Chapter 373: Primitive Teaching

Dominic woke up clutching his head.

The lingering ache that had plagued him for days had not fully faded, playing hide-and-seek within his skull; each time he tried to focus and locate it, he reached the same conclusion:

It was near the usual spot of his sinus headaches, but deeper—beyond precise perception, like a mudfish endlessly drifting in deep water.

The new chief resident, Field, had explained it was just a postoperative side effect, like occasional emotional fluctuations, and would gradually improve with time if things went well.

The unspoken implication, of course, was that things might not go well.

After initial days of unease, he had largely accepted his amnesia.

During that time, the demon had manipulated him into doing irrational things; fortunately, a devout knightly family intervened and stopped everything before it became irreversible.

Then they raced back to the monastery, seeking help from those closer to the Heavenly Father—the abbot.

The abbot, who had proven his ability in Dunling, lived up to expectations: after a series of complex procedures, he opened Dominic’s corrupted skull, extracted the core of the affliction, and implanted one or two pure silver pellets to contain it.

Now, indeed, he had improved; the pain might even be the holy force battling the remaining demonic residue.

Though something always felt off, the entire story was logically clear and standard—slightly polished, it could be inserted into “The Holy Biography of Moumou ” as supporting evidence.

If fortune smiled, and if the surgery’s subject were truly canonized later, he might even get a footnote in the book—and if he wished, he could donate his skull to the order as a relic, proof of divine miracles.

Round it off, and it was practically immortality.

Since that treatment, he had been strictly ordered to rest in his room, forbidden from leaving, from touching any written material, even from writing or drawing.

It wasn’t too bad—just boring. Even his dreams were blank, like being locked in a white room with no doors or windows; he was certain the voices outside were meant for him, yet he never heard them clearly or remembered their pronunciation.

But today was strange: he was not in the blank, chaotic dream, and the room was not arranged as usual.

The windows and doors were tightly shut, seams stuffed with cloth strips—no light, no sound leaked in; day and night were indistinguishable.

Only a single candle burned. Kraft sat in Field’s usual chair, not in his scholar’s or monk’s robe, but in practical outdoor attire, one hand resting on his sword, the other on a sandglass half-empty.

“Good day, Dominic,” he said, glancing at the sandglass as Dominic stirred; his expression was not grim, which eased some tension.

“No need to worry. You can rest a bit longer. This is part of the treatment.”

Anyone who could still sleep through this scene probably needed their brain treated.

Dominic snapped fully awake. Instinctive vigilance drove him to scrutinize everything familiar—the bed, the chair, the walls—nothing was wrong; even the stain from yesterday’s stew still clung to the bedside.

Every detail confirmed this was his room, the safe zone he had grown accustomed to over many days.

Yet something was different.

Perhaps the light, the atmosphere—everything made him restless. A sense of unfamiliarity congealed on every surface he touched, as if the bedding and bed rails had just been pulled from icy water, raising goosebumps on his skin.

The only similar feeling he could recall from memory was at age seven, when he was sent to church school and stood among a crowd of unfamiliar peers.

The elderly priest recited rigid, incomprehensible rules in a monotone chant. For the first time, he vaguely sensed that his entire past life was slipping away, replaced by a cold, oppressive, mysterious world.

And now, the feeling was even stronger.

Perhaps his unease showed on his face; Kraft noticed the patient’s emotional shift.

“Breathe deeply. Relax. We are safe.” He placed the sandglass on the bedside. “When this runs out, it’s over.”

“What do you feel?”

“I… I’m not sure.” Dominic had never missed his sword so desperately—he needed something to create a sense of safety.

“If you feel disoriented in an unfamiliar environment, unable to control anxiety or irritation, then your senses are correct. You’re perceptive.”

Kraft’s calm demeanor and actions were far more soothing than his words—or rather, his words did almost nothing to soothe.

“There’s one good piece of news and one bad piece. Which do you want first?”

“The bad one,” Dominic said without hesitation. Everyone knew the point of such choices always lay in the latter.

“The bad news is, the treatment removed only the physical lesions left by that thing. A portion of its influence remains deeply embedded in your mind, and currently, we cannot prevent recurrence.”

“It alters perception—you can simply understand it as the Devil’s corruption of the soul, subtly changing your thoughts and actions without you noticing.”

“In truth, it’s far more insidious and harder to guard against, because while the Devil’s temptations and lies can still be recognized and resisted, this thing operates on a level entirely alien to your thoughts.”

“Like a sea monster extending its tentacles from below, hunting ships with no defense. On the surface, you see nothing, can’t guess when or how it strikes. Even if I sever its limbs and patch things up, the outcome won’t change.”

“Because the damage is done. The ship is already taking on water.”

Kraft ended his description vividly, giving the listener time to absorb it.

Dominic, of course, understood the implication: “We did our best. Objectively, it’s impossible.”

But he believed Kraft didn’t go through all this just to deliver a death sentence.

From their prior interactions, Kraft wasn’t that dull or cruel.

If there were truly no hope, what awaited him would be prayers and last rites, perhaps even a guaranteed ticket to heaven.

“And the good news?”

“The good news is there’s still a way.” Kraft glanced again at the sandglass on the bedside—only a small amount of sand remained in the upper chamber, about to run out.

“In the north, not many people enjoy swimming. But sometimes captains must quickly recruit new crewmen and turn them into competent sailors in a short time. How do you think they do it?”

Dominic was puzzled why this was being brought up, but Kraft didn’t wait for a reply—he continued.

“Very simple. Put an experienced sailor beside them, then kick them into the water. If they sink, pull them up. Repeat several times. Once they get used to it, they’ll learn to swim naturally.”

“I’ll do something similar. I’ll take you repeatedly into the water. You don’t need to swim perfectly—just stay afloat, learn how it feels when something attacks from below, and learn to avoid it.”

“It sounds like…” not a pleasant experience.

For his own life, Dominic cautiously asked: “When do we start swimming?”

“Actually, we’ve already been swimming for a while.”

Kraft picked up the sandglass and placed one hand on Dominic’s shoulder.

The scene before him twisted violently. Then came intense weightlessness. His senses melted like heated candle wax inside his skull, merging into indistinguishable, chaotic color clusters.

“Perfect timing. Today’s swimming lesson is over.”