Chapter 287

"No moon? Are you sure?" It wasn't impossible he hadn't seen it, but the probability of such a massive celestial body being completely obscured was too small.

Gelinmeiyoulijihuida ， Ershizaicisisuoleyifan ， Xunzhaozhumengjinglinagechuangkou ， Huiyizhucongzhongkuijiandenage 、 Beipangtuodayuzhipeideshijie ， Kongpabukenengzaizheyangdetianqikandaoshenmeyueliang 。

"No." He affirmed, "The rain was heavy. I've lived in Dunling for many years—I've never seen rain like that."

"That shouldn't be..."

"Why shouldn't it?" The priest thought this man was even more eccentric than himself; clergy might interpret dreams, but this one could dictate the weather inside them.

That was, of course, due to extensive practical experience. Kraft couldn't say that, but he was certain that in all his past experiences, he had never encountered a situation where the deeper realm had weather changes.

In his memory, whether in Wending Harbor or Vestmin, the deep zones always remained still, like a faded oil painting, before real danger emerged—this stillness had become an unspoken rule, like a wax figure sculpted to resemble a human, no matter how lifelike, utterly motionless.

Not to mention Vestmin, with its similar climate—even in coastal Wending Harbor, he had never found traces of weather changes.

As for Dunling, he knew the situation here was dangerously complex, so he had never ventured down himself.

But someone had gone for him.

He clearly remembered a manuscript, recovered from the pagan nest in Vestmin Castle, highly suspected to be authored by Edward, the writer of *Human Anatomy*—that paper, speckled with fungal spots, still rested in his possession.

It vividly described how the recorder had been locked onto by the crawling entities of the deep, and how, by sheer chance of terrain, he had gained a brief reprieve, gazing upward at the celestial body before returning to the surface.

There was also Edward's distinctive cervical mark—highly credible.

Given the manuscript also mentioned ongoing work on a monograph, it could be inferred the writing occurred around the time of *Human Anatomy*'s completion.

*Human Anatomy* was widely recognized as completed and disseminated in Dunling, and its author was considered a native of Dunling. Thus, it was entirely reasonable to deduce that during the manuscript's composition, Dunling's deep realm, like other places, had no weather changes.

If the deep had dragged someone in during a rainstorm, the outcome might have been vastly different.

Kraft was uncertain whether Greene's case matched his own knowledge—or if it was merely some form of post-traumatic stress.

"There are records stating that dreams in the Dunling region never involve rain."

"Records? What records?"

"Unique manuscripts, non-public materials, case reports—mostly experiential," Kraft explained. The Inquisition didn't know this information benefited everyone; "merely for reference."

"How old are these records?"

"Uh... about five decades." Consulting a half-century-old record was rash—the best solution was to go down and see for himself.

The problem was he didn't want to go down; descending was a form of slow suicide, and if things went wrong, it would become real suicide.

Kraft hesitated. So much time had passed—something could have changed, or perhaps the manuscript was written precisely during Dunling's stable weather period.

A compromise: leave Dunling temporarily, settle somewhere far away, and observe for changes.

"By the way, there's another matter." Greene took the kettle off the stove, wrapped the handle in a damp cloth, and filled three empty cups with hot water, gesturing with his eyes for Warding to close the door. "A monk named Sanduo—you probably don't know his name, but you've seen him. He returned with us before."

"What happened to him? Did he dream too?"

"Perhaps. Hard to say if it's worse." Greene blew away the foam floating on the tea, sipped the hot liquid—it brought a stinging warmth, dispelling some of last night's damp chill.

"Drinking water that hot is bad for your mouth and esophagus," Kraft frowned, instinctively warning.

Greene froze, unable to swallow or spit out the tea.

"Repeated scalding of the mucous membranes increases the risk of esophageal cancer... Sorry, professional habit. Please continue."

"He came to see me last night. His condition resembles someone who had close contact with that thing in the tomb—or like those pagans."

"Has this happened before?"

"No. To be precise, I'm not sure—we were temporarily restricted from leaving. Aside from daily prayers, I rarely saw him." Greene was baffled, like a family member discovering a recently discharged patient had begun coughing and running a fever again.

Unable to understand what had gone wrong, he'd simply called in the doctor.

"Shouldn't his condition improve after distancing himself from those things?"

"Indeed, it's illogical." Based on their behavior in the tomb, monks with cognitive abnormalities recovered quickly after leaving the source.

Under normal progression, they should gradually improve until the experience scarred over—a mental wound too painful to touch.

"Can you leave Dunling? I suggest finding somewhere far away as soon as possible, preferably with a better environment, to observe any changes." At this stage, empirical treatment was viable—increasing distance from potential causes was always prudent.

The Cathedral of the Holy Mother was still too close to the Knight Island Tomb; perhaps that thing retained the ability to affect sensitive individuals at this distance.

Moving to a place with a healthier natural environment would also help escape Dunling's oppressive atmosphere—beneficial for psychological conditions.

"Actually, that's exactly what we did. Brother Sanduo has been contained and will be sent to a monastery for treatment soon." With professional validation, the priest felt somewhat reassured.

"But I can't go yet. This incident has brought more complications."

"No way around it?"

Greene's stance was firm. To the doctor, this was typical behavior when someone believed their condition wasn't serious: "There are many things to handle."

"Sigh. Keep in close contact," Kraft understood he couldn't persuade him; staying within reach where he could help wasn't a bad idea. "Any other information? What did the monk say?"

At this, Greene's gloom deepened further.

"Similar to what the pagans said—doors, ending suffering, more people, and phrases like 'it's coming'—as if willing to drag the entire city into hell to satisfy the insatiable appetite of evil."

"Terrible."

"Isn't it?" Greene shook his head, sighing. Even though he saw those swaying souls as weak-willed and faith-corrupted, each loss still pained him deeply.

He fell silent, drinking the now-cooled tea without a word, while Kraft pondered other matters.

When observed phenomena contradict theory, two possibilities exist: either the theory is incomplete, or the observation itself is limited.

Generally, Kraft tended to assume his established theories based on past experience were flawed, and sought adjustments within that framework.

But considering other possibilities was necessary.

They had clearly distanced themselves from the source—yet what if the issue wasn't with them at all, but something was approaching? On another level?

If it truly rained there, what did that mean?

He recalled the notes taken from the tomb, and the man who had heard a sound during the rain.

"Greene, have you had auditory hallucinations lately?"