Chapter 378: The Lost-Wax Method

“Something?” The priest realized what Kraft was looking at and removed the holy symbol hanging from his chest.

It was a wooden holy symbol, coated in a varnish made from pine resin and mineral pigments; when drawn close, it still emitted a fresh, sharp, cooling scent—clearly worn only recently.

“This? Impossible. I only started using it a few days ago.”

“What about the old one?” Kraft pressed.

“The old one cracked. I sent it to the blacksmith—he said it couldn’t be repaired easily, probably needed to be melted down and recast, but he fell ill before finishing.” The priest still doubted the symbol was at fault, but his tone had grown less certain.

“All three of us handled it—I used it to exorcise Brother Dominic, and I prayed over the basket-maker’s son’s leg wound too—but that makes no sense.”

“This symbol was passed down by my teacher. For over twenty years, it never caused trouble. Why now?”

A holy symbol used by two generations—left any longer, it might have become a sacred relic of the church. Even if it didn’t carry the Father’s blessing, it shouldn’t have become a vector of disease, right?

“Over twenty years ago?” Benny interrupted, the timing too sensitive—it matched precisely the torrential rain that buried the neighboring village in his memory. “Did the old priest ever say where this came from?”

“It was given to us when the monastery’s caravan passed through. They traded a full set of silverware for our grain—this was one of the items. The record still exists.”

“Oh, Father in Heaven...”

“This is trouble.”

The knight and the professor’s assistant cried out simultaneously, then exchanged a brief glance and realized they were thinking the same thing.

The residual poison from over twenty years ago had lain dormant here, openly, waiting only for the moment to erupt.

“Take us there right now!” Kraft pushed aside the untouched herbal tea before him, rose from his seat, observing the priest’s movements while his peripheral vision swept the surroundings.

Yin Feng quietly slipped his hand beneath the table, ready to act.

Fortunately, the priest showed more confusion than any overtly defensive or unnatural behavior that might suggest he was under foreign control.

“But—” he tried to say more, but was immediately cut off.

“Our current abbot has ties to the Holy Inquisition. We suspect the former order tampered with doctrine and consorted with heretics.” As a doctrinal illiterate aligned with the professor, Kraft didn’t know how the Tribunal operated—but after years of exposure to Lei Mengde, he knew which accusations carried the heaviest weight.

The priest looked in terror at the only person present dressed as a monk. Kanser stood frozen—he’d been given no prior warning and couldn’t fathom how things had spiraled so suddenly.

After a brief pause, he reluctantly nodded. It was an open secret that the abbot had connections to the Tribunal.

Since arriving in this wretched parish, everything had felt off. If something was uncovered, it was only logical.

His nod became the final straw for the priest. The unfortunate man chose to cooperate immediately—to go to the blacksmith’s shop and retrieve the holy symbol, hoping to distance himself from all blame.

As one of the village’s most important technicians, the blacksmith’s home and workshop stood beside the main path, barely a hundred paces from the church.

The location was easy to find. A semi-open storefront, beneath its eaves hung two strings of half-rusted horseshoes that clinked in the wind; above it rose a chimney larger than those on ordinary houses.

The furnace, long cold, was coated in soot; beside the anvil lay hammers and a bucket of quenching water. A scythe in partial form remained where it had been left, its forged surface a steel-gray, still without a wooden handle.

Fine iron filings littered the ground, scattered around the anvil, marked with chaotic footprints—as if the dead man had not yet fully departed and might return at any moment to resume his unfinished work.

Kraft exhaled slightly, then tensed again.

The blacksmith’s family likely hadn’t come to clean up yet—the scene remained untouched, the situation hadn’t worsened, still within manageable bounds. But it also meant they might stumble directly upon something.

Pushing open the partition door into the inner room, they found a lower ceiling and tighter space, dominated by racks of molds, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and heated wax.

The wall with the window was blackened by smoke; beneath it stood a row of ceramic crucibles, the smaller ones removed and placed atop the furnace.

“The place is cramped—don’t come in yet. I’ll take a look.”

Kraft glanced at the hammer on the anvil. Yin Feng understood instantly, stepping two paces sideways and positioning himself behind the group, blocking the shop entrance.

Satisfied, the priest slipped inside, bending low to avoid clutter. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he slowly edged toward the window, ready to flee at any moment.

The soot-stained room looked messy, but the owner had kept his workspace orderly.

All mold parts were neatly arranged on racks; no tripping hazards cluttered the floor—except for one conspicuous wooden box near the furnace, charred by extreme heat.

He stretched his neck to peer into the crucible’s interior. On the spout’s side wall, traces of residual metal clung—rough, streaked silver and black, less smooth than naturally solidified metal.

The wooden box, about the size of two palms, was filled with hardened clay, with a small hole left at the top.

It was a casting mold. The monastery’s blacksmith had made similar ones: carve a wax model, press it into clay, then heat it to melt the wax away and harden the clay.

A very convenient method—especially when a customer suddenly demanded a custom tool. You could first make a wax prototype, confirm its design, then cast the final piece.

This one appeared complete—only awaiting molten metal to be poured in, after which the clay could be shattered to reveal the rough casting.

The scene suggested the caster had nearly finished pouring when he realized the metal was insufficient to fill the mold, so he stopped, leaving the remaining metal to cool in the crucible.

Failed castings were usually irreversible. Underestimating material quantity was a low-level, serious mistake—if this had happened at the monastery, he’d have had to file an extra material reimbursement and lose wages on the spot.

But the blacksmith made no attempt to salvage it—he left the failed mold here, untouched, even the crucible uncleaned.

Kraft opened the wooden box, removed the clay mold, carried it outside, and dropped it on the ground.

“Yin Feng, help me break—”

The hammer struck. The mold shattered with a crack, shards flying like arrows, exploding against the walls, making everyone instinctively flinch.

“I was trying not to smash it too badly.”

“I held back.”

After rummaging through the shattered mold, Kraft retrieved what he sought.

Every cost-conscious accountant would ask the same question—couldn’t you reheat the metal inside the mold, melt it out, and reuse the mold?

The answer was clear: impossible. Unless you destroyed the mold, some metal would always remain.

So the object had to be inside.

Though crude, the shape was unmistakable: half a circle, attached to a single long, slender wing.

“You’ve worn it so long—didn’t you notice nearly half of it wasn’t silver?”