Chapter 376: Field Duty

A philosopher once said that a person is the sum of his experiences.

Like a grapevine on a trellis, unless one intends to crawl forever on the ground, any upward growth will inevitably be shaped by the paths it has taken—the higher and farther it climbs, the more profoundly it transforms.

Kraft deeply agreed.

Years of service as a personal attendant and assistant had turned him into a quintessential indoor creature, fond of bustling about at his desk, obsessively maintaining personal cleanliness, and especially hating outings and long journeys, which meant extended periods without peaceful reading.

Moreover, his experiences traveling with Kraft had been nothing short of harrowing—always a choice between blood and ghosts, rarely ending normally, and in his memory, nearly synonymous with high-probability trouble periods.

But as the grapevine trellis theory suggests, when one reaches a certain height, the trellis may suddenly make a ninety-degree turn, forcing the mind into a sharp reversal.

Everything must begin with the position known as “Chief Night Duty of the Monastery.”

From a more positive perspective, it had been an immensely beneficial week—his progress in these few months might not equal what he gained in this single week.

Presumably, the duties of shift coordination, assisting anesthesiologists, surgical aid, ward rounds, medical record keeping, pharmacy accounting, logistics management, material transport, monastery rule enforcement, and financial reporting had forged him.

He quickly gained a preliminary understanding of the monastery-hospital’s operational model, becoming a busy man, a useful man, and one who now welcomed going out.

When told there was work to be done, he accepted the task without hesitation, swiftly inventorying and notifying those he deemed necessary, drawing on his recent familiarity with the monastery.

A monk he had met while searching for bones in the stream, the local nobleman Benny who had volunteered to help, the arriving Yvon, plus Kraft himself.

Four people were enough. Some tasks are not improved by more bodies, especially when one must guard against teammates who might suddenly go mad. Bringing a monk was purely to signal they were from the monastery—it would spare them much trouble.

It would have been better to replace him with Field, the hospital chief, but unless it was Kraft, one should not rashly challenge Raymond’s limits—better to leave this poor man a helper.

By the time Raymond and Field discovered the work handover note left on the desk, the expedition team had already descended the mountain and arrived at the stonemason’s door.

“So, what exactly is the abbot hoping we find this time?” asked the monk, pulled along casually.

He would never know he was here only because the personnel list was sorted alphabetically, and his name “Canser” happened to sit right beside “Kraft.”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s broken bones or anything like that.” Kraft knocked on the door and received an immediate response. “You ask him later—what are we delivering to Dominic and Field?”

“No problem.”

The monk stepped forward with a smile to greet the stonemason who opened the door. “Good afternoon, brother. I bring greetings from Dominic and Field.”

“Oh, hello. I heard Brother Dominic fell seriously ill—is he better now?”

“Thanks to your prayers and blessings, he’s recovering well. May the Father protect him.”

“Wait a moment,” the stonemason slapped his forehead, returned inside, and came back carrying something tightly wrapped in thick straw.

“This is the gift I mentioned earlier. If you will, please deliver it to Brothers Dominic and Field—or directly to the monastery.”

“I had mistakenly believed old John disturbed my father’s resting place, but after the counsel of your two respected brothers, we’ve decided to let the past remain buried.”

“The feeling of forgiveness truly brings relief. Just days ago, we repaired my ancestors’ graves—cleaned the tombstones, leveled the soil, pulled weeds—and that’s when I found this.”

The stonemason extended the object. Kraft stepped sideways and took it from the monk—the weight was substantial, sinking his hands.

It appeared to be a square stone. He felt nothing strange upon touching it, but that was no reason to be careless.

Kraft had explained to him how Dominic had slowly walked into his own trap—anything appearing along a patient’s path must never be ignored.

“What is this?”

“A decorative plaque—his proudest work. The inscribed scripture was written and gifted by a priest who once resided here, in thanks for his contributions to the repairs.” The old stonemason’s reverence was clear—so much so that even his son remembered it vividly.

“He died without the priest’s blessing, and instructed me to place it atop his coffin, hoping for the Lord’s protection. I once thought it had been stolen and lost—yet I found it again while leveling the grave soil, buried just beneath the surface nearby.”

“I believe this may be a sign—that he wished his creation to be reborn alongside the monastery, not buried forever underground.”

“But… didn’t he want this plaque to protect the coffin?” Canser, unaware of Kraft’s frantic eye signals, still tried to refuse.

“It’s fine. The two brothers have already prayed and blessed him—he no longer needs a lifeless object to guard him.”

At this point, refusing would seem like an insult.

The group accepted the plaque, left the stonemason’s home, and peeled away the tightly bound straw to examine the gift.

A remarkably ornate plaque, made of pale golden limestone, rectangular in shape.

Clearly, the old stonemason had used the finest techniques he knew. Continuous grapevines formed the border, interspersed with delicately carved rose petals and ivy leaves.

At intervals, miniature birds and beasts hid among the leaves, mouths clutching branches heavy with fruit, or heads raised in song.

The inscribed surface was slightly polished, giving a metallic sheen—the script carved upon it must be the priest’s gifted scripture.

The text was brief, only a few paragraphs, yet not a prayer or plea for protection, but a short tale.

It told of a knight who had never lost a battle. One day, someone told him a dragon dwelled somewhere, so he set out, vowing to slay it.

The knight searched villages, crossed forests, climbed mountains—yet never saw the dragon’s form. Whenever he asked those he met, they replied: We have seen Him. He was here. He is still here.

A prophet handed him a book—no title, no chapters, only pages turning endlessly backward.

He read the first page and heard the dragon’s voice—rolling like thunder, deafening.

He read the second page and saw the dragon’s silhouette—vast as mountains, invincible.

He read the third page and touched the dragon’s scales—smooth as a mirror, reflecting his own face.

But each page he read, he forgot the one before. The knight read day and night, page after page, until he had seen the entire dragon—and yet could not recall where it came from, nor where it had gone.

Long after, another knight arrived and asked where the dragon was.

All turned to look at him and said: We have all seen Him. The dragon was here yesterday; this morning, it had taken the form of a knight.

“...”

The text was plain, unadorned—undoubtedly in the style of sacred scripture. Kraft read it without difficulty.

His intuition confirmed it was simply a normal stone, the carving especially exquisite, containing nothing unnatural or out of place—only the text carried a faint sense of strangeness.

He was no theologian; he should consult a professional.

“What does it mean?”

“No, this isn’t a scripture tale—I’ve never seen it in any other text—but it seems intriguing...”

Canser, slightly embarrassed by his lack of knowledge, reached out to take the plaque for closer study.

Kraft dodged his hand, flipped the plaque over, out of sight, and rewrapped it in straw.

“Return the plaque to the monastery—wrap it well, and don’t open it en route. As for us, keep searching. Mr. Kraft wants far more than this.”