Chapter 63

When Kraft emerged from the room carrying several books, the box had already been transferred to Lu Xiusi's hands. Li Sidun leaned one hand against the wall, looking exhausted but still staring intently at them.

"Indeed." Kraft placed the books into the box, agreeing with his sentiment. "I read what you mentioned—the professor is doing strange things, conducting unusual research."

Addressing Li Sidun, and effectively also Lu Xiusi, Kraft paused, then continued with a more neutral assessment:

"You know, people sometimes lose their minds—like someone with a terminal illness suddenly seeing a glimmer of hope, willing to try anything, no matter how absurd."

"And for many intelligent people, there are things more important than life or pleasure—they value these goals so highly they'll use any means, pay any price, whether it's themselves or others."

A long silence followed. Perhaps everyone had anticipated it, but when the moment truly arrived, it still took time to accept that this person was the source of it all.

Li Sidun changed the subject, turning to the matter itself. "So what exactly are these things? Some kind of malevolent spirit?"

"The good news is it's not a malevolent spirit."

In the Church's view, all supernatural powers—except those explicitly granted by God as described in the Sacred Texts—are tools of demons and malevolent spirits, tempting people into sin. The professor's actions oddly aligned with this doctrine.

The bad news is, it might be far worse than a malevolent spirit—and I can't even comprehend its logic. I only know that Professor Kalman wants to obtain something revolutionary through this method.

"Even at the cost of so many lives?" Lu Xiusi shuddered, slamming the lid shut on the box, sealing the books inside.

He had spent the most time with the professor among the three, and believed he understood him deeply—from the broad direction of his research down to how many spoons of honey he liked in his tea.

The stark contrast shattered the image he held in his mind. After encountering this thing, the professor before leaving had undergone a transformation—a completely unfamiliar person had been born within the same shell, and he had noticed nothing during their days together.

Even standing right before it, he had no desire to open those books and discover what had corrupted the professor. At least for now, Lu Xiusi still believed some principles must rise above all else.

Lu Xiusi turned away, handing the box to Kraft. "See you tomorrow. I think I need to go be alone."

The figure in the black robe walked away into the blood-red twilight, steps light and strong, just as Kraft had first seen him on Saint Simon Square.

Only Kraft and Li Sidun remained. The latter, having just recovered from the mental shock, sighed: "Lu Xiusi probably doesn't realize what he's missed. Do you think he'll regret it later? When he's older and finds he's reached his limit?"

He spoke of Lu Xiusi, but he didn't look at the retreating back—he fixed his gaze on Kraft, watching his reaction, or rather, questioning and doubting himself through Kraft.

"I don't know. I'm still young. I've got plenty of time to think about this." Kraft was never good at reading people, let alone predicting them from adolescence to old age. He couldn't answer, so he answered with a question: "Why did you come to medical school originally?"

"Uh… hard to say. Maybe because of my father's influence?" Li Sidun hadn't expected Kraft to bring this up.

"Don't laugh, but he was one of those 'outside' doctors—you know what I mean? Spent his whole life dealing with sailors and laborers, until one day he realized his barber shop had no future, and he was too old to change paths. So he spent most of his savings to send me here."

"Barber shop?" This was the first time Kraft had ever heard Li Sidun speak of his past. That path was truly unconventional.

Li Sidun didn't feel embarrassed—he laughed himself. He rarely talked about his family at the academy; having someone to share this with lifted his spirits a little.

"Yes. Before 'Human Anatomy' appeared, surgery was like this—or rather, there was no such thing as 'surgery.' It was just legally sanctioned amputation with knives and branding irons. Hard to say whether leaving wounds untreated killed faster, or amputation did."

"He thought it had no future. He wanted me to study at the academy, to at least do better than he did. Honestly, after more than ten years of study and trial, I don't think I've surpassed him much."

Speaking of this, Li Sidun made no effort to hide his dissatisfaction, shaking his head. "Wound rot, pus, amputations too short, secondary amputations from deteriorating conditions—the mortality rates aren't even worth calculating. And the surgical time problem, solvable only by clarity, severely limits everyone's ability—and now it's unsolvable."

He described these insurmountable barriers in a calm tone—the bloody wounds, the necrotic lesions—he'd seen too many since childhood. Unless something changed, he'd have to keep seeing them for many more years.

Patients clutched the Winged Ring amulet, sprinkled holy water on wounds, and those with means hired clergy to recite prayers. From initial rejection, he'd grown indifferent. Sometimes he felt the clinic resembled a small chapel.

His father's words still echoed: Do better. But the more he studied, the more deeply he realized how difficult it was to go further. Limitations in treatment, societal rejection of his methods—all left him seeing no hope.

"Over all these years, has there been any real improvement? I don't think so. Even if Edward were resurrected, he couldn't solve it. Open the last page—this book was written by him too."

"Huh?"

"To go further… they've all walked this path." Li Sidun sighed deeply. "To be honest, I understand them. I can't lie to myself—I couldn't promise I'd refuse, if one day I were given the same chance as Lu Xiusi."

Kraft listened quietly to his account, offering no moral judgment. "Go further, then use it to save more people. That sounds logical enough?"

"Yes."

"Why save more people?" Kraft pressed further.

Li Sidun froze. The question was unreasonable. Talking about morality felt wrong; appealing to common sense was impossible.

"The essence of this question is that you see yourself as a higher being, capable of assigning value to life by quantity. But to something beyond society, beyond ethics, what special meaning does human life hold?"

He tapped the box. The heavy books inside emitted a dull thud. "And I have hope for the future—I believe we can achieve it without this path. Even if it takes a long time—so long that sand grinds away the names and epitaphs on our tombstones."

Kraft had witnessed medicine advancing at an unbelievable pace. New technologies replaced older ones faster than electronics, every field evolving daily, clear paths laid out before him. He felt neither confusion nor fear—he knew every bit of his work accelerated that day's arrival.

The world lacked the foundational knowledge. Too early exposure would only produce isolated, poorly understood miracles.

His near-blind confidence made Li Sidun envious, subtly shifting his focus, softening his doubts about himself and the future.

"So certain?"

"If it never happens, you can come to heaven—or hell—if they exist—and point at my nose and curse me for not letting someone trade lives for knowledge." Kraft joked. "Of course, by then I won't admit I was wrong."

He slung the box onto his shoulder, paid Li Sidun for the supplies, and took his leave. At the street corner, he flagged down a passing cargo cart, negotiated the driver's final delivery of the day, and rode it back to his new home on Elm Street.

After he left, the workers moved the items upstairs as instructed, including the tiny wooden boat—barely big enough for one person to sit in—placed beside the bed in the attic.

From the first floor, he barred the front door and every window, hanging bells.

Large bear traps were pried open and arranged one by one at the door and windows. Thick finger-width chains were hammered into walls and floors with long iron nails, set to bear-trap standards.

An animal weighing four or five times a human's weight stepping on one would never return. The interlocking iron teeth could embed directly into bone, rupture vessels—any creature with a nervous system would die in agony and blood loss. Given the thing's preference for human tissue, it almost certainly had one.

After securing doors and windows, Kraft still didn't feel safe enough. He randomly placed the remaining traps along the hallway and stairs.

As backup, he had several harpoons—fishing tools resembling short spears, but with no intention of being pulled out. Their fearsome barbs were designed for sailors to spear sharks.

Kraft tested one against the wooden wall—he could never pull it free. The rest were tied to pillars in every room, lest whoever pulled it end up dragged away. The last man who got pulled off his boat by a big fish was still mocked in the tavern.

Boxes of fish oil were brought out and neatly lined up beside the bed. Several flint stones, fire strikers, firepans, torches, and oil-soaked cloth as tinder.

Once it was immobilized, the fish oil would take effect—here, fragility became an advantage of the cheap ceramic jars. Toss, shatter, then ignite.

As before: no human organization has ever withstood this. Even if its bones contained significant organic matter, the lucky ones might leave behind relics—assuming it could produce any.

The most expensive items were several iron chains, stretched across doorways and hallways, making them impassable to anything larger than a human. Bells hung from them too—now it couldn't pass silently through any interior passage.

If all else failed, these setups would buy him time—to meet the shattered celestial body, and bring himself back.

Carrying a candlestick, Kraft walked the entire space, memorizing every setup, etching it into his mind. Satisfied, he crawled under the large bed in the attic, hugged his sword, and closed his eyes. On the bed lay a human-shaped bundle of bedding packed with iron nails and broken wood.

It could no longer roam freely, causing chaos. Against such insidious, shadowy things, you strike hard—make it taste human malice.