Chapter 60: Chapter Fifty-Nine: Sacrilege

Li Si looked through several other books on the desk—none related to pharmacology; all were older, more obscure treatises on human anatomy.

After "Human Anatomy" emerged, these older, poorly evidenced works gradually vanished from academic institutions, surviving only in the collections of the elderly.

The oldest among them might have dated back to Li Si's grandfather's generation; 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 reality—its content rigorous and orderly; even this single section resembled "Human Anatomy," lacking only final empirical validation. Strangely, Li Si had never heard of it.

The title page bore the mark of Dunling University's collection—perhaps even the original sole copy. Even now devoid of practical value, it held landmark significance. Was it careless to leave such a precious volume lying open?

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; leaving it unrepaired would eventually scatter it across the floor.

With a pang of sorrow, he closed it, deciding to let the spine rest for a while, returning it to its original position before leaving. 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 by—so familiar Li Si nearly doubted it was a hallucination from the dim light.

He sharply flipped open the last page.

There, centered on the paper, was a cervical vertebra with a smile, unhidden, boldly asserting its presence.

"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 symbol bore no Edward signature.

Thus, it was reasonable Li Si had never heard of it. This book was likely Edward's work before composing his magnum opus "Human Anatomy," overshadowed and surpassed by the latter, leaving no chance to circulate—its rarity likely far exceeded his imagination.

No wonder Dunling University dared lend out such a book—what an immense collection must its library hold?

After daydreaming for a long while, Li Si realized he had drifted off again. The shock he'd received in the professor's study had made him forget his purpose, completely abandoning his original mission.

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

No, that was impossible.

He shook off the distraction, returning to his original plan: he was here to find evidence and motive linking the professor to the Clearing Incident.

But as things stood, the professor had not been tinkering with potions lately—instead, he'd inexplicably devised an entirely new theory of muscle and bone growth, directly contradicting established anatomical findings.

The questions hadn't been resolved; they'd multiplied. The unprecedented combination clearly wasn't human, nor did it resemble any conceivable new surgical technique. It emphasized extreme practicality, efficiently exploiting the locomotor system from a mechanical perspective.

It made a certain sense—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 leap in thinking couldn't arise from a fleeting inspiration; it required years of deliberation—or a prototype to reference, with existing research filling in the details.

Li Si opened the book, flipped back to the professor's marked section, searching for traces of its sources.

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

In the old book's description, the gap between its content and reality stemmed from the author's imagination of "efficiency." Compared to certain "less intelligent" 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 parts of the illustrations deviated visibly from reality, arranged directly according to "ideal states."

This attitude—disregarding logic, rejecting reality, pursuing only utility—mirrored the professor's own "new structure" exactly. Both treated biological tissues as components, designing a perfectly functional "machine."

That was the best term he could find—only deliberately crafted things tended toward extreme practicality. Natural organisms, no matter how strong or intelligent, inevitably bore inherent, unchangeable flaws.

A non-human entity built from "human parts" seemed wildly 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 Li Si turned further, at the chapter's end—where a conclusion should have been—lay an unimaginable limb.

Unlike Karlman's sketch, this hand-drawn illustration was exquisitely detailed, combining all prior imagined "perfect" structures into a long, slender limb, detached from terrestrial animal form, capable of unrestricted movement.

As if the author favored it, granting it independent life: between muscle and bone, organs and vessels were precisely placed.

In the faint, pale shadow behind it, the limb twisted at unnatural angles, maximizing joint mobility with extraordinary flexibility.

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

Or perhaps this was how muscle and bone were meant to grow—and the human body was the malformed waste?

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

"Madman without logic, delusional fantasy, act of sacrilege…"

The writer seemed to have vented fury in words; even across centuries, the hostility remained faintly visible, so enraged he chose the most violent terms to attack a single illustration.

A fresh ink stroke slashed through the furious passage. For some reason, Li Si sensed casual disdain in it—like the professor dismissing a student's worthless paper, erasing entire pages of nonsense.

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 phrasing, Professor Karlman placed himself on the same side as Edward, looking down with contempt at the man who had condemned the bizarre illustration.

What "genius sees"? Li Si's first thought was the chapter's anatomical structures—near-perfect efficiency.

He quickly dismissed it. As someone who had attended the professor's secret dissection classes, Li Si knew Karlman accepted only knowledge verified by direct observation and hands-on practice—the current version of "Human Anatomy." Why would he pursue such an impossible "perfect" structure?

Li Si felt he was grasping something—chaotic clues and reasoning tangled 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 lit his vision.

Karlman would never favor unprovable, ethereal theories—unless…

Unless "sees" meant literally.

【Sacrilege…】

In the Church's unshakable ideological dominance, clergy claimed humans were God's most perfect creation—even the most hostile could not deny 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 govern the flesh.

People could only acknowledge a higher ultimate being, holding 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, drawing structures no one else could imagine. Merely its existence would shatter every social consensus built on religion and conventional knowledge, 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 magnum opus in Dunling, confronted it?

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

Afterwards, his thoughts connected, the clues linked together, and the question found its answer.

It was the answer, the very reason that allowed Professor Kalman to ignore morality, emotion, and ethics to commit terrible acts.

What a stroke of luck, for the man who abandoned Dunling life for his career, the man who devoted his entire life to it, to finally find the ultimate answer he sought.

No longer caring about maintaining secrecy, Li Si pushed open the window, letting sunlight flood into the room. He needed to review all the clues as quickly as possible to complete the full picture of the events.

Yet, in the glaring, bright light, things previously hidden in the darkness were revealed.

They were circular symbols painted in dull paint on the walls and floors, one after another, covered in a network of intersecting crack patterns.

The signature horizontal crack that split them in half ran straight through the center of each symbol.