Chapter 342

“Dominic? Dominic!”

A cry came from just inches away, urgent—so urgent that Dominic felt if he didn’t respond soon, he’d get slapped twice.

Double images flickered before his eyes, like dark dye poured into a drainpipe, stretched into curved lines by the current, spinning and drawn toward a black core at the center.

The voice slowed, stretched, warped. His dry lips moved slightly, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying, couldn’t even be sure he was speaking at all.

Then came the pain. His skull felt as vast as a chapel, so that even the most intense physical sensation took ages to travel from the back of his head to his forehead, echoing like a hum in an empty mind.

A cool touch pressed against one side of his neck—thankfully, his companion’s first instinct was to check his pulse, not to physically rouse him; the first aid course hadn’t been wasted.

Fortunately, the arterial pulse was strong and clear; even though Field’s touch was slightly off due to haste, he still felt the powerful, terrified surge of blood from the heart, each beat like a final struggle before slipping into the abyss.

It wasn’t kind to the vessels, but it was good for the ribcage—it successfully prevented a few ribs from being crushed against the uneven ground.

Dominic felt the chaotic footsteps around him, his body lifted and carried into the bright outdoors, away from the dim, spinning enclosed space.

His heartbeat still pounded against his eardrums; vision stabilized first, then hearing, then spatial awareness.

Field waved three fingers in front of his face; Dominic guessed a number at random until the man panicked and he corrected himself.

More panicked than Field was the homeowner. He dropped the half-woven willow basket and stood helplessly beside them, terrified by the sudden incident.

In the instant Dominic collapsed, the man’s mind must have already raced through a thousand dire consequences of a clergyman dying in his home, stammering prayers to the Heavenly Father, begging the Almighty to intervene, to save a life, at least leave him breathing.

Though he didn’t know if the Lord had heard, Dominic certainly had—several phrases, repeated endlessly and commonly taught to ordinary believers, had clearly endured, preserved even during the years the monastery stood empty.

“I’m fine, just let me rest a while,” Dominic sat up against the wall, reassuring young John, who was nearly on his knees begging him not to die. “It’s just dizziness—not your fault.”

The sensation came strangely and vanished quickly. Compared to the influence of the roof’s unusual design and woven patterns, poor health and a missed breakfast were far likelier culprits.

Some might interpret physical discomfort as demonic possession, but the monks of Dunling always scoffed at such notions. The orthodox view did not deny the existence of demonic interference, but emphasized it was an extremely rare, low-probability event, and should never overshadow the common causes of illness: poor diet, unsanitary conditions.

“Forgive me. You may not believe this, but I’ve always been in good health—just haven’t adjusted well since coming here.”

After this incident, the distance between them seemed to shrink. Young John brought over a homemade cushion and invited the two monks to sit in the sunlit front yard and rest.

Once again, Dominic noticed that weaving technique—ubiquitous in the basket-maker’s work, adaptable, easily adjusted to form intricate extended shapes.

“Excellent. Even in Dunling, I’ve never seen better.”

Though he didn’t know where Dunling was, young John clearly recognized the compliment. Recognition from a monk was deeply satisfying, yet he still kept his humility:

“Many people know a bit of it, but my father was better—and he taught me.”

“It’s more than just a bit. Your father must have been an outstanding basket-maker.” Dominic handed the pendant he’d been holding back to the man, then shifted the cushion closer, sitting beside him like a friend.

Family craft was a good topic to open, and ideal for turning toward his father’s generation.

“Tell me about him—how did he inherit the craft? Surely the brothers back at the monastery would’ve loved his work. Did they ever ask him to weave flower baskets for offerings?”

“Actually, it was my father who first made this his full-time trade. My grandfather wanted him to focus on farming. I remember them arguing over it a few times, but after I turned ten, it stopped.”

“Did your father convince him?”

“My father convinced him with his craft.” Young John’s lips curled slightly—perhaps a trace of admiration, the pure envy of a craftsman toward someone with greater talent. “The same thing—he always made it better.”

“My grandfather only taught him how to make hats and baskets. But one day, he produced a basket. Then came cushions, stools… even the roof.”

“A genius,” Field marveled. Such a man, if he’d pursued a scholar’s degree, would never have struggled to find original ideas for his lectures.

Too bad he was born too early, missing the Church’s peak expansion here. The world lost a promising scholar and gained a gifted basket-maker instead.

“I’m glad his craft was passed on.”

“But I didn’t inherit all of my father’s skills—only slightly better than my grandfather.” Young John’s lips fell, regret and displeasure flickering across his face.

“He left too soon. There was so much he hadn’t had time to teach. Even before he died, he brought the family no small trouble…”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dominic took his hand. “The Lord’s love is vast. His service to the village will be remembered; his soul has surely ascended to heaven.”

“Ah…”

The consolation failed. At the mention of heaven, the man’s expression darkened further.

Dominic and Field exchanged a glance—something unexpected had changed.

“If there’s something you cannot speak of, tell us. In the name of the Heavenly Father, we will keep it secret. All sins may be redeemed through sincere repentance.”

They stopped there, silently giving young John space and time for his inner struggle.

Appropriate silence was more powerful than direct questioning—it could be trust and mercy, or solemnity and pressure.

The basket-maker gripped the holy emblem tightly; in the silence, one might almost hear the wooden wings rubbing against his palm bones through the skin.

“There’s something… about my father. It caused great trouble back then.”

Dominic gently patted the back of this man, older than himself, as a father would comfort a child who had erred, encouraging him to go on. Some things he’d once watched priests do, he now did instinctively.

“Will you keep it secret?”

“In the name of the Heavenly Father.”

After receiving the assurance again, the man unclenched his tightly pressed lips:

“I wasn’t sure then, but now I think… he may have done things he shouldn’t have.”