Chapter 323: A Vibrant New Social Organization (End of Volume)

"Finding you wasn't easy at all."

Among the post-rain weeds, puddles dotted the ground, reflecting the dim, gloomy sky through gaps in the canopy, while water droplets fell freely from above.

Decay and ruin were the themes here; moss climbed like nature's fingers along the cracks of tombstones, dragging these man-made objects and the information of their owners into the mud.

Wading found the person they had been searching for all morning at the edge of the cemetery.

A figure wrapped in a black physician's cloak stood before a group of small tombstones.

One among them was clearly new, still holding a wilted bouquet from the previous day, already turning yellow and fading, destined to blend into the surroundings in time.

"You weren't at the academy or the clinic—if no one had pointed the way, I'd have spent the whole day looking for you."

The person turned around, and Wading saw what had been hidden beneath: discarded empty swaddling blankets, infant clothing, and a few crudely made trinkets—rough in shape but polished smooth, without a single burr.

"What is this?"

"A patient," Kraft flicked water droplets from the hem of his robe. His hair tips and shoulders were damp—he had clearly stood here a long time.

The priest who had directed Wading had been uneasy mentioning this mysterious figure; had he not seen the man carried no tools, he might have suspected him of disturbing the dead's eternal rest.

"Your patient?" This experience was peculiar—Brother Wading had never imagined he'd one day calmly converse with someone from the Medical Academy in a cemetery.

He swore that if the man harbored any disrespect toward the bodies of the dead under Heaven's protection, he would stop him—at least make his opposition clear.

The thought made his subconscious find it slightly absurd. Maybe he could tell this joke to those twisted things frozen into petrified coral in the underground lake—perhaps they'd laugh themselves back to life?

But the professor showed no such intent; he nodded. "Yes, my patient. We declared his death three days ago."

"Heaven's mercy," the monk traced a circle over his chest, mourning the soul recalled to Heaven before ever experiencing life.

He wasn't surprised; seeing the rows of small tombstones arranged here, he knew such cases were not rare, and many more never even earned a place in the Church's cemetery, buried privately in gardens or near homes, or simply dumped and hastily covered.

To receive his parents' final care at the end of such a short life, to have a dignified ending—this was among the better fates he knew.

Yet he couldn't understand why Kraft was here.

After all, infants were as fragile as new wheat sprouts; some were destined to die early for various reasons—it was simply natural law.

Death was far too common to blame anyone for; just as no one had the right to accuse Heaven of the fate it bestowed. Children born with congenital defects, even if they survived, would endure painful lives.

But since Kraft was willing to spend his rare day off standing here in silence, there must be a reason. People in such moments often felt the urge to speak, and Wading was genuinely curious.

"What was the cause of death?"

"Our oversight, and limited resources."

"I recall your specialty doesn't include obstetrics or pediatrics." As someone who had done background research, Wading had some knowledge of his subject's expertise. "What exactly happened?"

"The earliest medical record of this family, later discovered, traced back to the child's father—he visited Dai Wei's clinic about two months ago for 'chronic cough,' around the time we first established our medical record system."

"Thirty-five years old, owner of a cotton-spinning workshop, exposed daily to cotton dust and fibers. His current wife had been married to him for nearly ten years and had never given birth before this pregnancy."

"Given only a common cough symptom, Dai Wei prescribed a cough syrup and sent him home, without further action—in truth, no one else could have done better, but in hindsight, we clearly missed one crucial step."

He recalled these details as if reading from an invisible ledger.

"Aren't we talking about the child?" Wading felt the urge to ask why Kraft wasn't starting from Genesis, but he held back—no need to humiliate himself before a professional.

"Forty-seven days ago, the infant's mother came to the clinic, complaining of 'a slight cough.' At the time, we were knee-deep in sewer inspections and could only briefly review cases at night; the repeated surnames were too numerous to store by family, so we never connected them."

"Fifteen days ago, the child was born at thirty-six weeks gestation. Reports said his condition was generally stable, he cried less than average infants, and seemed unusually quiet. After celebrating the safe delivery and mother-child well-being, they began planning a gathering to celebrate the full moon with neighbors."

"Seven days ago, the child developed a noticeable fever. The parents treated him at home with traditional methods for two days, but his condition didn't improve. They finally brought him back to the clinic—this time, he came to me."

"What disease?"

"Tuberculosis."

Of all the narration, the only meaningful word Wading grasped was this one: "That doesn't make sense—tuberculosis is a chronic disease. How could a newborn have tuberculosis?"

"Cotton-spinning industry—daily inhalation of vast amounts of cotton dust and fibers—is a major risk factor for lung disease. Later evidence confirmed both parents were tuberculosis patients; whether they infected each other or contracted it externally is now irrecoverable."

"Ten years of marriage, no prior children—further inquiry revealed two or three unexplained miscarriages. These seemingly unrelated clues linked together: genital tuberculosis, manifesting as infertility and recurrent miscarriages."

"Due to the unique physiological state of pregnancy, tuberculosis often presents atypically—sometimes with no symptoms or only mild ones, like a slight cough."

"Then the disease spread through the placenta and umbilical vessels, bypassing the slow lung invasion, entering the bloodstream directly, first forming granulomas in the liver, then traveling via hepatic veins and the inferior vena cava back to the heart, entering the lungs, and progressing through the entire circulation into disseminated tuberculosis—typically manifesting two to three weeks after birth."

"By the time he reached me, it was already the final stage: fever, rapid breathing, drowsiness, lethargy. Widespread lesions had formed in the liver, lungs, even the brain—pathological signs were clearly positive." The professor's chest rose and fell—he couldn't tell if it was breathing or self-composure.

Wading half-understood, but he grasped the core truth: after a tragedy, the more you recall, the more you realize how many warning signs had quietly slipped past unnoticed.

"Even at this stage, if we had targeted drugs, we might still have had a chance—adjusting dosages based on the infant's metabolism, or if all else failed, intrathecal injection to control central nervous system infection."

Kraft paced slowly among the puddles, his hands mimicking a delicate puncture motion, as if threading invisible long needles through bone gaps into the body's cavities.

A full mental simulation ran—impossible not to believe such a method truly existed.

"But we don't have them," he summed it all up with one sentence. "So three days ago, we declared his death."

Wading said nothing, falling silent.

Not because he was infected by tragedy, but because this felt similar to certain congenital diseases—such cases numbered at least in the dozens among the older graves behind them; nothing new.

"Aren't you able to treat tuberculosis?"

"I never said that. Before true anti-tuberculosis drugs appear, all alternative methods merely delay the inevitable." Kraft easily denied his most famous achievement since arriving in Dunling, then recited a string of cold numbers.

"Since arriving in Dunling, there have been 327 recorded cases of artificial pneumothorax, with follow-up records for 208. Only about 40 percent showed confirmed short-term symptom relief; 50 percent underwent repeated air injections; 45 cases developed complications such as over-inflation, pleurisy, pleural effusion, or atelectasis, five of which became severe or fatal."

"Uh, I was actually planning to ask for a friend." Wading felt awkward—ever since Kraft gained slight fame within the Church, who didn't have a sick relative or friend?

"But it's still the most effective method we have."

Since Father Green wasn't present, the monk quietly asked his own question: "Then… would those special methods work?"

Kraft stared at him as if he were insane.

"Hey, don't look at me like that—I came with good news."

"Good news?"

"Yes, consider it payment for securing you the experimental site." A large envelope was handed to Kraft; the sealing wax bore the imprint of a winged circular emblem, its feather pattern finely detailed.

"It's all over? The experimental site application was finally approved? I'd almost forgotten it existed."

The two moved beneath the canopy's edge, opened the envelope, and found several thick parchment sheets resembling land deeds, bearing two unfamiliar seals and multiple signatures, along with an official letter to local families and, tucked at the back… blueprints?

The location was clearly not in Dunling or nearby, but a building built against a mountain, with multiple aboveground and underground levels, along with complete warehouses and towers.

The most surprising feature was a vast, vaulted space designed at the building's center—a rare structural element.

"Which parts can I choose inside?" Kraft thought the church wouldn't give him the great hall; the nearby warehouses would be a better choice.

Wading smiled mysteriously. "No, you don't need to choose."

"What do you mean?"

"From now on, this place belongs to you. It will be transferred under the Academy's name. Of course, don't make a fuss."

"?"

He scanned Wading from head to toe with a skeptical gaze, then inspected the meticulously drawn engineering blueprint up and down, ensuring he hadn't misread the dimensions.

If he hadn't misunderstood, this property—larger than his family's castle—was about to be his?

When receiving unexpected wealth, a person's first reaction is never ecstatic joy, but disbelief.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. The Father is always generous."

Whether the Father was generous was hard to say, but for the church to be this generous was hard to believe. Even if it had surplus wealth, it wouldn't just give it away like this. Kraft absolutely didn't believe there was no catch.

"Don't worry," Wading patted the professor's shoulder, trying to soothe the suspicions of his ally after half a month of joint struggle. "This document has been approved by the Archbishop. Even the one above Green is willing to sign. Even the king can't deny your ownership."

"Consider it thanks. Our work brought great advantages to the church—among other things, we directly declared that the Lord's power had quelled the evil causing the earthquakes, making those who went out 'hunting' look foolish. This may be the peak of the bishops' prestige in nearly thirty years."

"After all, it's a true miracle. In comparison, high-ranking figures granting an abandoned monastery is understandable."

"Monastery…" Kraft flipped through the several sheets of parchment again and again. The property's value was undeniable, but reason told him things couldn't be this simple.

"The only drawback is the location is a bit remote. I'm sure you understand—no one wants such a site placed too close to themselves," Wading added. "In light of the monastery, would the respected professor kindly answer a small question of mine?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to," Kraft returned the parchment to the envelope and tucked it close to his body. "The answer is no."

"Why? You can split that monster in half and turn it into a stone sculpture—can't you handle a disease in a mere human?"

"Destruction is always easier than construction. Learning to kill with a blade takes seconds; learning to remove the correct lesion without killing requires over a decade of training, and the research behind it takes even longer."

"I often wonder if knowing more is itself a curse," the professor walked slowly along the path toward the cemetery's edge, swollen, blackened leaves crunching underfoot.

"Including this child—if I had collected his medical history from the start, I might have recognized the risk of congenital tuberculosis a month before his birth. But I still could have done nothing. In practical terms, apart from providing anxiety, I had little difference from Doctor Dai Wei."

"Clear understanding brought no peace, only the pain of realizing one's limitations."

"Think of the good—we saved the lives of an entire city. You needn't grieve over a life destined to be lost," Wading comforted him.

"It's not calculated that way," Kraft shook his head. "Let the Father give me more time. Let me do more."

"If you need help, please tell us."

"That's perfect—I actually have something else I need," Kraft's eyes lit up as he suddenly remembered what he most envied about Green. "Now that I have the place…"

"Does your church school have anyone with good physical condition, basic literacy and numeracy, preferably some medical electives, but from an ordinary family background, who hasn't yet been employed or faces difficulty advancing within the church?"

"I can offer a batch of high-quality positions: salaries above average, full board and lodging, weapons and equipment provided, under the Duke's official roster, with regular study and advancement opportunities. The only flaw is frequent travel."

"They should have some basic armed training, stable mental state, meticulous yet bold, no strict religious requirements. You must have people like that, right?"

"Yes, but we rarely recommend them outside the church…"

"That's fine. This is a self-funded, faith-based institution under the Academy. I've even thought of a name: since its main purpose is the great medical cause and it's affiliated with a medical institution—how about the Hospital Knights?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're terrible at naming things?"