Chapter 402: Epilogue: Another Worldline [1]

Epilogue: Another Worldline [1]

That night, the bell first rang across the Priyel Basin, and Jerome saw the legendary monastery.

A towering white marble structure, like a silver needle buried beneath flesh, pierced through the tree canopy and rocky outcrops, rising atop the cloud-shrouded peak, impossible to ignore.

[White Tower]

As a half-fortified building from ancient times, its original name had been lost; the new occupants renovated it entirely within half a year, sparing no cost to erect that enigmatic tower, and named their knightly order after it.

The Grand Master, a physician by training, seemed to harbor a deeper obsession with white than even churchmen—preferring pristine white garments, decor, and lighting, to the point of extravagance, a reputation even reaching those in Dunling.

This might be his most modest of all hobbies.

Caravans drawn by profit willingly became the order’s tentacles, siphoning wealth from across Nos and even across the strait, entering the monastery’s gates alongside ceaseless spies—and vanishing without a trace.

In return, the order offered the most precious thing in this world—the Father’s promised forgiveness. Bottled miracles claimed that once introduced into the bloodstream, they could shield anyone from plague. One injection, at most three, could quell fever and dissolve abscesses.

Rumor held that the Grand Master himself could perform true miracles, extracting deep-seated afflictions without a single external wound.

The value of this grace defied earthly measurement; though some always offered sums sufficient to make the Father’s emissary waver, the central figure grew ever more reclusive, long since ceasing public interventions.

The last notable record was a secret treatment at the invitation of the Duke of Westminster—no witnesses confirmed it, only that the duke subsequently resumed active life.

The Church maintained peculiar silence regarding behaviors inconsistent with doctrine. Its share of miracles, the growing scale of oceanic fleets, and increasing offerings had already answered for them.

Jerome did not know the exact figure, but as a previously neglected department of library and historical studies, the doubled and tripled communion standards and funding were visibly apparent.

So when the Master received the invitation and assigned him to attend in his stead, he hesitated not a single second, stepping onto the journey amid the envious glances of his colleagues.

The convoy escorting this group of scholars came from a family once specializing in jewelry and ornaments, which had rapidly risen in fortune by aligning with the order in recent years.

But what did that have to do with a humble scholar of royal history?

Everyone knew the White Tower Monastery had always been indifferent to anything beyond medicine; previously invited guests were mostly titans from major academies, and he was likely added to the list only to sort through dusty historical texts gathering dust in the library’s corners.

As a niche interdisciplinary field combining royal history and heraldry, it had always been sparsely populated, which is why he, an unknown, had been chosen.

If all went as expected, upon arrival he would simply need to shine in the library and at tea breaks.

The thought excited him slightly—wasn’t the White Tower Monastery the birthplace of academic tea breaks? Surely their standards were high.

He had already overheard scholars from Rivers University discussing last year’s reception banquet, rumored to rival a duke’s feast in menu, with the chance to meet the legendary Grand Master himself—the creator of miracles—a story worth boasting about for years.

The convoy clearly had transported scholars like them before; after brief negotiations with checkpoint guards, they drove up the mountain road, the surface of crushed stone and fine sand offering almost no jolts, allowing guests leisure to admire the niches carved into the cliff walls.

Night-patrolling monks descended along the inner slope of the path, replenishing oil in the eternal lamps; the full flames illuminated the vivid new paint on sculpted figures, and even those without artistic sensibility could appreciate the sheer wealth behind the pigments.

The martyred saints in the murals were not pierced by nails or burned at stakes, but exaggeratedly stretched toward the heavens, slender and light, or floating upright in midair, revered by monks.

Upon closer inspection, their faces were blurred, bones elongated, torn robe edges flaring like wings, as if shedding cocoons; overlapping light sources twisted and forked their shadows, snaking and coiling around the viewers.

Even Jerome, accustomed to bold interpretations of sacred texts, struggled to accept this style—divinity overwhelmed humanity, proportions skewed and unbalanced.

Yet he quickly suppressed his unease; this was the order’s headquarters, and a lowly monk had no right to freely criticize. If there truly were profound meaning here, he would only appear ignorant and invite disdain.

To mask his thoughts, he even initiated conversation with the medical academy representative about corresponding sacred tales and historical context, earning praise from all sides—and the strangely unsettling murals now seemed more tolerable.

Engaged in lively discussion, the tedious journey passed in an instant.

The convoy entered the monastery’s main gate, where a young woman in hunting attire greeted them in the courtyard, politely but coolly exchanging pleasantries with each invited guest, explaining that the Master was unwell and she would represent him, apologizing for his absence from the banquet.

[Can miracles cure illnesses they cannot heal?]

Jerome suspected it was an excuse, yet members of the medical academy, clearly no strangers to such banquets, accepted it without question, merely expressing regret at yet again missing the chance to speak with the Master, and subtly inquired whether they might consult her on pharmaceutical matters.

From the conversation, it was faintly clear that this woman was one of the Professor’s disciples, fully in charge of a critical stage in the production of the “miracle” drug.

“Are you Brother Jerome of the Mother Church Library?” An unexpected greeting interrupted his thoughts; the young woman suddenly turned toward the monk searching for a place to sit and eat, catching him off guard, “Your seat is here.”

She led the monk to the table, lifted and pulled out a solid wooden high-back chair with one hand, “It is regrettable your Master could not come himself; fortunately, Judge Green recommended you. We believe your research in this field will greatly aid us.”

“Judge Green speaks too highly of me. To be honest, I have yet to produce academic achievements sufficient to prove myself—I’m still struggling to earn my degree from my Master.”

Jerome, flattered, instinctively shifted his chair, trying to hide half his body beneath the table—but could not move it.

Now he understood why he had been chosen: perhaps the rapidly ascending Judge Green finally remembered an unpaid favor and casually extended this opportunity.

Frankly, this unexpected attention made him uneasy.

His thoughts, in her eyes, were like candlelight within a crystal chandelier—seen in unsettling clarity.

“Do not worry; that is precisely your strength. If all goes well, it may even benefit your academic advancement.”

The chair was pushed forward to a suitable distance; servants began serving appetizers: chestnut purée balls drizzled with wild berry jam, fish aspic, smoked pheasant with goat cheese—each precisely portioned and sculpted, visually and aromatically exquisite.

Of course, discussing this now would ruin our appetite for dinner. Rest assured—it’s just a few lost coats of arms that need to be traced back.

“That’s excellent—I’ll do my utmost. Even if it’s a severed royal branch, with references, I can dig it up for you.”

(End of Chapter)