Chapter 339: Stirring the Layers

"If the Father has already descended punishment, causing him to die in the wild with no trace of his body, isn't that enough?" Dominic asked in return.

What the other side was truly struggling with wasn't the past itself, but the desire to definitively settle the long-standing conflict between the two families—yet they couldn't believe one side's word without evidence.

To quickly move into the stage of appeasement, he seized on this point, preparing to bring the matter to a final conclusion.

"After death, the Father determines the fate of his soul—that is an absolutely just judgment. The living can never know all or see all; speculating about events never witnessed is itself an act of arrogance and trespass."

We cannot handle this matter. I advise you to stop here, or you will be defying the Father's authority.

As expected, the stonemason hesitated. The Father's will might be vague and intangible, but openly disrespecting Him before a cultivator would surely bring him no good days ahead.

Dominic pressed on: "If you still have doubts, you may invite old John's son here—see if he dares swear before the Father that his father never desecrated another's grave. If even one lie is spoken, let punishment befall him after death."

"What if it's true, but he simply doesn't know?"

"Then it means he had no part in his father's sin—you should resolve this misunderstanding and restore harmony. Being neighbors, gaining one more friend and losing one more enemy is surely two good things."

"Huh?"

The stonemason vaguely sensed something was off—how could both sides sound reasonable, yet he couldn't refute either.

"You may go home and reflect on whether this logic holds. Grudges are better resolved than entrenched." Dominic spoke sincerely; he truly believed no better solution existed.

"We must remain here to pray for the dead and soothe the disturbed spirits. You may return home and ponder whether this logic holds—the Father's door always remains open to those with a forgiving heart."

"Ah, thank you, Father. I'll go home and think it over." The stonemason nodded, half-understanding.

"Wait, I'm not…" Dominic had intended to correct the title, but realized the man likely didn't understand church hierarchy; the words died on his lips, swallowed helplessly.

For ordinary people, anyone who mediates is simply a "Father"—what difference did it make?

As the man prepared to leave, Dominic suddenly realized he'd made a small mistake—too hastily dismissing him.

The mountain terrain was winding and uneven; without a guide, they'd struggle to find their way back. But the words were already spoken—keeping him now would seem unskilled, so he changed his approach.

"By the way, you mentioned old John's body was dragged off by beasts, so it wasn't found?"

He hoped the man would grasp the implication—the mountain was dangerous; it would be best to stay until the two cultivators finished their prayers and returned together.

"Yes, that fellow went up the mountain one day and never came back. The next day, we only found his dropped belongings—nothing in the valley below."

Sweat began to bead on Dominic's back. "What kind of beasts are there on this mountain?"

It didn't sound like small animals—only a pack of wolves or a large beast could have left no trace of a corpse overnight?

With just the two of them, even armed, they might not be able to handle it.

Yet the stonemason's expression showed no fear—he hadn't even thought along those lines, as if the possibility of attack had never crossed his mind.

"I'm not sure. Maybe wolves?" His answer was full of uncertainty, and even "maybe" felt shaky. "I've never seen one."

"Who said so?"

"Um… everyone says so. There must be some." The stonemason rubbed his dusty hair, straining to recall where this common knowledge came from. "Otherwise, where did those missing people go?"

For safety's sake, Dominic decided to ask a few more questions. "Has anyone actually seen them?"

"Not in recent years. Occasionally, stray cats or foxes sneak in and kill livestock—but those are all small creatures."

Perhaps sensing the cultivator's concern, he added: "Perhaps it's the Father's protection—I've never heard of beasts attacking living people since I was a child. Even wild boars or lynxes—the baron can gather a few hunters to deal with them easily."

"You needn't worry too much. We've come up this mountain many times—we've never seen anything larger than a wildcat."

"Oh, of course not. We have this." Dominic relaxed slightly, lifting the sword hanging at his belt. Though it had never drawn blood, if a wildcat or fox dared approach, it would make a fine dinner.

Watching the stonemason vanish around the bend, Dominic remained motionless for a long while. There was one final worry he hadn't voiced.

Could it be that those who encountered them never returned?

"What are you thinking about?" Feld walked up from behind and slapped his shoulder.

"I'm wondering which prayer to recite next." Dominic shook off the hand on his shoulder and asked, "You wandered around for so long—did you find anything?"

It was a casual question, not expecting an answer—the chance of an angel appearing to grant revelation was greater than them uncovering the truth themselves.

"Actually, I did." Feld raised the broken pickaxe in his hand, its surface smeared with mud—clearly it had served a function beyond its intended use. "The soil here has truly been turned."

"You dug up whose grave?!"

"No, no, no, of course not!" Feld quickly denied it. He'd only intended to find symbolic evidence to convince the stonemason—he had no intention of offending every descendant of every corpse here.

"I deliberately avoided digging near the graves. Elsewhere, I found the soil layers were irregular—hard to discern much, but the coloration between deep and shallow layers was mixed: some areas loose, others compact—exactly as if they'd been dug up and refilled."

Dominic stared at him with deeper suspicion. "How do you know this?"

"Uh… wasn't Father Green promoted quickly? I once considered joining the Inquisition and asked acquaintances about their main duties." The result? A shattered fantasy—he'd spent three night shifts in a week as a rookie, lurking in graveyards, looking more like a grave robber than a grave robber.

"I learned this then—just a rough idea, no guarantee it's right. According to their standards, of the several spots I randomly chose on the mountaintop, only one or two had soil untouched."

"Even if someone was grave-robbing, they couldn't possibly plow the entire mountaintop, could they?" Dominic imagined grave robbers dragging plows back and forth to till the summit, and the image amused him.

"Forget it. Let's finish quickly and get down the mountain. I hope we don't have to eat cold bread when we get back… Ow!"

Feld cried out in pain, hopping on one foot. Dominic immediately used his sword scabbard to prod through the dry grass, searching for venomous snakes.

Fortunately, it was only a large, jagged tree stump, its exposed roots jutting from the ground, kicked squarely by the careless fellow.

With no outsiders present, Feld didn't care about appearances. "Don't let me catch who did this! Why cut down trees below the hill but leave stumps beside graves? What's the point?"

Dominic listened to his howling for a long while without responding.

That persistent feeling from recent days crept back—something was stirring inside him, nearly emerging.

Old graves, turned soil, jagged tree stumps—like inspiration in a text, hinting at something just out of reach, hovering at the edge of his mind, tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant.

"I think I'll go ask old John's child privately first… if he truly knows something, we'll be better prepared, and won't end up making things too ugly." He offered this as an explanation for his curiosity.