigning watchers near the clinic had been done before Greene even knew Kraft—and it had never been canceled.

With the foot traffic there, identifying specific individuals was implausible.

"I know—but they say those people are dressed too well. Nothing like typical New District attire." Vadin found the suspicion reasonable.

"Add two more men. If necessary, I authorize you to act."