Chapter 403: Epilogue: Another World Line [2]

Epilogue: Another World Line [2]

Happy moments are always brief and fleeting.

When Jerome woke from the afterglow of the banquet, morning sunlight had already scorched his cheeks; his last memory was of the neighbor handing him a third glass of fruit beer, insisting it was hard to get drunk on.

But now, perhaps thanks to the servant, he found himself in a spacious, bright room. White glass panels blocked the mountain’s chill wind while still letting in ample light, allowing him to immediately spot two neatly arranged forms on the table beside him.

He snatched them up and scanned them hastily—they were the recent schedule, with the earliest event set for the afternoon, leaving ample rest time for guests.

As expected, most were medical symposiums and academic salons held in the abbey’s main hall and preaching chamber, with carefully listed names, titles, affiliations, and topics of the scheduled speakers.

Nearly every medical academy in the North and South of Nos was represented, with assistant professors as the minimum rank and no upper limit. Most striking was the inclusion of an obscure lecturer from an unknown college named Lu Xiusi, whose topic—microscopic medicine—was unheard of, yet placed as the closing presentation; it was hard not to suspect some connection to the organizers.

Of course, the list also noted tea breaks, rest areas, and meal times; Jerome silently memorized them—these were the only parts he could understand and use.

At the bottom of the form, a last-minute handwritten note added his destination:

【For humanities and history, report to the second floor of the library】

The handwriting sank deeply into the parchment, radiating excessive force; without subtle differences between letters, it might be mistaken for a stamp rather than pen.

No time was specified, suggesting hardly anyone else was coming—perhaps only him—and thus no special arrangement was needed.

With nothing left to do, Jerome rose slowly, enjoyed the freely available lunch, then randomly stopped a monk to ask directions and found the library.

As soon as he entered, he knew his guess was entirely correct.

The vast library had no receptionist in sight—only rows upon rows of books greeted visitors.

Central shelves held medical classics and annually updated guides covering internal medicine, surgery, pharmacology, and rare diseases—all categories fully represented, half of the content updated directly by the White Tower Abbey itself.

Alongside, two columns of sacred texts were placed: The Catechism, Foundations of Doctrine, The Soul Shepherd, Summa Theologica—introductory texts and guides for church life.

The spines were new, with no visible creases or cracks; their borrowing frequency likely fell far below their maintenance frequency.

Jerome didn’t care much—even if someone used sacred texts to prop up a table leg, it wasn’t his concern, especially since this at least made a show of effort.

His attention was already drawn to the library’s large collection of regional chronicles, which unexpectedly filled nearly a third of the space, crowding the outermost shelves bathed in the best light.

He flipped through a few at random; each had a label clipped to the front page indicating its origin. A few came from donations, but most were actively acquired by caravans from across the land. Some even originated from precious manuscripts of continental kingdoms.

Driven by professional interest and personal curiosity, he browsed parts of them; the fresh foreign histories and customs were captivating, especially the accounts of local legends, many of which bore striking parallels to texts he had studied in Nos.

Some imaginings of unnatural forces contained details that converged in inexplicable ways.

After lingering for a long while, Jerome remembered his original purpose, reluctantly noted the book locations, and ascended to the second floor.

Unlike the grand hall below, this level was divided into many small rooms, more like categorized storage depots, rarely visited, each door sealed with dusty locks.

Only one door stood half-open, issuing an invitation; he had no choice but to approach, knock, and push it open.

The squeak of the rusty hinge echoed sharply in the silence, rebounding from the corridor’s end as if another person followed closely behind in overlapping space.

“Hello, may I ask if this is…”

His question died mid-sentence. The room held only books piled on the desk and spilling onto the floor. A brass key rested atop a letter.

Jerome smiled awkwardly. He had expected to be overlooked, but not to this extent.

Still, it suited him. He knew his professional standing well—he was never one to crave attention. Books were always easier to deal with than people.

He picked up the letter. The handwriting felt familiar—he recalled now it matched the tiny note at the bottom of the schedule, written with such force the indentations could be felt from the reverse side.

The content was brief: these were genealogical records compiled by local nobles, incomplete due to age, entrusted to the abbey for systematic organization to trace ancestral heraldry.

The request was common—the very work his field did most: helping revived families reclaim their glorious pasts, giving new elites ancient kinship ties.

Reattaching scattered branches to the main trunk required patience and time—he had both in abundance.

Perhaps due to sufficient rest, Jerome felt he entered his rhythm faster than usual, beginning preliminary classification of the abbey’s materials.

The sources of these materials were remarkably diverse—varying greatly in material, script, and preservation state. Some were newly transcribed on parchment; others looked freshly dug from graves, uncleaned and unrepaired, needing book rests to lay flat.

Though the uneven quality increased difficulty, his luck seemed good today. Merely glancing through the materials during sorting, he spotted several heraldic symbols that appeared connected.

A good omen—it meant he could start from a point and trace connections, uncovering more clues, eventually locking onto the dominant motif, perhaps even reconstructing the original emblem.

But soon he realized, as with most times, good luck was an illusion.

In fact, across the entire mountainous region under the diocese’s jurisdiction, heraldic designs showed widespread convergence: extreme repetition of gold-red color schemes, scaled claws, and weapon motifs.

This contradicted his prior impression of mountain regions. Logically, fragmented areas separated by terrain should have weak interconnections, leading to divergent heraldic styles—opposite to the centralized, orderly traditions of the royal heartlands, instead showing decentralized, loose patterns.

Since coincidence couldn’t explain it, this meant the region had once been controlled by a single powerful family, one whose strength rivaled today’s Westmin, capable of dominating such vast territory.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Jerome scratched his head, muttering. His studies and historical records mentioned no prominent family that had ever thrived here.

But if such a family had existed, it would have been the second military heartland after Westmin—any force seeking to besiege Dunling without rear threats would first have to endure the harshest trials navigating these defensible mountains.

Fortresses, inscriptions, legends, bloodlines—it must have left something behind. It had to.

Jerome recoiled his fingers as if burned, as if in the most familiar waters, he had brushed against the scaled hide of some monstrous beast.

?? Somewhat… mentally sluggish, stuck mid-flow, just writing an epilogue for now…

?(?????)