Chapter 285: Prophecy

"What do you mean?" Green's expression flickered only briefly; as the flame of the hay lit his face, the deep wrinkles had already smoothed out.

He pulled a chair from beside his desk, placed it beside the holy symbol, sat down to shield the object beneath with his body, and pointed to another chair, signaling the visitor to relax before continuing.

The guest did not refuse, gripping the armrests as he settled into the chair. As he moved, water continuously seeped from the hems of his pants, dripped out through the split seams of his shoes, and pooled beneath his feet.

In response to the priest's question, he offered no reply, only maintaining that faint, rigid smile—the muscles of his upper lip twitching slightly from constant tension, his pupils locking with the priest's across the elongated corners of his eyes.

In this silent struggle of gazes, Green broke first—not from pressure, for those eyes held none of the expected qualities: no curiosity, no threat, no insight.

To meet them was like facing a solid wall, a fragment of some colossal thing—hard to read any individual emotion within. Through the window of the soul, only some vast entity drifted, obscuring everything else.

A pain stirred in his mind, but it was not real—it was a reflection of past experiences, pulled forth by some inexplicable force.

Green felt he had not yet fully escaped the dream, or that something like a persistent parasite had been dragged out and taken root in his soul, awakening when touched.

"......"

A mutter echoed through the room.

San Duo's lips remained tightly shut, the faint, ambiguous smile intact, as he nodded in satisfaction.

It was no hallucination—Green was certain the man had heard it too, rising like a bubble from beneath a floor tile in one corner of the room. He fought hard against the urge to glance sideways; that would reveal his complete ignorance and lack of preparation.

So he merely shifted his body slightly, changing posture, while subtly shifting his weight to prepare for a swift turn to draw his sword if needed.

"You heard it," the monk affirmed, sitting rigidly upright—a posture that would cause back pain and numb legs upon rising, yet he showed no concern, nor did he notice Green's subtle, dangerous adjustment.

"That sound. Its voice."

"What is 'it'?" Despite the risk, Green decided to try extracting more information.

Something had clearly happened to this monk—perhaps similar to what he himself had encountered, but deeper, more severe, warping his thoughts and behavior, much like their experience in that tomb.

Yet they had left that place some time ago; logically, the influence should have faded with distance.

"You've seen it. We've all seen it." Unshakable, fanatical conviction—blind as moths drawn to light. Logic, values, instinct for self-preservation—all the learned and innate forces shaping a human—were being stripped away. He had been remade.

He had to admit: the man before him was no longer the person he once knew, but a controlled shell, a soulless corpse.

"Was it what we saw in the tomb?"

"Of course not," the monk denied Green's guess, then hesitated, contradicting himself, "No—it was that too."

"They are all it... but it is greater, far greater than this." He flailed his arms wildly, gesturing toward some immeasurable, indescribable scale—vaster than the church itself—"But it is not enough."

"Not enough?"

"Yes. We're still short. We can go first." His smile deepened, as if standing before the gates of heaven, the holy words already whispering in his ears, just one step away from bliss, "They must go too."

Doubt grew deeper. In Green's understanding, "they" seemed to refer to another group. "'They'—who are they?"

San Duo rose from his chair, intensifying the tension in the room. Green prepared to strike the moment the man made any suspicious move.

Yet he simply walked past Green, straight to the window, and pushed it open.

A damp, wind-blown rain brought the night of Dunling into the room. Most of the city had fallen asleep, yet it was not utterly silent. Distant and near sounds still came: armored patrols marching below in the square, music from a banquet somewhere nearby, the clatter of wheels and horseshoes on cobblestones—proof this was a living city.

A few lights glimmered through the night rain; the river port along the Tem River still operated, and from their vantage point, the silhouettes of moored ships were visible.

These ordinary sights now brought profound comfort—more than the protection of church or scripture.

San Duo stood at the window, silent, his face in shadow, expression unreadable.

"They."

He repeated it, voice trembling with a strange, joyful laugh—as if something plucked his vocal cords, producing an odd, elated tune.

"Who are they?" Green found understanding them harder than he'd imagined; perhaps their language function had long since burned out along with their logic, leaving them unable to form anything more complex than these cryptic phrases.

Perhaps he believed he had made himself clear enough—San Duo offered no answer, continuing on his own.

"It is the door. The answer. The path to end suffering and misfortune."

As if under psychological suggestion, the pain intensified. Green felt restless, the agony a fusion of physical and mental torment—like being trapped once again in a windowless room, the darkness of claustrophobia amplified countless times, now given form and drilling into his mind.

Along with it came a sense of release—an instinctive certainty that following this feeling would grant eternal liberation: a soft blanket wrapping the body, boundless space for the soul to wander, the convergence of countless voices, a mesmerizing white light.

Green bit down on his tongue until blood filled his mouth; the sharp pain on his tip paled beside the memories it evoked.

Yet the sensation lasted only a short while. When he regained his composure, Brother San Duo still stood by the window, seemingly captivated by the night view outside.

"You need guidance, monk," Green rose silently, hand resting on his sword. "There's a monastery three days from Dunling. The environment is good. I'll send you there to rest for a while."

"No need, Father. I am well."

"That's not up to you." Green had already planned for possible resistance and how to handle it: next step—subdue the man, take him to the mountain monastery, lock him up for ten or fifteen days. Maybe then he'd recover.

San Duo did not turn, nor did he make any aggressive move, allowing the priest to approach slowly. "You don't seem ready to go yet. But it doesn't matter. Everyone will have their chance."

"It is coming. Whether you, I, or they—all will be absorbed within." He spread his arms wide, embracing the night view through the window, overlooking the sleeping, oblivious city.

"With these added, it will finally be enough."

"You damned thing that belongs in hell!" Green finally understood what "they" meant. Something—whether dread or rage—spurred him into action. He lunged, pinned San Duo to the ground, and called for the night patrol.

As he was taken away, that unsettling, rigid smile remained fixed on his face—like the ominous mask of some evil sorcerer making a prophecy.