Chapter 396: Teaching a Son (End of Volume)

How long does it take for a wound to heal?

This is a complex question.

On day zero, the red door is pushed open; fibers weave a membrane amidst breaking, and blood coagulates into clots.

Over three days and nights, tiny circulators, sleepless and tireless, make it their duty to devour and burn, sweeping away death and life that should not exist here.

On the seventh day, fresh, red, moist, breathing tissue emerges; new thin skin crawls along the edges. Flowered mats spread out, and the fissure seals shut.

By the fourteenth day, the blood color recedes, the granulation tissue flattens, and a more solid order constructs itself in the dark, while tension solidifies on the surface.

After four cycles sufficient to create worlds, the scar finally matures, like old scriptures layered with wax, hard as salt crystals. The injury suffered has become the past; whether anything can be gained from it remains unknown.

For elderly patients, the process may extend by thirty percent to double; for those with infections, it doubles again; for those with both, it is even longer.

Time during illness is always different from ordinary days, leaping in a non-linear fashion.

Between stupor and brief awakenings, the sun wheel is turned without pattern; each time, the light outside the window is unexpected.

The edges of dreams have always been blurred; time collapses during sleep, becoming indistinguishable. Sometimes it feels as though several days have passed in a single night, even creating the illusion of dawn and dusk reversing.

But once awake, the world's operation becomes abnormally slow.

The hourglass seems filled with water; its falling is dull and dragging, unbearable to endure, enough to review a farewell speech already prepared long ago.

Every moment is longer than the last, with abnormal fever and pain alternating.

He prays as usual: once upon each awakening, once at meals, neither more nor less, neither more diligent nor more negligent due to the pain.

At this age, reason no longer resists the body's decline; all sensations hint at that outcome, which could not be clearer.

Each spasm of pain is a farewell, like raindrops gradually soaking into autumn soil; he accepts it just as he accepts autumn giving way to winter, the changing of seasons.

But that young man who visits often clearly does not think so; instead, he increases the frequency of dressing changes, tirelessly repeating the process of uncovering and binding, seizing moments of clarity to feed in sour, bitter medicines, and injecting bottle after bottle of liquid into the body.

From his mouth, he learns that the attending physician, whom he has never met, who is also the abbot of the monastery, is working day and night to improve the medicines, attempting to conquer this deadly heat.

To be honest, the user experience is not particularly good. After application, new pain arises—not the original distending pain—but a hidden stinging sensation, accompanied by a contradictory feeling between burning and chilling, lingering around the wound, occasionally causing some itchiness.

The sensation brought by the medicine is so strange that it makes the already long waking hours even harder to endure.

He was troubled by the doctor's endless efforts until he noticed the domain of dreams shrinking day by day, clear consciousness returning to the brain, filling the daylight hours.

One day, hunger came earlier than usual; he unconsciously opened his mouth to chew, swallowing slightly warm salty porridge. Coarse salt not fully dissolved was ground by his teeth, making his taste buds tremble, like an infant tasting food other than mother's milk for the first time.

When raising his arm, the scar tightened like a rope net over muscles relearning movement. Clenching his fist, his knuckles stiffly made sounds.

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

The caregiver supported him, straightening his waist inch by inch, panting like an ox, heart beating like a drum, yet each time deeper and more powerful.

When he walked out of the ward with clumsy, hesitant steps, everyone who saw him cast looks of extreme surprise.

Those looks bathed the pale scars, accompanying him through freshly painted corridors, frequently cast from the hallways, sometimes following the helping hands attempting to support him.

He refused help, walking down the stairs with uneven steps, stepping out of this building whose full appearance he had never seen, standing in the gray, glaring daylight of the courtyard.

The noise rushing to meet him diluted the chill. Somehow, the usually closed monastery was crowded with residents; children held up colorful holy icon boards, with biscuits in their mouths.

Young monks were busy in several groups: trimming vegetation, picking up intact ivy, and arranging various decorations.

Others were maintaining order, distributing various small items, occasionally freeing a hand to scoop a handful of holy water from a silver basin and sprinkle it over the crowd.

The crowd passed cheerfully by him, surging toward the main hall door decorated with red and purple drapes.

The atmosphere was so fervent that it awakened chaotic memories; he suddenly realized what day it was.

【Consecration Festival】

The Holy Spirit is born into the world today; had he not been bedridden by serious illness, he too should have been celebrating with his congregation in his own church.

Chanting rose with the heat indoors, embracing the crowd in the embrace of the Heavenly Father.

Daylight falling from high windows and candlelight provided illumination; the rich sweet fragrance made one marvel at the organizer's ample resources.

Such a massive consumption of beeswax was far beyond what the local area could supply; even if wealthy, someone would have to be willing to provide it.

A figure sitting in the front row was especially familiar; he recognized it as Knight Benny, whom he often dealt with, wearing a brand-new formal suit, without a sword.

Seeing the middle-aged abbot finish the prayer on stage, the knight quickly patted the young man beside him twice; the latter understood, rose, and went up to the stage.

The bell rang from above, sweeping away whispers among the crowd. Just as he wondered what was happening, the abbot suddenly recited loudly:

"Almighty God, I see a youth walking in darkness!"

The youth walking up the steps was caught off guard, nearly missing a step, but good reflexes and balance helped him steady himself, quickly reaching the edge of the pulpit.

"His steps hesitate," a monk followed, reciting, "His heart is not yet clear."

"I will give him ears, so that he may hear.

"I will give him eyes, so that he may see."

The abbot raised both arms, entering a meaningful pause, glanced toward the opposite side of the platform, and raised his voice again:

"I will prepare a father for him, so that he may walk in the right path!"

A flurry of hurried footsteps, then an intentional slowing as if realizing it was inappropriate, striving to synchronize the tapping of the wooden cane with forward movement.

Pure white, wide-sleeved silk clerical robes swept over the stone slabs as he ascended the platform. The broad silver trim of the outer robe was somewhat overpowering under the ample light, not very flattering to his blond hair; the solemn purple sash on his shoulders created too stark a contrast for his overly youthful face.

A gold-plated chest buckle inlaid with turquoise was especially conspicuous, restraining the soft, luxurious waves of silk.

Although the overall style matching was not perfect, the obvious value well compensated for the solemnity, showing the owner's high regard for the ceremony, and making it hard to first notice the freshly woven ivy crown or the unshaved wood splinters on the cane's surface.

The abbot presiding over the ceremony politely shifted his gaze, facing the witness directly rather than that "formal suit."

"I believe in the Almighty Lord, the Creator of heaven and earth; His kingdom is endless; His Spirit dwells in the human heart..." The youth recited softly with his head bowed; nervousness made his voice tremble slightly, somewhat stumbling, but nothing went wrong.

"I offer my years to You; may my mouth speak no falsehoods; may... may my eyes not covet vanity; may my hands do no evil."

Benny wiped his forehead; even seeing only his back, one could imagine him smiling with relief.

"Child, the Lord has heard your words; all the saints bear witness to this." The one who saved his life spoke, responding with the same scripture, extremely fluently, like a bright blade, easily entering the listener's mind, yet not through emotional appeal, but through some other means.

One could clearly perceive that within the recitation lacking pauses and tonal variations, there was not much reverence.

"From this day forward, you shall no longer 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 give you this sign, not for blood ties, but for bonds of faith. May the Lord's Spirit dwell within you..."

After finishing the final phrase, this new spiritual guardian stared at the boy before him, as if forgetting what came next; he held the book meant for the rite in silence for a long while, then stopped speaking and spoke again:

"May you… dwell safely on the shore, without stepping into the water."

?? The "Invisible One" volume basically ends here! Thank you all for your support; there may still be side stories, and once prepared, I'll start the next volume.

?????

? Looking back, I feel the theme chosen for this volume was still too abstract and difficult, and with the interruption of graduation season, many parts didn't proceed as planned—expansion was incomplete, the ending was underdeveloped, and more importantly, my ability struggled to sustain multiple plotlines.

? ヽ(? Д?)?

? I hope to carve out more time from my work schedule for writing and restore my update efficiency. If you have any feedback or suggestions, please definitely leave them in the comments or the group chat!

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

? (*/w＼*)