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, overcast 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 human-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 left over from the previous day, already turning yellow and fading—its integration here was merely a matter of time.

“You weren’t at the academy or the clinic; if not for someone pointing the way, I’d have spent the whole day looking for you.”

The man 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 meticulously smoothed, free of splinters.

“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 seemed uneasy about this mysterious figure; had he noticed any tools on him, he might have suspected him of disturbing the dead.

“Your patient?” This was an unusual experience—Brother Wading had never imagined he’d one day chat calmly 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 God’s protection, he would stop him—at the very least, he would clearly voice his opposition.

The thought made his subconscious find it slightly absurd. Maybe he could tell this joke to those twisted, petrified coral-like things frozen 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.”

“May God have mercy,” the monk traced a circle over his chest, mourning the soul recalled to God before ever experiencing life.

He wasn’t surprised; the surrounding small tombstones proved such cases were not rare, and many more never even received a place in the church cemetery, buried instead in private gardens, near homes, or simply dumped and hastily covered.

To receive his parents’ final care and a dignified end at the close of such a short life made him one of the better-off among those 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, part of the natural order.

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

But since Kraft was willing to waste a 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, discovered afterward, traced back to the child’s father. He visited Dai Wei’s clinic about two months ago for ‘chronic coughing’—right around when 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 a decade and had never given birth before this pregnancy.”

“Given only a common cough symptom, Dai Wei prescribed a cough syrup and sent him home—no further action taken. 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 he wasn’t starting from Genesis, but he held back—no need to humiliate himself before a professional.

“Forty-seven days ago, the child’s mother came to the clinic complaining of ‘a slight cough.’ At the time, we were knee-deep in sewer work and could only briefly review cases at night. But the repeated surnames were too numerous—we couldn’t store records 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 baby’s first month.”

“Seven days ago, the child developed a noticeable fever. His 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, to me.”

“What disease?”

“Tuberculosis.”

The only meaningful word Wading caught from the entire account: “That doesn’t make sense—tuberculosis is a chronic disease. How could a newborn have it?”

“In the cotton-spinning industry, daily inhalation 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 impossible to trace.”

“A decade of marriage, no previous children. Further inquiry revealed two or three unexplained miscarriages.” The 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 at all, or only mild ones, like a slight cough.”

“Then the disease spreads through the placenta and umbilical vessels, bypassing the slow pulmonary invasion, entering the bloodstream directly. It first forms granulomas in the liver, then travels via the hepatic and inferior vena cava to the heart, from there to the lungs, completing the full circulatory cycle and entering 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—clearly positive pathological signs.” The professor’s chest rose and fell—hard to say whether from breathing or self-composure.

Wading half-understood, but grasped the core: after a tragedy, the more you reflect, the more you realize how many warning signs had slipped unnoticed beneath your eyes.

“Even at this stage, if we had targeted drugs, we might still have had a chance—adjusting medication 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 an imaginary needle through bone gaps into the body’s cavities.

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

“But we didn’t have them,” he summed it all up in 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 akin 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 claimed that. Before true anti-tuberculosis drugs appear, all other methods merely delay the inevitable.” Kraft easily denied his most famous achievement 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 required multiple repeat injections; 45 cases developed complications such as overinflation, pleurisy, pleural effusion, or atelectasis, five of which became severe or fatal.”

“Uh, I was actually planning to ask for a friend.” Wading felt embarrassed. Since Kraft had gained slight fame within the church, who didn’t have a sick relative or friend?

“But this is still the most effective method available.”

Since Father Green wasn’t present, the monk whispered his own question: “Then… would those special methods work?”

Kraft stared at him in disbelief.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that—I came with good news.”

“Good news?”

“Yes, consider it thanks 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 feathered pattern finely detailed.

“It’s done? The experimental site application was finally approved? I’d almost forgotten it existed.”

The two moved under the canopy’s edge, opened the envelope, and found several thick parchment sheets resembling land deeds, bearing two unfamiliar seals and multiple signatures. Attached was an official document addressed to a local family, and on the final page… an engineering blueprint?

The location was clearly not Dunling or nearby, but a building built into a mountain, with multiple above- and underground levels, along with full storage units and towers.

The most astonishing feature was the central space: a vast, vaulted chamber—an exceptionally rare architectural design.

“Which parts can I choose inside?” Kraft assumed the church wouldn’t give him the main hall; the adjacent storage rooms would be a better option.

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 to the Society’s name. Of course, don’t make a fuss.”

“?”

Kraft’s suspicious gaze swept over Wading from head to toe, then back again over the meticulously drawn blueprint, ensuring he hadn’t misread the scale.

If he hadn’t misunderstood, this estate—larger than a noble family’s castle—was now his?

When receiving unexpected wealth, the first reaction is never joy, but disbelief.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. God is always generous.”

Whether God was generous was debatable, but the church’s generosity was hard to believe—no matter how wealthy, they wouldn’t simply give away something like this. Kraft was certain there was a catch.

“Don’t worry,” Wading patted the professor’s shoulder, trying to soothe the suspicions of his fellow fighter of the past half-month. “This document has been approved by the Archbishop. Even the one above Green is willing to sign. Even the king can’t dispute your ownership.”

“It’s a token of gratitude. Our work has brought the church great advantages—including directly declaring that the Lord’s power has quelled the evil causing the earthquakes, making those who went ‘hunting’ look foolish. This may be the highest point of the bishops’ prestige in thirty years.”

“After all, it was a true miracle. Compared to that, the church granting you an abandoned monastery is perfectly reasonable.”

“Monastery…” Kraft flipped through the parchment sheets. The property’s value was undeniable, but reason told him things couldn’t be this simple.

“The only drawback is the location—it’s remote. I’m sure you understand; no one wants such a facility too close to home.” Wading added, “In light of the monastery, might the esteemed professor answer a small question of mine?”

“Of course, with pleasure.” Kraft returned the parchments to the envelope and tucked them close to his chest. “The answer is no.”

“Why? You can split those monsters in half and turn them into stone statues—surely you can cure a mere human disease?”

“Destruction is always easier than creation. Killing with a blade takes seconds; learning to excise the correct lesion without killing requires over a decade of training, and the research behind it takes far longer.”

“I often wonder if knowing more is itself a curse.” The professor walked slowly along the path toward the cemetery’s edge, blackened, waterlogged leaves crunching underfoot.

“Including this child—if I had collected the medical history from the start, I might have recognized the risk of congenital tuberculosis a month before birth. But I still could have done nothing. In practical terms, beyond providing anxiety, I was no different from Dr. Dai Wei.”

“Clear understanding brings no peace—only the pain of realizing one’s limitations.”

“Think of the good—we saved a city’s lives. You needn’t grieve for a life destined to be lost,” Wading comforted.

“It’s not calculated that way,” Kraft shook his head. “Let God give me more time. Let me do more.”

“If you need help, please tell us.”

“That’s perfect—I actually have something I need.” Kraft’s eyes lit up as he suddenly remembered what he most envied about Green. “Now that I have the site…”

“Do your church schools have any people with good physical condition, basic literacy, some medical electives, modest family background, yet who haven’t secured employment or advancement within the church?”

“I offer a batch of high-salary positions—full board, lodging, weapons and equipment, under the Duke’s command, with regular training and advancement opportunities. The only drawback: frequent travel.”

“Ideally with some combat training, stable mental state, meticulous yet bold, no strict religious requirements. You must have people like that, right?”

“We do—but we rarely recommend them outside the church…”

“No problem. This is a self-sustaining, faith-based institution under the Society. I’ve even named it: since its primary purpose is the great medical cause, affiliated with a medical body—how about ‘The Hospital Knights’?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re terrible at naming things?”