Chapter 396: Teaching a Son (End of Volume)

How long does it take for a wound to heal?

It is a complex question.

On day zero, the red door opened; fibers wove membranes from rupture, blood coagulated into lumps.

Three days and nights, the tiny wanderers worked without rest, tasked with devouring and burning, clearing away death and life that should not exist here.

On day seven, fresh, moist, breathing tissue pushed forth; new skin crept along the edges. A floral quilt spread, fissures sealed.

On day fourteen, the red faded, granulation smoothed; a stronger order built in darkness, tension hardened on the surface.

After four cycles sufficient to create a world, the scar matured—like ancient scrolls layered in wax, hard as salt crystals. The injury had become the past; whether anything could be gained from it remained unknown.

For elderly patients, the process may extend by thirty to one hundred percent; infections double it again; those with both take even longer.

Time in illness always differs from ordinary time, leaping nonlinearly.

Between drowsiness and brief awakenings, the sun wheel turned unpredictably; each time, the light outside the window came as a surprise.

The boundaries of dreams have always been blurred; time collapsed in sleep, indistinguishable—sometimes it felt as if days passed in a single night, even with the illusion of reversed day and night.

But once awake, the world’s motion became painfully slow.

The hourglass seemed filled with water, its fall sluggish and dragging, unbearable—long enough to review one’s prepared last words again.

Each moment stretched longer than the last; abnormal fever and pain alternated.

He prayed as usual—once upon waking, once during meals—no more, no less, neither more fervent nor more negligent because of pain.

At this age, reason no longer resisted the body’s decay; every sensation whispered the same unmistakable end.

Each spasm was a farewell, like raindrops slowly soaking autumn’s soil; he accepted it as he accepted autumn’s end and winter’s arrival, the turning of seasons.

But the young man who often visited clearly thought otherwise—he increased dressing changes, relentlessly repeating the process of lifting and tightening, seizing moments of clarity to feed him bitter, sour medicine, injecting one bottle after another into his body.

From him, he learned that the unseen attending physician, also the abbot of the monastery, was working day and night to refine the medicine, trying to conquer this deadly fever.

To be honest, the experience was far from pleasant. After application, a new pain emerged—not the original swelling—but a hidden stabbing pain, accompanied by a contradictory sensation of burning and chill, lingering at the wound, sometimes causing itching.

The drug’s sensation was so strange that it made the already long waking hours even harder to endure.

He grew weary of the doctor’s endless efforts until he noticed the realm of his dreams shrinking daily, clear consciousness flowing back into his skull, flooding his days.

One day, hunger came earlier than usual; he instinctively opened his mouth, chewed, swallowed warm, salty porridge; coarse salt grains not fully dissolved were ground by his teeth, his taste buds trembling—as if a child tasting food beyond mother’s milk for the first time.

When he raised his arm, the scar tightened like a rope net around muscles relearning motion. His hand clenched into a fist; knuckles stiffly cracked.

A few days later, his legs awoke from numbness, awkwardly flexing and extending, stepping onto the floor for the first time.

His caregiver supported him, inch by inch, helping him straighten his back; he gasped like an ox, heart pounding like a drum, yet each time deeper, stronger.

When he stepped out of the ward with clumsy, hesitant steps, everyone who saw him stared in utter astonishment.

That gaze washed over his pale scar as he passed through freshly painted corridors, cast repeatedly from stairwells, sometimes followed by hands reaching to steady him.

He refused help, stumbling down the stairs, exiting the building whose full shape he had never seen, standing in the courtyard’s gray, blinding light.

The rush of noise before him diluted the cold. The usually closed monastery was inexplicably packed with residents; children held up colorful icons of saints, biscuits dangling from their mouths.

Young monks grouped in clusters, busy: trimming vegetation, collecting intact ivy, arranging decorations.

Others maintained order, distributing small items, occasionally pausing to scoop holy water from silver basins and sprinkle it over the crowd.

The throng joyfully surged past him, carrying him toward the grand hall doors adorned with crimson and purple curtains.

The atmosphere was so vibrant it stirred chaotic memories; suddenly, he realized what day it was.

【Feast of Consecration】

The Holy Spirit was born into the world today; had he not been bedridden by illness, he too would have celebrated with his congregation in his own church.

Chanting rose with the heat, enveloping the crowd in the Father’s embrace.

Heavenly light through high windows and candle flames provided illumination; the rich sweetness of incense spoke of the organizers’ ample resources.

Such vast consumption of beeswax could not be supplied locally—even the wealthiest needed someone willing to provide it.

A back in the front row was strikingly familiar; he recognized the knight Bennis, dressed in a brand-new formal suit, swordless.

When the middle-aged abbot finished his prayer, the knight quickly tapped the boy beside him twice; the boy understood, rose, and stepped onto the stage.

Bells rang from above, clearing murmurs from the crowd. As he wondered what was happening, the abbot suddenly shouted:

“Almighty God, I see a boy walking in darkness!”

The boy on the stairs, caught off guard, nearly stumbled—but quick reflexes and balance saved him; he hurried to the edge of the pulpit.

“His steps hesitate,” a monk echoed, “his heart is not yet clear.”

“I shall give him ears, that he may hear.”

“I shall give him eyes, that he may see.”

The abbot raised his arms, pausing meaningfully; his gaze flicked to the opposite side of the platform, then rose in volume:

“I shall prepare for him a father, that he may walk the righteous path!”

A flurry of hurried steps, then a deliberate slowing—as if realizing the impropriety—trying to synchronize the tap of the wooden cane with each forward step.

Pure white, wide-sleeved silk clerical robes swept across stone flags, ascending the platform. The broad silver trim of the outer robe was overly conspicuous under bright light, ill-suited to golden hair; the solemn purple sash on his shoulders clashed sharply with his youthful face.

A gilded breast clasp set with turquoise stood out prominently, binding the soft, luxurious silk waves.

Though the overall ensemble was imperfectly matched, its obvious value compensated for solemnity, demonstrating the wearer’s deep reverence for the ceremony—and making it hard to notice first the newly woven ivy crown or the untrimmed splinters on the cane’s surface.

The abbot conducting the ritual politely averted his gaze, facing the witnesses rather than the “outfit.”

“I believe in the Almighty Lord, Creator of heaven and earth, whose kingdom is endless, whose spirit dwells in the heart…” The boy whispered, voice trembling with nervousness, slightly stumbling, but no errors occurred.

“I offer my years to you; may my mouth speak no falsehood; may… may my eyes desire no vanity, may my hands commit no evil.”

Bennis wiped his forehead; even from behind, one could imagine his relieved smile.

“Child, the Lord has heard your words; all saints bear witness,” the man who saved his life replied, echoing the same scripture with flawless fluency—like a bright blade slipping effortlessly into the listener’s mind, not through emotion, but through some other means.

One could clearly perceive: the recitation lacked cadence, rhythm, or reverence.

“From this day forth, you shall not walk alone. If you seek wisdom, I shall teach you; if you seek peace, I shall care for you. In the Lord’s name, I bestow this sign—not by blood, but by faith. May the Lord’s spirit dwell in you…”

After finishing the final line, the new spiritual guardian stared at the boy, as if forgetting what came next; he held the ceremonial book in silence for a long while, then spoke again:

“May you… dwell safely on the shore, never stepping into the water.”

??“The Formless One” ends here! Thank you all for your support. There may be epilogues coming; once prepared, I’ll begin the next volume.

?????

?Looking back, I feel this volume’s subject was too abstract and difficult. Combined with the interruption of graduation season, many parts didn’t unfold as planned—underdeveloped setup, incomplete closure, and above all, my inability to sustain multiple threads.

?ヽ(?Д?)?

?I hope to carve out more time from work for writing and restore my update pace. Please share feedback in the comments or group chat!

?Lastly, thank you again to all readers—this is the author’s greatest motivation.

?(*/w＼*)