Chapter 330: Hard-to-Move Assets

"This place feels bigger than it looked from outside, but I've never heard anyone mention it. Did you ever hear of it, Dominic?"

The monk with the holy pick raised his lantern, gazing upward at the ceiling, where vast murals of flowers and angels adorned the spaces between the ribbed vaults, preventing this corridor linking living quarters to storage from becoming too monotonous.

Because it was indoors, these intricate patterns—painted by artists with aching necks—were merely faded and dim, yet still legible enough to discern the heavenly and starry scenes between the red and blue accents.

Even though this corridor rarely saw visitors beyond those managing chores, the brushwork remained soft and precise, accurately tracing every vein and texture.

He had taken some simplified church medical courses, and a large portion of patients suffering from spinal and neck ailments came from this group of ceiling painters.

"We weren't even born over twenty years ago—if it was sealed due to some scandal, not hearing of it is normal." Dominic glanced at the ceiling murals; even by the aesthetic standards he'd developed during his time in Dunling, they were quite impressive.

A local church alone could hardly afford a monastery of this scale and detail; any monastery receiving special attention would surely be recorded.

Students like us, lacking family backgrounds, typically begin scouting future postings well before graduation, and we've all heard whispers of even remote church organizations.

If there were an abandoned large monastery near Westmin, rumors of its reopening would circulate every year.

Oddly, they still didn't even know what this monastery was named.

It was as if the builder and its name had been erased along with the inscriptions on wood and stone.

"It is indeed strange." Thoughts drifted through his mind, flashes of carved and vandalized traces recurring—original inscriptions were clearly unreadable, yet in memory, he felt he ought to have been able to read something.

Like viewing something through frosted glass, no matter how he adjusted distance, it remained blurred, but occasionally, from an angle impossible to replicate, he caught a glimpse—something that made him want to check again and again, as if hooked by an invisible line.

Dominic drew a deep breath of the night's cool air, pulling himself out of this inexplicable feeling; rather than something without a clue, he was more curious about the weapon holstered at his companion's waist.

The heavy pickhead tugged his belt sideways, striking his leg armor rhythmically with each step, the sound echoing and overlapping in the space.

"Field, I don't understand why you chose this. Why not pick a sword like everyone else? It makes you look like some old peasant forcibly conscripted from the fields by a lord."

"Vulgar opinion," Field sneered dismissively. "I bet you all chose yours just because everyone else did."

"But Father Green uses a sword too—doesn't that mean there's something wrong with that?" Dominic immediately cited the classic success case.

"That's precisely why I say you only imitate."

"Clang! Clang!" Field tapped on his metal plates; for lightness, they wore only breastplates and partial limb armor. "Think, my friend. Think."

"Think about what Mr. Kraft gave us—this isn't cheap. Dozens of sets, enough to make even a bishop wince."

"Are you planning to wear this and go fight heretical sects in Dunling City, the ones who can't even afford leather armor, like the Inquisition?"

Dominic suddenly realized something. "You mean…"

"Exactly. There will come a time when we face opponents worthy of this armor. I'm just getting used to it early." Field hefted the heavy weapon, thoroughly satisfied. "And look at Mr. Kraft's two students—which one plays with long strips of iron?"

"That makes sense, but why didn't you say this sooner?"

"Because one pick for armor is reasonable. Eleven picks? That's stupid."

"You're always the cleverest among us."

"Thank you for the compliment."

Dominic fell silent for a long while, deciding not to discuss weapons further.

Entering the open warehouse doors, many were already busy—mostly craftsmen from the team, guiding apprentices and hired laborers to count, sort, move, and arrange supplies overnight, calculate preliminary repair needs, and report shortages to the team going down the mountain for procurement at dawn.

The monks' duty was to take turns on guard to ensure safety.

Honestly, it was hard to understand what the mandatory armed guard requirement was meant to prevent—but the church school had far more inexplicable rules, with severe punishments for violations; compared to those, this was quite reasonable. Caution was never a bad habit.

Especially when superiors were generous, their words often felt inherently reasonable.

As time crept toward midnight, to ward off drowsiness, the two stood up simultaneously and began walking around actively, trying to find something to do.

As a large monastery's warehouse, it needed to store everything required for daily life, so its scale was naturally substantial—but it didn't require expensive arched vault construction. Instead, it was a complex structure composed of many differently functional compartments.

The largest area was grain storage, packed with sealed wooden barrels for grain and ceramic jars for legumes, all elevated on bricks to avoid moisture and rodents.

Suspended from the rafters were dried, salted meats—yellowish-white salt crusts oozing from their surfaces, likely pork, beef, and fish.

Of course, no preservation method could withstand time; laborers were heartbrokenly pushing entire barrels of spoiled food out for disposal.

Dominic noticed the older assistant and bodyguard to the professor overseeing this, ensuring laborers placed certain sealed small jars into boxes, nailed shut, and carried away.

"What's this?"

He picked up a few jars and shook them—inside, he heard the rattle of granules or the sticky resistance of thick liquid.

"Salt, seasonings, spices, oil, honey—things like that. The master ordered them all destroyed and discarded, not a single grain left."

"Isn't that a bit…"

"Too wasteful?" To his surprise, Kraft's right-hand man answered directly. "For security reasons, even honey—something that doesn't spoil—must be destroyed."

"Please continue your patrol. I'll stay here until everything is cleared out."

His eyes held a trace of suspicion—he clearly regarded everyone as a potential threat.

Dominic realized, belatedly, that he had indeed entertained a shameful thought moments ago; he quickly repented the greed that had risen in his heart and awkwardly left the scene.

Field bowed his head slightly in silent acknowledgment, making up for his companion's lack of farewell etiquette.

"The captain is truly a man of self-discipline," Dominic said, flushing with shame as they stepped out of the man's sight. "I owe him an apology for my prejudices."

The knightly order's suspiciously frequent commercial dealings had led him to believe Kraft was overly concerned with money—unlike the traditional church image of maintaining sufficient distance from worldly affairs.

If he were in the same position, even if he didn't keep the well-preserved spices and honey, he'd at least sell them.

"Oh, no need for that," Field pointed toward a small room at the corridor's end, its door wide open, brightly lit by candles, where two familiar silhouettes stood, metallic glints reflecting off them.

Hearing footsteps, they turned around, casually slipping ledgers and pens behind their backs.

Now he could see clearly—it was Kraft and Lei Mengde.

Though it was deep into the night, the two had not left the warehouse; instead, they lingered in the deepest room, their faces glowing with smiles that couldn't be hidden beneath their serious expressions.

Judging by the door's design—twice as thick as normal, with double locks—it was clearly meant for special purposes.

Indeed, it was the monastery's reliquary.

Most of the shelves were empty and covered in dust; the former occupants had clearly taken portable valuables—metallic relics, statues, sacred chalices and plates—before leaving.

But large items like gilded multi-branch candlesticks, reliquary cabinets, and marble altars inlaid with silver were too bulky to move hastily and had been left behind.

If he remembered correctly, he'd just heard words like "pry" and "melt."

"Oh, Dominic and Field, you've had a tough night shift—third room on the left has late-night snacks ready, go eat something." Kraft smiled at them with particular sincerity.

"I and Lei Mengde are currently inspecting this for any suspicious inscriptions that need to be destroyed."