Chapter 405

Epilogue: Another World Line [4]

“Oh, sorry, I was truly impolite.”

Before Jerome could think of how to refuse, Raymond apologized voluntarily, as if suddenly realizing the potential problems with his impulsive idea.

His gaze returned from the stack of manuscripts, and he patted the young cultivator’s shoulder with perfect naturalness, showing no concern over his unfulfilled curiosity.

“Times are different now; unpublished findings should not be casually shown to others.”

“I’ve been away from Dunling too long, busy with mundane affairs, and I’ve grown dull to affairs within the Academy. If I’ve inadvertently made any mistakes, please correct me directly—don’t let resentment grow in your heart.”

This candid attitude made Jerome deeply embarrassed, making him feel like a narrow-minded man who judged others by his own selfish interests.

Recalling the series of suspicions that had flashed through his mind just now, he felt even more guilty, in violation of the Heavenly Father’s teaching: “Believe all things, judge not others.”

“It’s not anything important,” he chuckled awkwardly, voluntarily explaining his current work: “I’ve been entrusted to compile the lineages and territories of all surnames within your diocese, tracing bloodlines back to their origins.”

“You know, after several generations, some families’ kinship ties become utterly chaotic—I haven’t even sorted them out yet; it’ll take at least a few days.”

“You’ve worked hard. Compiling genealogies concerns the maintenance of secular order—it’s no small matter.”

Raymond affirmed the value of his work but showed no further interest, offered a few words of encouragement, and took his leave, reminding him before departing to rest well tonight and avoid wandering about or violating any taboos.

Jerome was deeply moved. For the first time, he felt his profession and himself were truly valued—by the Academy Supervisor himself, no less, coming personally to offer comfort and acknowledge the significance of historical scholarship.

Compared to leaving a note on the table and expecting others to come on their own, Dunling’s fellow townspeople were far more human.

In high spirits, Jerome had a hearty appetite and couldn’t resist eating two bites of his night snack early; sleepiness rose with his full stomach.

Remembering Raymond’s final warning, he abandoned the idea of going out for a stroll, shoved the manuscripts under his pillow, and blew out the candle, preparing for bed.

A series of rapid footsteps passed by the door and halted nearby, occasionally interrupted by heated, overlapping arguments—likely the professors and lecturers of the Medical Academy, unable to finish their debate in the lecture hall, now carrying it to their dormitories and continuing their battle in the corridor.

One could only marvel at the open atmosphere of the White Tower Monastery; when they discussed topics that in Dunling would have led to immediate execution, they made no effort to lower their voices. Keywords capable of stirring the Inquisition’s imagination echoed through the corridors, clearly audible even inside the rooms.

Beyond research, the most frequently mentioned figure remained the monastery’s master—the famed Grand Master of the Hospital Knights.

Whenever an unsolved problem arose, someone would always hope he might appear and offer directional guidance.

But it had been so long since he last presided over a gathering that even an eyewitness could no longer recall the exact date, only saying it was years ago.

Jerome’s curiosity toward this legendary figure intensified; he strained his ears to overhear the doctors’ discussions about the monastery’s abbot’s health.

His retreat behind the scenes due to illness was a shared consensus. Some believed he’d been infected by lepers during his early medical practice; others thought it a hereditary familial disease; an extreme faction even claimed he’d been poisoned by high church officials—a theory that surprisingly gained considerable support.

After listening for a long while, all accounts remained confined to rumor and speculation, with no factual basis.

The Grand Master had become something akin to the Heavenly Father himself—a being capable of solving all problems, merely restrained by illness and other reasons from appearing.

After a moment of reflection, the crowd began to disperse; voices grew sparse, leaving only a few deeper, steadier tones with distinct accents discussing another matter.

They didn’t deliberately avoid the topic, but out of some consideration, they lowered their voices; through the door, only fragments could be caught, along with a few repeatedly uttered words: “ethics,” “review,” and the like.

These terms often linked to funding and experiments, suggesting some external force beyond the Church was restricting research progress.

The various regulations were extremely complex; the men expressed great confusion, but when the topic turned to the origin of these systems, they fell into a silent understanding—even complaints were absent.

But it seemed a shift was underway: “ethics” grew increasingly ambiguous; “approval” now had room for negotiation. The colossal, unspeakable entity looming above all schools appeared to be contemplating change.

Regardless of the reason behind this change, it was good news for everyone.

The voices outside faded further until a night patrol passed by, ending the conversation entirely.

Jerome closed his eyes, savoring the day’s sights and sounds, ready to sleep—yet his drowsiness had vanished without warning.

He realized he’d missed the optimal time to fall asleep, but fortunately, he had no morning prayers to attend tomorrow; he peacefully embraced the quiet of the night.

His ears became eyes in the darkness, clearly counting his heartbeat. Chaotic thoughts flickered in his mind like fish swimming in clear water, subtly interconnected, yet leaving only fleeting glimpses of scales glinting.

Freed from daytime noise, his consciousness was exceptionally clear; information, like a scattered puzzle, filtered through—some parts dropped, others retrieved—most of all, the coats of arms he had studied.

His solid foundation in heraldry dismantled them into basic patterns, sifted by rigorous textual evidence and leaps of subjective imagination, panning sand for gold, cracking shells for wheat—stripping away later-added embellishments, letting the ancient, stable elements settle.

An inexplicable unease stirred within him, as if walking along a winding path, its curves regular and fluid, each bend continuing the direction of the last. The edges of the path’s soil slightly rose, as if worn and pushed by friction.

He couldn’t fathom how such a vivid association formed, yet he was walking farther along the path, deeper into its heart.

A soft rustling arose from somewhere—first, dragging across sand, then a tight, rhythmic tapping like fingernails on a ceramic cup, rising from low to high, forming a continuous thread: hard objects striking and scraping against stone walls and mortar seams, piece by piece, segment by segment.

Finally, it pressed against a smooth, hard surface, emitting a sustained, blurred hiss; occasionally striking a tiny irregularity, it sent a sharp, brief tremor—like a needle tip touching porcelain glaze.

He realized the sound wasn’t merely imagined—it was crawling across the glass.

Jerome shot upright from bed, scrambling away from the window, struggling several times to unlock the door handle before shouting for help.

This reaction required no thought; some deep-seated fear had seized his body, instinct overriding reason.

The patrol team, still nearby, heard his cry and arrived immediately. Before the shaken cultivator could catch his breath, the room was packed wall-to-wall with gleaming armor and weapons.

Several lanterns illuminated every detail; light passed through the transparent glass window, falling upon the empty windowsill.

The night sky was clean, the White Tower stood silent, its stone pale, its light cold and soundless.

“What happened?”

“Outside the window… it looked like a snake?”

He inexplicably felt the spiral lights on the tower resembled the coiled spine of a serpent.

?? Two captives thrust onto the stage by blood and intrigue, a symbiosis swinging between slaughter and dependence.

? Cyberpunk absurdity, cold beauty and violence, mad entertainment, profound corruption, and a warm undercurrent—a magnificent nightmare.

? Welcome to “The Prisoner’s Game!” The best book I’ve discovered in ages—highly recommended!

??〃????〃?