Chapter 285: Prophecy

"What does that mean?" Green's expression flickered for only a moment, the firelight from the hay smoothing out the deep wrinkles on his face.

He pulled a chair from his desk and placed it beside the holy symbol, sitting down to shield whatever lay beneath with his body, then gestured with a finger toward another chair, signaling the visitor to adopt a more relaxed posture.

The guest did not refuse, settling himself into the chair by gripping the armrests; as he moved, droplets continuously seeped from the hems of his pants and dripped down, squeezed out from the split seams of his shoes, pooling into a small puddle beneath him.

In response to the priest's question, he offered no reply, merely maintaining that faint, rigid smile—the muscles of his upper lip twitching slightly from constant tension, his pupils locked in steady gaze with the priest's through the elongated corners of his eyes.

In this silent struggle of wills, Green was the first to yield—not from pressure, but because those eyes held nothing of what should have been there: no curiosity, no threat, no insight.

Gazing into them felt like staring at a solid wall, a fragment of some colossal entity, impossible to interpret as the expression of an individual's rich emotions; through the window of the soul, only something vast and alien drifted, obscuring all else.

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

Green felt he had not fully escaped the dream, or that something like a persistent parasite had been dragged along, nesting within his soul, ready to flare when touched.

"......"

A mumbled sound echoed through the room.

Sandor's lips remained tightly shut, his half-smile unchanged as he nodded in satisfaction.

It was no hallucination—Green was certain the man had heard it too: a bubbling sound rising from beneath a floor tile in the corner of the room. He fought hard against the urge to glance sideways, knowing it would betray his complete ignorance and unpreparedness.

Instead, he subtly shifted his posture, adjusting his weight to be ready to turn and draw his sword if necessary.

"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 cautious adjustment.

"The sound over there. 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 experienced, but deeper, more severe, corrupting his thoughts and behavior, much like their ordeal in that tomb.

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

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

He could no longer deny it: the man before him was no longer the person he once knew, but a hollow shell, a walking corpse of a soul.

"Was it what we saw in the tomb?"

"Of course not," the monk denied Green's guess, then hesitated with self-contradictory uncertainty, "No—it is also that."

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

"Not enough?"

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

Confusion deepened. In Green's understanding, "they" seemed to refer to another group: "Who are 'they'?"

Sandor rose from his chair, intensifying the tension in the room; Green braced himself, ready to strike the moment the monk made any suspicious move.

But instead, he simply stepped around Green, walking straight to the window and pushing it open.

A damp, chilly wind carried the night of Dunling into the room. Most of the city had fallen asleep, yet it was not utterly silent—distant and near sounds persisted: armored patrols marching through the square, music from a nearby banquet, the clatter of wagon wheels and horseshoes on cobblestones, proof this was a living city.

A few lights glimmered through the rain-drenched night; 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 church or sacred texts ever could.

Sandor stood motionless at the window, silent, his face shadowed and unreadable.

"They."

He repeated it, his voice trembling with a strange, almost musical laughter—as if something plucked at his vocal cords, producing an eerie, joyous tune.

"Who are 'they'?" Green found understanding them harder than he'd imagined; perhaps their language had long since been burned away along with their logic, leaving them incapable of forming anything more complex than these cryptic phrases.

Perhaps convinced he had made himself clear, Sandor did not 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 in a windowless room, plunged into suffocating darkness, then amplified a thousandfold until it took shape and burrowed 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, a chorus of countless voices, a mesmerizing white light.

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

But the sensation lasted only a brief moment. When he regained his composure, Brother Sandor still stood at the window, seemingly captivated by the night view outside.

"You need guidance, brother," Green rose silently, his hand resting on his sword. "There's a monastery three days from Dunling—peaceful, serene. I'll take you there for a while."

"No need, Father. I am well."

"That's not your choice," Green had already planned his next moves—how to subdue resistance, how to restrain the man, how to send him to the mountain monastery for ten or fifteen days; perhaps then he might recover.

Sandor did not turn, nor did he make any threatening move, allowing the priest to approach slowly. "You seem unwilling to go—for now. But it doesn't matter. Everyone will have their chance."

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

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

"Damnation!" Green finally understood what "they" meant. Something—whether dread or fury—spurred him into action. He lunged, tackling Sandor to the ground and shouting for the night patrol.

Even as he was dragged away, that unsettling, rigid smile remained fixed on his face, like the ominous mask of a wicked sorcerer uttering a prophecy.