Chapter 314

Kraft saw a series of subtle, conflicting expressions flicker across Vading’s face: tension over the deteriorating situation, ritualistic mourning, personal association with his own condition, and a touch of unavoidable schadenfreude.

As they drew closer, these expressions flattened and vanished, replaced by suspicion and wariness.

The boat had lain there so long it was swallowed by damp, revolting black mold, its original color indiscernible.

A frayed rope, like a dead snake, tied it to a jagged outcrop; the knots had worn nearly through, leaving only a few fibers holding the derelict vessel against the tide’s pull.

It was not of their own design, nor equipped with flotation buoys—just a common flat-bottomed skiff of the Tem River, used for ferrying or cargo in calm waters, poorly built and prone to capsizing.

Someone outside the Church had arrived here earlier, roughly weeks to two months ago.

The boat contained no items to identify its owners, only deep gnawing and tearing scars along its hull, revealing what it had endured en route.

Extra wooden planks had been added inside for reinforcement, yet the attackers had still pried off a large section of the hull and punched several jagged, ragged holes into the bottom—likely the reason they had fled ashore in panic.

All of them had survived the attack and reached this place.

“Those heathens.” There was no other plausible suspect, yet Father Green struggled to imagine how they could have descended before the hall collapsed—and brought a boat with them.

“I hope they drowned in their own madness.” Not still alive here in some form—that would make things far more troublesome.

Though reluctant, Green pragmatically turned his gaze to Kraft, who leaned on his sword to support half his weight and nodded: his condition was barely passable; if necessary, he could employ unconventional means to resolve unconventional problems.

The priest halted, then walked toward them. “The Ancients once allied with kings who held swords forged from stone; the kingdom was blessed with glory—thus, a sword is not good or evil by its origin.”

“Today, as a century ago, perhaps the Father again tests us—now is the time to unite our wills and cast aside our divisions.”

He removed his gloves, performing the gesture with exaggerated theatricality, and gripped the professor’s hand firmly just as the man understood what was expected.

【You handle this, I’ll handle the rest.】

After confirming Kraft understood, Green released his grip and scanned the assembled monks, locking eyes with each face that had chosen to follow him here.

He did not know if others thought the same, but on this unusual stretch of stony shore… the strange “small creatures” drawn here, the boat pushed ashore, and themselves—every sign suggested this was indeed that special place.

The Father’s will, the lake’s choice, some inevitable convergence—a hidden confluence fate had arranged for those who strayed here for different reasons.

An epiphanic clarity washed through his mind: the answer lay ahead. The answer to the months-long mystery, to the heretical worship, to the historical enigma—perhaps even the final answer to a few insignificant lives.

A question, once impossible to empathize with, surfaced in his thoughts:

【Don’t you want to know?】

Many things flashed through his mind: his first hearing of the Father’s deeds, his vow to defend doctrine, receiving his theological degree, assuming his current post—half a life spent where the spire of the Mother Cathedral was always visible.

If he had already wandered so far without realizing it, how could he not wish to know the final answer?

Yet now, standing just one step from understanding the miracle, the heavens, he found his heart less fervent than imagined—like the knitted cloak draped over his armor: beautiful, comfortable, yet when it grew filthy and heavy, shedding it was no great loss.

“No, I don’t.” He cared nothing for whether an afterlife existed, whether the Church truly represented that supreme will, or even whether such a benevolent supreme will truly existed at all.

He had come only to resolve the great problem he had first discovered—and nothing more.

Green turned and walked deeper into the stony shore.

Confused, Kraft lagged a moment before following the others, unsure what exactly Green had rejected—but the outcome seemed good: the group’s rifts had lessened, no one lingered at the periphery, and all were resolved to press inward.

The outward-leaning rock clusters grew denser and taller, like waves crashing toward them, standing in Chongchong rows.

Most bore carved niches resembling shrines, their craftsmanship matching the lost tribe’s style. When faint light pierced through, it occasionally revealed muddy, writhing shadows wrapped around pale, hard objects.

The water did not vanish with depth; it still swirled at their feet, forced to the surface by pressure between narrow fissures, gushing from unexpected holes and gaps, then vanishing instantly into the stony ground.

Mist drifted through the stone forest, carrying with it dampness and chill—and other, more primal cues: a cruel scent that triggered instinctive alertness, dark stains of chilling hue, signals of a fellow life extinguished.

The traces of bodies torn apart had been diluted and oxidized, reduced to a broken, intermittent trail of dark brown, guiding them toward the remnants.

Scattered bones, coated in a reddish-brown hue, were still fresh. The soft tissues once attached had been “washed away”—Kraft could think of no better term—like specimens in a museum, chemically treated to preserve only specific parts, unnaturally “clean.”

Fabric and chainmail were entangled, inseparable; reddish-brown stained the woven threads and iron rings, unmistakably matching their own gear.

The sheer volume of bloodshed revealed the horror they had endured—yet the traces differed from what was expected.

Before mourning the other group, Green and Vading reached a shared conclusion: he had not been dragged here—he had come on his own.

He had evidently been grievously wounded, fled in desperate flight, and finally collapsed from blood loss. The winding path, full of detours and backtracking, showed he had lost all sense of direction.

With permission, Kraft stepped forward, lifted aside the fabric, and examined the scattered bones, now disconnected from their soft tissues, searching for any damage that might indicate the nature of his injuries—and thus reveal the enemy they would soon face.

But reality once again contradicted his assumptions: the skeleton showed no obvious missing parts, instead displaying uneven, abnormal bone growth.

Not at common joints or epiphyses, but concentrated on the left mandible, scapula, and ribcage—nearly half the upper body exhibited bizarre, extreme alterations in bone structure.

New bone projections rose like inverted spines, needle-tips thrusting outward two to three finger-widths long; every flat bone and long bone shaft was covered, so densely packed the original surface was nearly obliterated.

They pierced through surrounding organs and vessels, burst through the skin, tearing the body open from within.