Chapter 60: Chapter Fifty-Nine: Sacrilege

Li Si ton examined several other books on the desk; none concerned pharmacology—each was an older, more obscure treatise on human anatomy.

After the emergence of *Human Anatomy*, these older, poorly evidenced works gradually vanished from all academies, surviving only in the collections of the elderly—and even there, merely as relics of a bygone age, rarely consulted or discussed.

The oldest among them was likely contemporary with Li Si ton’s grandfather; its paper was yellowed and brittle, nearly snapping as he turned the page. He had to gently lift each leaf, pressing it open evenly with his palm to turn to the next.

Among these books, this one came closest to the truth—its content was rigorous and orderly; even this single section resembled *Human Anatomy*, lacking only final empirical validation. Strangely, Li Si ton had never heard of it.

The title page bore the imprint of Dunling University’s collection—perhaps even the sole original copy. Even if now useless, it held landmark significance. Was it careless to leave such a precious volume lying open like this?

After material degradation, the book’s own weight was enough to crush its spine when opened, warping and cracking it, causing the cover to shift. Repair would destroy its original form; neglect would eventually scatter its pages across the floor.

With a pang of sorrow, he closed it, deciding to let the spine rest for a while before returning it to its place when he left. Though purely self-consolation, at least he hadn’t stood idly by as a vital text deteriorated before his eyes.

As the final page fell, something familiar flashed across his vision—so familiar he nearly doubted it was a hallucination caused by dim light.

He sharply flipped open the last page.

There, centered on the paper, unhidden and boldly displayed, was a cervical vertebra bearing a smile.

“Edward?”

The symbol was so distinctive that any beginner who had seen *Human Anatomy* could never forget it. The only difference was that this book’s emblem bore no Edward signature.

Thus, it was perfectly reasonable Li Si ton had never heard of it. This book was likely Edward’s work prior to his masterpiece *Human Anatomy*, overshadowed and eclipsed by the latter, leaving no chance for dissemination—its rarity likely exceeded his wildest imagination.

No wonder Dunling University dared lend out such a book—what vast treasures must its library hold?

After daydreaming for a long while, Li Si ton realized he had drifted off again. The shock he’d received in the professor’s study had once more erased his purpose—he’d completely forgotten why he’d come.

Running his fingers over the book’s cover, Li Si ton felt a faint, almost shameful urge to take it with him.

No, that was impossible.

He shook the thought from his mind and returned to his original plan: to find evidence and motive linking the professor to the Clearing Incident.

But as things stood, the professor hadn’t been tinkering with pharmaceuticals lately—he’d inexplicably devised an entirely new theory of muscular and skeletal growth, directly contradicting established anatomical findings.

The questions hadn’t been resolved; they’d multiplied. The unprecedented combination clearly wasn’t human in origin, nor did it resemble any conceivable new surgical technique. It emphasized extreme practicality, exploiting the locomotor system with mechanical efficiency.

It seemed plausible—but if it wasn’t derived from humans nor intended for humans, yet consisted entirely of human parts, how could anyone conceive of it?

Such a radical departure couldn’t arise from a fleeting inspiration; it required years of contemplation—or a prototype to reference, with existing research filling in the details.

Li Si ton opened the book again, returning to the section the professor had been reading, searching for traces of its sources.

As a seasoned professional in this field, he had no trouble discerning the clues upon close reading.

According to the old text, the gap between its descriptions and reality stemmed from the author’s idealized notion of “efficiency.” Compared to certain “unintelligent” actual structures, the author positioned muscles and bones in locations that allowed for greater force generation.

In other words, under the same gross outline, Edward’s original vision allowed the locomotor system to be far more functional.

Under this guiding principle, certain elements in the illustrations deviated visibly from reality, arranged directly according to “ideal form.”

The attitude—disregarding logic, rejecting reality, pursuing only utility—mirrored the professor’s own “new structure” exactly. Both treated biological tissues as components, designing a perfect, functional “machine.”

That was the best term he could find—only deliberately engineered things approached such extreme utility. Natural organisms, no matter how strong or intelligent, inevitably carried inherent, unchangeable flaws.

A non-human entity built from human parts? It was absurdly fantastical.

Yet the unsettling realism of that sketch lingered in his mind, convincing him it might truly exist—or had been drawn from direct observation of something real.

As he turned further, at the chapter’s end—where a conclusion should have been—lay an unnameable limb.

Unlike Karlman’s sketches, this hand-drawn illustration was exquisitely detailed, combining all prior “perfect” structural fantasies into a single elongated, limb-like form, detached from terrestrial animal morphology, capable of unrestricted motion.

As if the author’s personal obsession, granting it independent life: between muscle and bone, organs and vessels were placed with perfect precision.

In the faint, pale shadow behind it, the limb twisted at unnatural angles, maximizing the range of its assembled joints, astonishingly supple.

This posture reminded Li Si ton of aquatic mollusk tentacles, severed and curling, expanding on a cutting board—yet it was unmistakably a recombination of the most familiar structures, twisted from common sense into a “perfect,” grotesque limb.

Or perhaps this was how skeletal and muscular tissue was meant to grow—and the human body was the malformed waste?

Beside the unannotated manuscript lay marginalia in handwriting utterly unlike the author’s—its phrasing sharper than the ink carved into the paper.

“Madman without logic, delusional fantasy, act of sacrilege...”

The writer seemed to have vented his fury in writing; even across centuries, the hostility remained palpable, the rage so intense it chose the most violent words to attack a single illustration.

A fresh stroke of ink slashed through the entire passage of furious text. For some reason, Li Si ton sensed in it casual disdain—as if the professor routinely deleted entire pages of incompetent student submissions.

In the tone of a reviewer, Karlman wrote briefly beneath:

The ordinary person can never comprehend what the genius sees.

What did that mean?

In his words, Professor Karlman placed himself on the same side as Edward, looking down with contempt upon the man who had condemned the bizarre illustration.

What “genius sees”? Li Si ton’s first thought was the chapter’s anatomical conjectures—structures approaching perfect efficiency.

But he quickly dismissed it. As someone who’d attended the professor’s secret dissections, Li Si ton knew Karlman accepted only knowledge verified by direct observation and hands-on practice—the current version of *Human Anatomy*. Why would he pursue some nonexistent “perfect” structure?

Li Si ton felt he was grasping something—chaotic clues and deductions swirling in his mind, one thread pulling him toward an unthinkable direction.

Like groping in darkness along a long, winding corridor, a sudden flash of insight pierced his vision.

Karlman would never embrace unprovable, ethereal theories—unless...

Unless “sees” meant literally.

【Sacrilege...】

Within the Church’s unshakable ideological dominance, clergy claimed humans were God’s most perfect creation—even the most hostile skeptics had to accept this.

After all, in today's world, no one could explain why only humans possessed both intelligent thought and dexterous limbs—both indispensable, as if naturally designed to use this body to wield wisdom and let wisdom command the body.

People could only acknowledge a higher, ultimate being who held the power to create life.

But this creation usurped that power, treating God’s proudest work as building blocks—dismantling and reassembling them into something better.

If it truly existed, where would that leave God? Where would it leave all common understanding?

The professor and Edward had seen it with their own eyes and drawn structures no one else could imagine. Merely its existence would shatter every social consensus built on religion and universal belief—implying that humanity’s entire lifetime of learning amounted to less than a fraction of what this thing understood about the power of creation.

Where had the professor seen it? Where had Edward, writing his masterpiece in Dunling, confronted it?

A feeling—neither fear nor joy—rushed into his mind. In that moment, Li Si ton felt he could abandon everything without hesitation to pursue this object, solely for the sake of this goal beyond all known reality.

Then, thoughts connected, clues linked, questions answered.

It was the answer—the reason Karlman had ignored morality, emotion, ethics to commit his horrific acts.

What fortune—for the man who abandoned Dunling for his work, who devoted his entire life to this pursuit—had found his ultimate answer.

No longer caring for secrecy, Li Si ton flung open the window, letting sunlight flood the room. He needed to examine every clue, complete the full picture of the incident.

But in the blinding brightness, what had been hidden in darkness now revealed itself.

One after another, circular symbols, painted in dull pigment, covered the walls and floor, woven through a labyrinth of cracked patterns.

The iconic, horizontal fissure splitting each symbol cleanly through its center.