Chapter 333: Undercurrents

Mr. Kraft, do you have a moment?

The cold light inside the church gradually tinted orange-red; dinner time was near.

Brother Raymond, long weary from visual fatigue, left with a small stack of book lists; Yi Feng had already been lured away by the aroma from the open-air fire in the courtyard.

Kup struggled through to the end and called out to the professor, still lost in his books.

Anytime.

A perfectly expected answer. In truth, as long as he wasn’t interrupted during an emergency, he would give nearly the same reply.

Kraft’s schedule resembled an ideal church: though people came and went in a constant, seemingly impenetrable rush, if you needed it, you could always find an empty seat, a share of his attention.

Yet he was not truly a being with a thousand ears and a thousand mouths, omniscient and omnipresent like an angel. As his influence and titles grew, the time available for any single individual visibly thinned—though his attitude remained unchanged.

No matter their status, all received the same patience.

Perhaps this was why the professor got along so well with the rank-and-file monks; Kup had overheard someone in the group discussing it, claiming to see in him a certain “holy quality”—impartial, boundless compassion that erased the distinctions of worldly status, even transcending human norms.

As the one closest to the subject here, Kup found the source of his unease: a sense of detachment.

He had seen strange, inexplicable things before—he knew well that Kraft had absorbed certain techniques from them. Even Yi Feng used powers of dubious origin, sometimes revealing them unconsciously in daily life.

But the strangeness Kraft inspired in him was far stronger, as if a towering, slender statue of a saint gazed down upon the mortal world, its perspective detached from the crowd, beyond mundane values, and thus unconstrained by rank or status.

Have you felt anything… unusual lately? I mean, not normal?

Kraft looked at him in surprise, slightly startled but not entirely shocked—like a teacher spotting a student solving a problem just slightly beyond the syllabus.

The subtle, natural shifts in his expression pulled his image back into the realm of normalcy, making everything seem perfectly ordinary, as if all prior suspicions were merely overactive imagination.

“Oh, how did you know? I thought I was hiding it pretty well.” Kraft admitted the issue openly.

Aside from a fleeting hint of fatigue, he looked as energetic as ever. “Right—the lingering side effects from the Dunling sewers. Like a migraine that flares up more often. Once you get used to it, it’s not that bad.”

“In fact, it’s even milder than expected. As long as you don’t focus on it, it barely interferes with daily activities. Don’t worry too much.”

“That’s a relief.” Kup released his breath, suddenly choking from the ever-present dust.

“By the way, besides physical discomfort, do you feel anything else… off?”

The assistant and bodyguard took the water bag, gulped down several swallows, and suppressed the churning nausea in his throat. “For example, doing things you never used to do.”

“Hmm… no, not really?”

After carefully reviewing his actions over the past six months, Kraft found nothing abnormal—just practical medical research within his capacity, and clearing away things that shouldn’t be stirring trouble in this world. His work remained unchanged.

“Well, actually, yes—I’ve used those ‘techniques’ more often lately, but I had no choice.”

“You know—intracranial hemorrhage requires assessing volume range; before artificial pneumothorax, you must evaluate pleural adhesions; complex fractures can’t be accurately located by experience alone; cervical dislocation reduction carries high risk; blindly enlarging incisions during surgery increases infection probability…”

“It’s worth it. A single deep breath can bring massive improvement in prognosis, consuming less than one-tenth the energy of a ‘spell,’ and allowing me to treat several patients at once.”

“It’s not always convenient to use them only in emergencies. You sometimes maintain that special state even during surgery.” No one knew better than the assistant the procedures that made veteran surgeons from the Medical Academy break into cold sweats—techniques that defied all experience or skill.

“What else can I do? Just watch them die?”

Kraft’s unspoken implication couldn’t be refuted—especially since the first beneficiary had no grounds to urge reduced usage. If clinical applications were to be conserved, the cost of pulling people back from the Deep would be incalculable.

Stumped by the question, Kup realized something he might be the only one to notice.

Since meeting him, he had never observed the Deep fundamentally altering Kraft’s personality—only amplifying his existing traits.

This was deeply illogical. Logically, as the one who had gone farthest, his thoughts and worldview should have undergone a butterfly-like metamorphosis—profound enough to completely transform his behavior, rendering him unrecognizable.

Unless…

Mr. Kraft, when did you first enter the medical field?

…

…

“About a year ago. Back then, I was still naive.”

Field tugged the mule’s bridle, trying to steer clear of a giant mudhole on the mountain path. Behind the cart, fresh vegetables, shelled wheat, daily necessities, and Dominic, who was busy recording accounts, were loaded.

“I thought my future was bright, limitless—that becoming a priest was inevitable. Later I learned I’d first need to serve as a servant for one or two years, then a reader for three, then many more as an acolyte.”

“Only after a vacancy opened could I compete for the deacon position. Do well, gain favor, rise to sub-priest, then priest—and only then, priest.”

The cart jolted violently up and down; the man in the back shouted, clutching his paper and pen, gripping a fixed object, while kicking a rolling old pumpkin to keep it from rolling away.

“Slow down! Too fast and we’ll overturn,” Dominic snapped, noticing a dark stain spreading across his notebook and shirt, half the page smudged beyond legibility.

“Let me think—what was this supposed to say?”

The Prilier Ling had no market of its own. They spent the whole day visiting a dozen farmers and the only local artisans, piecing together half their supplies, racing back before the last light of dusk.

Night chased behind them, driving the cart into the mountain’s shadow. The beasts emitted instinctive, uneasy brays.

Dominic had to press his nose to the paper to barely make out his own writing.

The notebook was meant for copying scripture, occasionally used as a memo pad—cheap fiber paper, requiring a thin board beneath for writing. Once ink touched it, it soaked through several pages at once.

Grumbling about his companion’s terrible driving, the monk hurried to reconstruct the ruined entries before his memory faded.

Today’s accounts were manageable—he could recall the totals from the beginning and end. But earlier entries were harder to recover: scattered notes overlapped, revisions tangled together. He could only guess, scribbling hastily onto cleaner pages.

Dim light, illegible handwriting, confusion in mind and hand—he sometimes didn’t even know what he was reading or writing.

As he tried to flip quickly to the next page, his fingers froze. He turned back. Something had caught his subconscious attention.

Like floating in his bath and feeling something cold and smooth glide past his skin—like a prankster friend pouring icy water, or some creature wrapped in slick slime.

His startled hand remained frozen, stiff, waiting for the sensation to return.

But there was nothing there—only ink darker than night, soaking a few lines of landscape poetry he had personally copied for their beauty.

It is no longer there.