Chapter 385: Sky Phobia

Though Kup repeatedly insisted the best course was to minimize suffering and await the Father’s ordained fate, Knight Beni insisted on bringing the priest, whose body was reduced to little more than a face still intact, to the monastery.

Compared to trusting medicine, the knight’s actions leaned more toward faith in theology.

The crisscrossed lacerations caused by the scales seemed as ambiguous and indistinct as the perpetrator who inflicted them. The initial cleaning and bandaging revealed injuries confined mostly to the skin layer—frightening in bleeding but not yet penetrating deeper tissues.

Yet during the second bandage change, perhaps due to faulty memory, some wounds appeared worse than remembered, now reaching subcutaneous fat and superficial veins, where clots should have formed, now re-bleeding.

As if an invisible serpent still coiled around him, slowly constricting and deepening the wounds—or perhaps the damage had already been done, merely revealing itself gradually.

This forced him to frequently change the bandages himself; after exhausting all supplies brought on the journey, his arm—once merely temporarily immobilized—now ached worse, heaven knew whether from a crack or a full fracture.

As expected, after days of jolting travel, when they reached the clinic the monastery had set up at the mountain’s base, the priest was barely clinging to life—whether he could survive the ascent up the mountain was a grim question.

For the priest, continuing to live was hard to call divine mercy or merely futile prolongation of suffering. At this point, all they could do was perform basic care at the clinic, then climb the mountain to seek fortune with Kraft.

Unexpectedly, the usually deserted clinic was packed—filled with families and patients seeking treatment, the entire town emptied except for the essential laborers tending the fields.

The resident monk struggled to maintain order, with negligible effect.

Though locals did not openly disrupt order, this did not stop them from shoving and jostling, shifting sideways in the chaotic, misshapen queue, slipping ahead when others weren’t looking, sparking constant conflicts.

People constantly craned their necks to peer forward, demanding why those ahead weren’t moving, wasting time, while those in front accused newcomers of being unreasonable and cutting in line.

Some disputes quickly escalated from shouting to physical shoving, halted by the overwhelmed monk. He tried to discern who was right or wrong, but his words were drowned beneath more complaints and pleas.

At the very end of the queue, the epicenter, the director himself sat behind the counter, listening as a peasant woman, cradling a baby in her arms, described her complaints with gestures—scalp baldness, chest nodules, red patches on her buttocks—nodding occasionally as if thinking, showing no interest in restoring order.

A layer of formulaic solemnity masked his face; his eyes had long drifted elsewhere, perhaps wandering through the room’s heavy shadows, or perhaps not focused at all.

Though it was daytime, none of the windows—not even the skylight—were fully open; at most, narrow slits remained for light, and from a distance, only bright bands of illumination could be seen, no glimpse of the outside sky.

Several candles stood on the counter, providing just enough light for writing; their trembling halos diffused the distinctive honey-and-herb scent of beeswax, carving out a quiet sanctuary untouched by chaos. Those who drew near unconsciously fell silent, as if an invisible hand had rested on their shoulders.

Noise pushed stillness to the center. Though the scene held almost no ecclesiastical decorations, it carried the uncanny feeling of a sacred illustration stepping into reality—a presence no stained glass or vaulted ceiling could evoke.

Kup froze for a moment, his first reaction not joy but suspicion that he was hallucinating. After all, both scene and figures seemed strangely off.

He rubbed his eyes and forced his way through the crowd. Though only one arm worked, it wasn’t difficult.

Perhaps because Yehui’s eloquence and volume far surpassed the monk’s, the townsfolk suddenly displayed reason and compassion, willingly clearing a path for the injured.

And yet Kraft, usually so perceptive, failed to notice their approach, still lost in his strange reverie.

“Mr. Kraft, what are you doing here?”

“Ah, Kup, you’re back.” His eyes refocused, lingering a moment on the crudely bandaged arm, then glancing past his shoulder to see Yin Feng and Beni. He wiped away nonexistent sweat. “Good to have you back.”

“You’re…?” Kup stepped aside, lowering his voice. “Why did you come down?”

Even Kup could tell Kraft was not himself. Making house calls for minor ailments seemed like an attempt to self-regulate, to pull his mental state back on track—but clearly, it wasn’t working.

What was incomprehensible was why he hadn’t simply rested quietly on the mountain, instead deliberately descending to seek trouble.

“I just felt… the mountain was too high. I needed a change of environment.” The doctor saw his concern but offered no explanation, shifting instead to inquire about his journey. “You look like you got into a fight?”

“We only fought once—barely survived. We’ll talk about it later.” Kup smiled bitterly, uncertain whether he should bring the priest forward—a new, critical patient would only burden Kraft in every possible way.

But he knew Kraft as a doctor better than Kraft knew himself; the latter might hesitate, yet he would never wish to miss a patient.

And as assistant and retainer, he would never defy the doctor’s will.

“We have a patient—urgent, critical.”

“Next time, say that first.”

Kraft rose from behind the counter, waving away the crowd, who retreated like a tide ordered back. “Come back next week. Today’s an emergency. The monastery is right here. So am I.”

Competence returned with every step he took; at the door, he halted and ordered, “Bring him in.”

“This is him.”

A shape previously unnoticed came into view—he lay on a door reinforced with two carrying poles for transport, wrapped from head to toe in bandages with no gap left, his breathing barely perceptible.

Carried in, he resembled less a living man than a mummy Kup, using his own discipline’s skills, had dragged up from some pyramid.

“You brought that many bandages?”

“Better safe than sorry—and look, they’re already in use.” Kup was immensely grateful he’d packed extra medical supplies before leaving.

“Elderly male, multiple linear superficial lacerations from sharp objects, wound edges regular. I applied direct pressure on-site, debrided and dressed within two hours. It’s been nearly four full days now.”

“Fortunately, his blood loss was controlled, or he wouldn’t have lasted this long. You did well.”

“What caused the wounds?”

“Scales.”

Kup noticed Kraft unconsciously lifting his head, his gaze piercing the closed skylight, pointing toward infinite heights.

?? The author has officially returned to work (*ˉ︶ˉ*)

? Updates will gradually resume once everything stabilizes.

? By the way, I recommend my group friend’s novel: “The Old Sequence”

?(^3^) Go check it out