Chapter 403: Epilogue: Another World Line [2]

Epilogue: Another World Line 【2】

Happy times 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 it.

But now, perhaps thanks to the servant's efforts, he found himself in a spacious, well-lit room. Windows made of frosted glass blocked the mountain's cold wind while still letting in sufficient light, so that upon waking, one could immediately see two neatly arranged forms on the table beside him.

He snatched them up hastily, glanced twice—turns out they were the recent schedule; the earliest event was 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 room, with the reserved speakers' names, titles, affiliated organizations, and topics thoughtfully listed.

Nearly every medical school in the North and South of Nos could be found on the list, with assistant professors as the minimum rank and no upper limit. Most striking was the inclusion of an obscure lecturer from a minor college named Lu Xiusi, whose topic—microscopic medicine—was unheard of, yet placed at the very end; it was hard not to suspect some connection to the organizers.

Of course, the list also marked tea breaks, rest rooms, and meal times; Jerome silently noted them—these were the only parts he understood and could 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 deep into the parchment, radiating excessive force; without subtle differences between letters, it might be mistaken for a stamp rather than handwriting.

No time was specified, indicating there were hardly anyone else—perhaps only him—so no special arrangement was needed.

Since it had come to this, he rose slowly, enjoyed the freely available lunch, then randomly grabbed a monk to ask directions and found the library.

Upon entering, he knew his guess was entirely correct.

The vast library had no receptionist in sight, only rows upon rows of books awaiting visitors.

Central shelves held medical classics and annually updated guides—internal medicine, surgery, pharmacology, rare diseases—all categories covered, half of the content updated directly by Bai Ta Abbey itself.

On one side, 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 was likely lower than their maintenance frequency.

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

His attention was already drawn to the large collection of regional chronicles, which unexpectedly occupied nearly a third of the space, filling the outermost shelves bathed in the best light.

He flipped through a few at random; the front pages still bore labels indicating sources—some from donations, most acquired by caravans from across the land. Some even came from precious documents of continental kingdoms.

Driven by professional interest and personal curiosity, he instinctively skimmed parts of them; the fresh foreign histories and customs were captivating, especially the descriptions of local legends, many of which shared commonalities with the Nos regional texts he had once studied.

Some imaginings of unnatural forces showed inexplicable convergences in detail.

After lingering for a long while, Jerome finally 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 rooms, 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 was sharply audible in the silence, echoing off the corridor's end and returning 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 was fine—he knew his professional standing well, and he was never someone who craved attention; dealing with books was always easier than dealing with people.

He picked up the letter; the handwriting felt familiar. Only after recalling did he realize it matched the tiny note at the bottom of the schedule—the same hand, so forceful one could feel the raised ridges 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 crests.

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

Reattaching scattered branches to the main trunk required patience and time—he had neither lacking.

Perhaps due to sufficient rest, Jerome felt he entered his state 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 as if freshly dug from graves, uncleaned and unrepaired, needing book rests to unfold.

Though the uneven quality increased difficulty, his luck seemed good today. Merely glancing briefly during sorting, he spotted several crests that appeared connected.

A good omen—it meant he could break through from a single point, follow the trail, uncover more clues, eventually lock onto the dominant pattern, even reconstruct the original crest design.

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

In fact, across the entire mountainous region covered by the diocese, crest patterns showed widespread convergence—extremely high repetition of gold-red color schemes, scaled claws, and weapon motifs.

This didn't align with past impressions of mountain regions. Logically, fragmented areas divided by terrain should have weak connections; crest styles should diverge, sharply contrasting the centralized, orderly traditions of the royal heartland, appearing decentralized and loose.

Since coincidence couldn't explain it, this meant the region had once been controlled by a single powerful family, its strength at least equal to today's Westmin, capable of dominating such vast land.

"That doesn't make sense."

Jerome scratched his head, muttering—he had studied genealogies and historical records, and none mentioned any prominent family having thrived here.

But if such a family truly existed, it would be the second military heartland after Westmin; anyone wishing to march on Dunling without rear threats must first endure the harshest trials navigating these defensible mountains.

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

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

?? Some… thoughts are sluggish, stuck mid-flow, just writing an epilogue for now…

? (?????)