Chapter 335

The nightmare scene swept into reality, a dark ocean connecting heaven and earth, the carriage jolting within it, tossed by waves of terror into the unknown.

His mind went blank; the cries of his companions, the pained neighs of the horses as reins tightened, the snapping tremors of leather straps—all were scattered by the lingering thunderclap behind them.

In the chaos, the only source of light was lost; without vision, the sense of physical existence dropped to its lowest.

At one moment, the world felt especially unreal, voided of all substance, leaving only something lighter than air currents, unable to lift even a falling leaf—pure spirit and consciousness drifted, detached from all sense of distance and time.

At this most inappropriate moment, that moment of sudden insight returned again, as if within reach.

The feeling of closeness yet distance even made him overlook the danger he was in, instinctively drawing his attention.

Like a drowning man enveloped by hypothermia and suffocation beneath a cold current, he spotted a sliver of light above and strained every ounce of strength to swim toward it, pounding against the thin layer of ice separating him from air.

Yet the translucent barrier, as thin as a cicada’s wing in his intuition, proved astonishingly resilient—more despairing than the thick walls of a fortress; no matter how hard his consciousness strained, it could not budge it an inch.

At that very instant, across the nearest yet farthest distance, he “saw” it again.

Right across from him, close enough to nearly brush his nose and the soft whiskers on his lips. Even so, it remained blurred, unreal, unable to form any concrete, lasting impression.

It was a perfect, ultimate truth, a shifting, dreamlike play of light—everything and nothing at once.

Like inspiration itself, untainted by any impurity, a fleeting glimpse made him feel that his long-troubled questions had been answered, yet within those answers new questions were born, compelling him to gaze upon it again, seeking further revelation.

It bloomed like a bud, layer upon layer, each more vivid and mysterious than the last—but none was its final form.

The old scholar who taught them their obscure lessons, a man who had devoted his entire life to study and still was not satisfied, once described to them the Father’s wisdom: endless, inexhaustible; even if one devoted a hundred lifetimes to a single fragment, one could only infinitely approach, never reach the truth itself—that realm belonged solely to the Supreme.

But that should be objective, eternally constant, like the laws of celestial motion or the turning of seasons.

Not like this—something… alive, offering a profound gaze back to the consciousness that perceived it.

Sharp pain surged from the edge of his awareness; the world regained its solidity in a flash between layers of cloud, yanking his consciousness back to the carriage.

Dominic found himself soaring through the air, the broad, sturdy shadow of trees rapidly expanding, filling his entire vision in the blink of an eye.

Before slipping into the comfort of unconsciousness, Dominic’s final thought flashed:

“Damn Field, may he not receive his knightly stipend next month.”

…

…

“So, my brother, you’re telling me: two aspiring knights, on their way back from buying groceries, didn’t just overturn their carriage on a mountain road at least two carts wide—they ended up like this?”

Kraft poured boiling water into a kettle, added a pinch of dried marigold and mint leaves, then paused and took a sealed small jar from the cabinet, scooping in two large spoonfuls of golden, viscous, sweet-smelling liquid and stirring it well.

After the tea cooled slightly, he poured it into cups filled with fresh willow bark shavings and pushed them toward the two men, their bodies streaked with bruises and discolorations.

“Drink up. A friend gave it to me—he says it helps with external injuries. I added some willow bark shavings myself; it might help with the pain.”

Field nervously glanced at Dominic, too hesitant to reach for the cup first.

As the driver, he had reacted in time, so his injuries were lighter—he had even managed to help his companion, whose leg was splinted, to the commander’s makeshift office and living quarters.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraft. I share the blame—I should have hired a more experienced driver, but they were busy cleaning the stables at the time.” Dominic touched his still-throbbing nose; out of respect for their years as classmates, he did not shift all blame.

“There won’t be a second time. As for this incident, we wish to forfeit this year’s stipend and make up for the losses through labor.”

Though the superior’s tone was gentle and he had not mentioned the matter, acknowledging fault and accepting consequences were basic virtues of a worthy servant of the Father.

That evening had been excruciatingly awkward—even Dominic’s leg injury had been treated by Kraft, who had been roused from sleep.

“Ah… honestly, it’s nothing. Just a few fewer dishes at dinner for a while.” Seeing the two battered in body and spirit, Kraft found it hard to say more.

Even symbolic punishment—like the common church duty labor—was currently unsuitable.

“Accidents happen. Don’t blame yourselves too harshly. The Father teaches us to forgive others’ faults—and when necessary, to forgive our own.”

He lay sideways in the high-backed chair once belonging to the former abbot, glancing casually toward the curtain that concealed the other half of the room.

“I didn’t call you here to assign blame—just to understand what happened and address the safety hazard. After all, we’ll be traveling this road many more times, won’t we?” Kraft adopted his usual casual posture, softening the atmosphere.

The steaming drink, sweet yet slightly bitter, further relaxed the two.

They had known Kraft for years; the invisible awkwardness slowly melted away.

“Actually, what I told you before was pretty much everything. The sky was overcast, very dark; the horses were startled, and we lacked sufficient driving experience.” Field finally dared to speak, though he didn’t see what else needed to be understood.

The location and general sequence of events had already been briefly described that night; the cause and effect were clear. Two inexperienced novices had simply encountered an unexpected situation—the carriage overturning was inevitable.

Kraft nodded, turning to the other party, “Dominic, I’d like to hear your perspective. You were in the back, weren’t you? You didn’t have to control the horses—you had more time. Jumping out wasn’t a problem. Why did you end up like this?”

“I was… just thinking about something.” Dominic explained, a slight daze appearing as he recalled the moment.

The pause in his speech was not deliberate—it was as if he had suddenly remembered some trivial, forgotten detail, failed to grasp it, then let it slip away.

Kraft refilled his empty cup, “What were you thinking about?”

Field noticed his friend’s hesitation and prompted, “That poem?”

“Poem?” Dominic sipped the warm tea, lost in thought. “Perhaps. Maybe…”

“Maybe?” Kraft showed interest in this odd focus.

“It must have been because of that poem. You probably won’t believe me, but I suddenly saw a new interpretation I’d never thought of before.”

His thoughts became slightly clearer after the prompt, yet still fragmented, with a hint of possible concussion. “I can’t recall the details now. Does it matter?”

“No problem. Just curious. What poem held you so tightly? When you remember it, share it with me.” Kraft reassured him. “Go back now. For now, patrol and night watch duties are suspended. I’ll assign you other tasks that don’t require much movement.”

“If you feel anything… ‘off,’ remember to communicate it. After all, I am something of a mentor to the knightly order.”

The two left, utterly bewildered.

Was it his imagination, or had he heard a faint, suppressed laugh from inside the room?

After staring silently at the closed door for a long while, Kraft turned and asked, “Raymond, what do you think?”

“You’re being far too lenient with them. In the Church, if a young acolyte did something like this, he’d deserve at least a beating.” The middle-aged monk, his face etched with disapproval, pulled back the curtain and appeared, strongly disagreeing with Kraft’s “disorderly” behavior.

It was precisely because of strict rewards and punishments that discipline was maintained within the Church.

“Precisely because of that, I didn’t let you join.” Kraft shook his head, poured honey tea into another empty cup for him. “Don’t pressure people during conversations like this—you won’t get anything out of them.”

“You think there’s something wrong?”

“Same as before: maybe. For now, we must remain alert to everything. Our horses were provided by the Higo family—reliable as can be. I tested them myself; even in thunderstorms, they never failed.” He recalled Baron Priell’s mention of frequent accidents on the mountain, “This incident carries a whiff of strangeness.”

“Transfer them first to the estate below the mountain—keep them away from here, and observe them closely.”