Chapter 373: Original 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—somewhere beyond precise perception, like an eel of mud drifting endlessly in deep water.

The new chief resident, Field, had explained it was just another 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 the reality of his amnesia.

During that time, the demon had compelled him to do 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 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 skull corrupted by evil, extracted the core of the affliction, and implanted one or two pure silver pellets to contain it.

Now he was indeed improving; the pain might even be the holy force battling the remaining evil.

Though something always felt slightly off, the entire story was logically clear and standard—slightly polished, it could be inserted into "The Life of Saint ___" as supporting evidence.

If fortune favored him, and if the surgical patient truly became a saint someday, he might even get a cameo mention 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 forcibly confined to his ward, forbidden to leave, forbidden to read any written material, even prohibited 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, but he never heard them clearly or remembered their pronunciation.

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

The windows and doors were tightly shut, seams stuffed with cloth strips, letting in no light or sound, indistinguishable between day and night.

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 that had lost half its sand.

"Good day, Dominic." Seeing him awake, Kraft glanced at the sandglass; his expression was not heavy and solemn, which eased some of his tension.

"No need to worry. You can rest a little longer. This is part of the treatment."

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

Dominic instantly woke fully; instinctive alertness drove him to scrutinize everything familiar—the bed, the chairs, the walls—nothing was wrong, not even the dark soup stain left on the bedside from yesterday's lunch.

Every detail proved this was the ward, his long-adapted zone of safety.

Yet something was different.

Perhaps the light and atmosphere had changed; everything made him irritable, a sense of unfamiliarity congealing 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 since childhood was at age seven, when he was sent to the church school and stood among a crowd of unfamiliar peers.

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

And this feeling now was even worse.

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 security.

"If you feel disoriented in an unfamiliar environment, unable to control anxiety or irritation, then your senses are correct—you are perceptive."

Kraft's calm demeanor and actions had far greater calming effect than his words—or rather, his words hardly calmed at all.

"There's one good piece of news and one bad piece. Which do you want first?"

"The bad one." Dominic hesitated little. Everyone knew the point of such choices usually lay in the latter.

"The bad news is the treatment only removed the physical lesions left by that thing; some influence remains deeply embedded in your spirit, and preventing recurrence is currently very difficult.

"It alters cognition—you can simply understand it as the Devil's corruption of the mind, subtly changing your thoughts and behavior without you noticing.

"In reality, it's far more hidden and harder to guard against, because while the Devil's temptations and lies can still be recognized and resisted, it doesn't even operate on the same level as your thoughts.

"Like a sea monster extending its tentacles from beneath the water to capture helpless ships, you cannot see or 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 already done. The ship is already taking on water."

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

Dominic, with his understanding, grasped the meaning clearly: "We did our best, but objectively, it's impossible."

Yet 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 at the top, about to run out.

"In our northern regions, few people enjoy swimming, but captains sometimes need to quickly recruit new crew members and must train them into competent sailors with basic water skills in a short time. Do you know how?"

Dominic was puzzled why this was being brought up, but Kraft didn't wait for him to ask—he continued immediately.

"Very simple. Assign an experienced sailor to watch, then kick them into the water. If they sink, pull them up. Repeat several times. Once they get used to it, they naturally learn to swim.

"I'll do something similar: I'll take you repeatedly into the water. You don't need to swim well—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 pressed one hand on Dominic's shoulder.

The scene before him twisted violently, followed by intense weightlessness. His senses melted like hot candle wax inside his skull, intertwining into incomprehensible, indistinguishable blobs of color.

"Perfect timing. Today's swimming lesson is over."