Chapter 87: Drinking Harms the Body

Adrian’s wine cup halted midway to his lips; his right hand, lightly pressed against his ribs, moved up and down until he found the spot Kraft mentioned.

“How do you know that?”

The abdominal pain had plagued him for days—not only had his appetite dwindled, but his love for wine had also suffered.

As for his yellowish complexion, he hadn’t noticed it; after all, his lifestyle was never good to begin with, and he only cared about his appearance when stepping outside, never thinking his face looked particularly healthy.

“Moreover, I know you often feel overheated, have red spider-like moles on your skin, prominent dilated veins around your navel, and permanently reddened palms.” Kraft rattled off a string of symptoms, took a breath, and continued his analysis.

“You often suffer upper abdominal pain after meals, a burning sensation, and your stools are black.”

Adrian subtly pulled his neck in, clutching his abdomen with both hands, feeling his white robe no longer offered any cover—his body laid bare under that piercing gaze.

William looked at him in confusion, seeking confirmation; the priest’s stunned expression unmistakably proved Kraft’s accuracy.

He struggled to roll up his white robe sleeve, revealing his upper arm: the red spots were surrounded by fine red threads branching like spider legs, vanishing deep into the skin, as if red spiders had burrowed beneath.

If others were merely surprised, Adrian’s expression bordered on terror; he asked, voice trembling, “Is this all because of my drinking?”

“Yes, it’s caused by excessive alcohol consumption.” Kraft was surprised the priest was so perceptive—he’d expected to spend much longer explaining the mechanism. With current medical knowledge, he couldn’t articulate the physiological and biochemical processes behind palmar erythema or spider angiomas.

Hearing his suspicion confirmed, the priest’s reaction was far too strong—he slumped back in his chair, face etched with sorrow. “I knew this day would come. Tell me, who are you?”

“Let me introduce myself—I’m Kraft Wood, newly appointed lecturer at the Wen Deng Harbor Academy’s Medical College. Pleased to meet you.” Kraft was puzzled too; they’d barely reached the point of revealing the diagnosis, hadn’t even mentioned the consequences yet—why was the patient on the verge of tears?

Pushing himself up from the overburdened chair, the priest sat upright, patted his chest, and lifted the wine cup from the table to take a sip, calming his nerves.

“Hey, don’t drink! Didn’t you hear?” William rushed to grab his hand, but couldn’t stop the priest—another gulp of strong liquor went down.

The priest smoothed his white robe over chest and abdomen, exhaled, and poured himself another full cup. “That scared me half to death—I thought you were… ah.”

“What?”

“Don’t say it, don’t say it.” The priest waved his hand, signaling he didn’t want to discuss it further. Though his demeanor was unorthodox, he had once received proper theological training; drinking didn’t stop him from remembering sacred tales.

When a man who seemed to see everything stood before him, claiming his sins against doctrine had caused all his physical abnormalities, the scene was too familiar—it had been played out countless times in sacred stories.

Without doubt, the next words would be something like, “Your time has come.” Adrian had feared he’d sinned too deeply—that he wouldn’t even wait for posthumous judgment, and now a servant of the Heavenly Father had descended to confront him.

“Ah, from the Medical College? Good, very good.” Better than anything from above or below—anything else was welcome.

Seeing alcohol poured into the priest’s stomach made Kraft feel phantom pain—he likely had gastric ulcers too. “Father, I must warn you—your condition is not optimistic.”

“Do you feel your abdomen swelling too quickly? Simple weight gain wouldn’t cause this distension—that’s fluid accumulating inside.” Seeing Adrian still didn’t grasp the gravity, Kraft emphasized, “You may not have noticed shortness of breath or palpitations, but your mobility is certainly affected.”

The mention of fluid in the abdomen struck a chord with the priest—especially the part about water inside. Walking around with a swollen belly was inconvenient, and when he tapped his belly, he’d sometimes sensed a liquid sloshing, though he couldn’t see it, so he’d never been sure.

“If you don’t mind, I can examine you to confirm—it won’t cause injury or pain.”

“That would be perfect—go ahead,” William said, genuinely concerned for the priest and curious how one could “see” fluid in the belly. The near-precognitive insight had made a deep impression and quickly built trust.

The two helped the priest lie down on the bed; a brief glance exchanged between them gave Kraft a moment to observe the priest’s eyes—his sclera were faintly yellowed, like porcelain left unwashed for years.

[Scleral icterus]

Jaundice caused by liver dysfunction—elevated bilirubin in the blood stains skin and sclera. Skin discoloration might be hard to judge due to individual variation, but the sclera were easier to observe.

Kraft asked the priest to bend his knees, pulled his white robe up to his chest, and exposed his distended abdomen—even William and Kup, complete laymen, could see something was wrong.

Around the navel, purple-blue veins, shaped like sea serpent heads, twisted and dilated, crawling across the abdominal wall, swelling and contracting with each breath. The skin felt fragile, as if it might rupture at any moment, spilling the contained fluid.

“Hah, probably divine punishment—just came a bit late.” The priest gave a bitter laugh. With so many ailments and his spirit declining daily, he didn’t need a doctor to tell him his condition was grim.

He pressed his left middle finger against the abdominal wall and tapped the second phalanx of his right middle finger—the upper abdomen emitted a hollow, drum-like sound. “Remember that tone.”

Kraft shifted his tapping position sideways, gradually moving from high to low. The rhythmic drumming abruptly changed at a certain height—suddenly entering another environment, the sound turned dull and low.

Like falling into water, fluid filling the ear canal, replacing the light drumming with muffled, indistinct tones—the fluid behind the skin oscillated.

“Turn over.” Kraft instructed the priest to roll onto his side on the recliner, with the previously tapped side uppermost. His finger remained pressed on the exact spot where the tone had changed; once the priest was settled, he tapped again.

The dull sound shifted back to a drum-like tone, signaling that the fluid in the abdominal cavity had moved downward with the change in posture.

“Did you hear that? A large sack of fluid is inside you—it moves. Obvious, isn’t it?”

The presence of fluid was revealed through sound—Adrian’s panicked expression told Kraft he now understood exactly what was happening inside his belly.

“It should have flowed through your liver via the vessels.” His fingertip traced the congested, dilated abdominal veins—these were merely the visible fraction; unseen pools of stagnant blood swelled in the gastric fundus, esophagus, rectum, and spleen.

The gastric and esophageal veins were already high-risk zones for rupture and massive bleeding; compounded by alcohol-induced gastrointestinal ulcers, Adrian might die of uncontrollable gastrointestinal hemorrhage long before liver failure ever set in.

“Strong liquor has damaged your liver—blood can’t flow through easily; the rising pressure forces fluid from your vessels into your abdomen, where it doesn’t belong—like people turned away from church on Feast Day heading back to the harbor district.”