Chapter 287: Another Consideration

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

Green did not answer immediately; instead, he pondered once more, searching for that window in the dream and recalling the world dominated by torrential rain he had glimpsed through it, where it would be impossible to see the moon in such weather.

"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 have the authority to interpret dreams, but this one could dictate the weather inside them.

That was obviously due to rich practical experience. Kraft couldn't answer that way, but he was certain in his past experiences he'd never encountered a situation where the other side had weather changes.

In his memory, whether in Wenden Port or Westmin, the deep layers always maintained a faded oil-painting stillness before real danger emerged—a stillness that had almost become an assumed law, like a wax statue sculpted to resemble a living human, no matter how lifelike, utterly motionless.

Not to mention Westmin, with its similar climate—even in coastal Wenden Port, after going there, he'd found no trace of weather changes.

As for Dunling, he knew the situation here was dangerously complex, so he'd never risked going down himself.

But someone had gone for him.

He clearly remembered that in the heretical nest within Westmin Castle, he'd obtained a manuscript highly suspected to belong to Edward, the author of *Human Anatomy*—the paper speckled with fungal spots still rested in his hands.

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

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

Considering the manuscript also mentioned compiling a monograph, it could be inferred the time was around when *Human Anatomy* was written or published.

The completion and dissemination of *Human Anatomy* is generally acknowledged to have occurred in Dunling, and its author is believed to be a native of Dunling. Thus, it's entirely reasonable to deduce that during the manuscript's composition, Dunling's deep layer, like other places, had no weather changes.

If the deep entities had dragged someone over on a rainy day, the outcome might have been very different.

Kraft was uncertain whether Green's situation was the same as what he knew, or merely some form of post-traumatic stress disorder.

"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: "For reference only."

"How old are these records of yours?"

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

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

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

A middle ground was to temporarily leave Dunling, find a distant place, and stay there awhile to observe for changes.

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

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

"Maybe. Hard to say if it's worse." Green blew away the floating foam on the tea, sipped the hot liquid, and the scalding fluid brought him a stinging warmth that dispelled some of last night's damp chill.

"Drinking water that hot is bad for your mouth and esophagus," Kraft said, frowning, habitually reminding him.

Green froze, unable to decide whether to swallow or spit out the tea.

"Repeated scalding of the mucous membranes may increase 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 inside the tomb—or like those heretics."

"Has this happened before?"

"No, or rather, I'm not certain—we were temporarily restricted from leaving. Aside from daily prayers, I barely saw him." Green was baffled by this, like a family member discovering a patient had started running a fever and coughing again shortly after discharge.

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

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

"Indeed, it's unreasonable." Based on their behavior inside the tomb, monks whose cognition had been disturbed recovered quickly after leaving the source of influence.

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

"Can you leave Dunling? I suggest you find a sufficiently distant place quickly and observe how the condition changes—ideally somewhere with a better environment." At this point, empirical treatment could be tried; distancing from potential causative factors was always wise.

The Cathedral of the Holy Mother was still too close to the Knights' Island Tomb—perhaps that thing still had the ability to affect sensitive individuals at this distance.

Moving to a place with a better natural environment would also help escape Dunling's oppressive atmosphere, beneficial for psychological illness.

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

"But I can't go yet. After this incident, there are more troubles to handle."

"No way around it?"

Green's attitude was firm; to the doctor, this was typical behavior when someone believed their condition wasn't serious: "There are many things to attend to."

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

At this mention, Green's gloom deepened further.

"Similar to what the heretics said—doors, ending suffering, more people, and things like 'it's coming,' as if willing to send the entire city to hell to satisfy the insatiable appetite of some evil thing."

"Terrible."

"Isn't it?" Green shook his head, sighing. Even though those swayed individuals, in his view, suffered from weak will and distorted faith, each loss still pained him deeply.

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

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

Generally, Kraft tended to believe the theory derived from past experience was flawed, and tried adjusting it on its existing foundation.

But considering other possibilities was necessary.

They had clearly distanced themselves from the source of influence—but what if the problem wasn't theirs at all? What if something was truly approaching? On another level?

If it truly rained heavily over there, what did that mean?

He recalled the notes taken from the tomb, and the man who'd heard a certain sound on a rainy day.

"Green, have you had auditory hallucinations lately?"