Chapter 293: Dunling Holiday

A little-known fact: the earthly representative of the Heavenly Father also needs to eat and drink.

Rural priests and monks without resources rely on donations from believers or manual labor to meet their daily needs; larger monasteries and urban ecclesiastical centers, however, generally own their own estates.

These estates have complex origins, largely consisting of land acquired through reclamation and redemption—including wheat fields, plantations, and timberlands—along with the labor force needed to operate them.

They continuously generate stable economic returns, functioning much like feudal fiefs, except that the center is not a castle but a monastery, equally protected by high walls, operating as a nearly semi-independent small kingdom free from outside interference.

Due to advantages in talent, technology, and management, the Church's operational standards often far surpass those of some noble families.

Kraft was one of those "some noble families," and he knew it well.

So when he arrived at Father Green's temporary residence with Brother Wading, he felt only admiration—not surprise.

They set out on the first day the weather cleared, reaching a small hill about half a day's journey from Dunling City; the pleasing green curves followed the terrain, arranged with obsessive neatness along the sun-facing terraced slopes.

As they ascended along the cart path, they toured the cultivation zones. Vines clung to wooden trellises, their palmate leaves fully unfurled and overlapping, concealing clusters of berries nourished by summer rain and heat.

The partially ripe fruits, tinged purple in places, were still accumulating sugar; cultivators were repairing irrigation ditches, evenly diverting water from the highlands into each ridge to ensure adequate supply during critical growth periods.

According to Brother Wading, the irrigation water came from a natural spring—the very reason the earliest settlers had chosen this land.

The monastery sat atop the hill, minimally decorated with narrow windows; its sturdy outer walls were clearly old, likely built during turbulent times when security was still a grave concern, and had endured through the years.

Kraft dismounted with Wading at the gate, watching as the monk presented some form of credential before they were allowed entry.

As they passed through the archway, he unexpectedly noticed a second gate above—still a drawbridge. Though it clearly wasn't opened often, the surrounding area was kept meticulously clean, free of debris that might obstruct passage.

Inside, they entered the courtyard; compared to the unkempt exterior walls, the layout here was far more comfortable.

In the open square, a trellised walkway encircled a reservoir; the water beneath the shade of plants was crystal clear, fresh fallen leaves and petals drifting along the sun-dappled current, vanishing into an underground stone channel.

High walls separated this space from the bustling orchard beyond; the soft, faint sound of water became the dominant tone. Monks passing by moved slowly, unconsciously preserving the tranquil, leisurely atmosphere.

The man they sought sat beside the pool, flipping through pages of paper; beside him, a fruit tray held a bunch of early-ripened grapes, barely touched.

Wading stepped forward, unceremoniously plucked a grape, and shoved it into his mouth—he immediately understood why this bunch had remained untouched until their arrival.

"I can't imagine they serve you this stuff," the sharp sourness twisted his features, but the ground beneath his feet was clean stone—he had no place to spit, so he swallowed it down.

"Fruit out of season is always sour and bitter," Green closed his book, brushed away fallen leaves from a nearby bench, and gestured for the two visitors to sit.

He looked thoroughly at ease, having adapted to his sudden, empty vacation.

But keen-eyed Kraft noticed part of the paper—it was a recent report, dated just days ago.

"I hope you've been resting well. Brother Wading told me you've noticed fewer voices in your ears?"

"That's right. You were correct—it has decreased." Green pulled out a folded slip of paper marked with several dates and tally marks.

In terms of numbers alone, there was indeed a decline—from around thirty times daily to roughly ten now—but one steep drop occurred between two days. Recalling the timeline, it coincided with the weather shifting from rain to overcast.

"What about your dreams? And the light in them—how are they now?"

"They're less clear."

"What's less clear—the dreams, or the light?" The improvement eased Kraft slightly; at least his past experience still held partial validity.

"The dreams. When I first arrived, I could remember things—walking around my room, that sort of thing. But over the past two days, I can hardly recall anything that happened..." Green paused, as if sensing something.

"As for the light—I haven't had any impression of it since coming here. I even feel it isn't directed at me."

"Your advice has been helpful. Staying away is a good choice, but I'd like to return to Dunling soon."

"My advice is to wait. Don't rush back until you're fully recovered. If you're re-exposed now and relapse, the consequences could be worse—and the recovery longer."

Experience taught that the best way to dissuade a seriously ill patient from leaving was to make them realize they couldn't accomplish anything by going out—even if the method rarely worked.

"But—" Kraft was about to argue about working while ill when Green paused again, this time turning his head toward a direction, "There—it's clearer now. I can tell where the voices are coming from."

"Dunling?" Kraft easily guessed from the motion—it was the direction they'd come from.

"Yes."

"That's normal. That thing is in Dunling. It makes sense the voices seem to come from there." Kraft thought nothing of it; perhaps the environment had calmed his mind.

If he had time, he should ask if they could bring people here for a team-building retreat—the drowsy sunlight was too comfortable; someone who spent nights hunched in the lab felt out of place.

He relished the feeling—his mind running at low power—when the scenery before him subtly shimmered, and he felt a faint dizziness.

Strangely, Green beside him also swayed slightly, pressing his fingers to his brow.

"Did you feel that too?" the priest asked.

"No, I've just been sleeping backwards lately. I'm a bit dizzy." Kraft cupped a handful of icy pool water and splashed it on his face, snapping back to alertness—the brief seconds of dizziness were surely just a hangover from sleep deprivation.

Brother Wading, listening to their conversation, spoke up in confusion: "You two felt dizzy too?"

"You did as well?"

Before the words faded, in the usual silence, the priest suddenly clapped both hands over his ears, staring toward the direction he'd turned earlier—as if a million voices were roaring in a tidal wave, tearing at his eardrums on a frequency no one else could hear.

Only then did Kraft realize—it wasn't dizziness. It was a vibration from deep within the earth, traveling across vast distances, reaching beneath their feet.