Chapter 92

"Father of all creation, Giver of life, Savior of mankind, we praise You, for You have bound us together and brought us here..."

The fat priest in white robes stood beside the shallow grave, reciting the eulogy haltingly; his life of wine and meat had made him lax, and he had not realized how rusty he had grown at his once-familiar duties. But even if he misquoted, no one here could tell.

"On this day of sorrow, we gather to bid farewell to this brother who shared in God’s grace. Now he has fallen into peaceful sleep..."

There was no gloomy sky or falling rain to match the mood; stepping out from the dim interior, the sunlight was almost blinding. Only three people were present: the priest, the doctor, and the deceased’s relative.

The men who brought the coffin dug the grave and lowered it in, then left immediately, repelled by the corpse’s ominous appearance. Naturally, there were no friends or family to invite; the awkward eulogy clashed with the hasty funeral, bordering on irony.

Kraft gave the priest several meaningful glances, signaling from the perspective of an outsider whether something was wrong. But the priest kept his eyes fixed on the coffin, straining to recall the next line, desperately avoiding any pause in the prayer—like a student suddenly called upon in class, with no energy left to notice the reactions around him.

He turned his attention instead to Yin Feng’s reaction. Fortunately, she showed no outward sign of disgust, staring at the coffin, lost in thought.

"Returning to the Lord’s embrace, enjoying eternal rest." Perhaps he found his rhythm; his recitation grew smoother, his voice louder, "The Father has accepted his soul, granting us wisdom from Him, revealing the end of man, showing that the day of death is better than the day of birth..."

There was indeed a touch of solemnity now; his round figure seemed for the first time sacred, recalling the feeling of holding sacred scripture in his youth, conveying the beauty of another world to those on earth.

His pace quickened, becoming increasingly formal and composed, "Death is the destiny of all; the living must lay this to heart. This brother’s home was loved by the Father, for he gave his heart to the Lord—pray that He blesses his descendants, grants fortune to his children, and comforts their grief..."

"For this brother has not died, but sleeps, awaiting the day he shall be awakened again. May the Father guard his soul in the years to come, granting him peace, blessing, and joy..."

His chest rose and fell deeply; the long passage had strained his lung capacity. Adrian lifted his head and looked at Yin Feng, earnestly speaking the final line: "And he has ascended into the Lord’s kingdom, the promised land free of sickness and calamity, watching over the people of earth from above."

He picked up the shovel and tossed the first shovelful of earth onto the coffin lid, gasping as he handed the other shovel to Kraft.

Together they shoveled the soil back into the grave and packed it flat, leaving the final shovelful for Yin Feng to complete by hand.

Though young, her hard life had given her decent strength; even with a shovel taller than herself, she kept her balance, scooping just enough dirt from the pile, pouring it into the shallow grave, and smoothing it with the back of the blade.

A flat patch of fresh earth—no tombstone had yet been carved, replaced by a thick wooden board inscribed with writing penned by Kraft himself. The dead man likely didn’t know how to spell his own name, so they had phonetically spelled out a word.

But the name "Yin Feng" had clearly been chosen by someone literate; Kraft remembered how to spell it, and added beneath it: "Father of Yin Feng."

In the terms of an otherworldly soul—social death had been completed. Though he had no notable social ties, and his only blood relative’s future remained uncertain, still standing before the crude wooden tombstone, unsure where to go.

Kraft had never faced such a scene; he wasn’t sure whether to turn away or say something, so he looked to the priest.

Adrian, too, had no idea what to do next; his intention had ended with helping complete the funeral. Beyond that, there was nothing he could do.

Their lingering perhaps misled Yin Feng, or perhaps in her mind, every visitor’s actions must imply some exchange. She stood for a moment, breaking free from the long silence, and spoke up.

"Thank you. May the Lord bless you." She spoke with sincere confusion, "I will try my best to answer your questions, but he truly told me nothing."

"Ah, never mind." Her maturity overwhelmed him; all the words Adrian had prepared dissolved into a sigh before he even spoke.

He had hoped Kraft might find a way to improve her condition—even if she could utter a single word, it would be a breakthrough, pointing them in a direction. But now that the man was dead, even if Yin Feng wished to answer, what use would it be?

Besides, he hadn’t done this for answers. He called to Kraft, ready to leave; the atmosphere here made him feel as if he were breathing melted candle wax, thickening in his windpipe, choking him.

The doctor, useless as he’d been, still kept his gaze fixed on Yin Feng, never once looking away since the beginning.

"Do you often cough?" he asked an irrelevant question, one that emerged from a line of thought neither priest nor girl could follow.

"No, I rarely get sick," Yin Feng replied. Such questions she could answer—unlike those posed to her father lying in bed, questions involving unfamiliar materials and obscure terms.

The doctor paused, then pressed: "What about fever? Do you feel constant fatigue?"

"No."

If she were frequently ill, she might not have survived at all, let alone cared for an adult.

"Thank you. I’m done asking." Kraft reached out, then restrained himself—the urge to examine her physically was inappropriate.

Before leaving, he recalled the priest’s words on the way, and for once calculated the weight of his coin purse, finding an excuse: "Your answers have been useful. As payment, I can offer you work. Come to the church afterward to find me—I’ll be staying with Father Adrian for now."

The priest pulled the doctor away; they had nothing more to say here, and better to leave space for Yin Feng—to let her sit alone in quiet, as her mind required, rather than offer the hollow comfort of an adult.

Back on the main road, the priest checked behind him to ensure no one followed, then shook his head: "This is beyond our reach. We accomplished nothing, and now we’ve taken on another trouble."

"I know." He knew perfectly well—rationally, such cases were countless, hidden everywhere, perhaps even worse. But when one crossed your path and you had the power, to ignore it felt like failing some inner threshold.

Even for Kup, who had brought his own ruin, Kraft would still reach out. Habit had become second nature.

"But there’s one thing I disagree with."

"What?" The priest assumed Kraft was about to lecture him from some moral high ground, but he had no intention of arguing—someone else was willing to take the trouble; a few harsh words were nothing new.

"Today was productive. They told me a great deal."

In the sunlight, the priest felt a chill down his back—Yin Feng... and her father?

"He suffered from severe lung disease, lasting a long time—possibly much longer than his paralysis." Kraft drew a deep breath, lifting his ribs to expand his chest, mimicking the dreadful corpse.

And those nodules scattered through the lungs—he had assumed they were tuberculosis. If so, Yin Feng’s risk of infection would be high, which was why he’d asked those two questions.

The result had ruled out half the possibility. Latent infection couldn’t be dismissed, but Kraft had opened another line of thought: what non-infectious disease could produce similar effects?

Preferably one that struck young, healthy adults with particular severity.

"Not a contagious lung disease, but another mechanism causing widespread lung damage—I suspect inhalation."

Likely inhaled during work, over years, causing irreversible harm to his lungs.

"This thing that damages the lungs—it must be a... dust, and one that’s hard to clean away." In this era, with no advanced industry, the target narrowed steadily.

【Dust Lung】

"Mineral dust—call it stone dust. He worked long-term in a place requiring heavy breathing, where stone dust filled the air. It couldn’t have been a stonemason’s workshop, could it?"

Adrian stared at Kraft, dumbfounded; the same transparent, piercing sensation from that night returned. "A mine..."

"The raw material must be a mineral, mined from some quarry."

It might not be—perhaps Yin Feng’s father had worked in a mine for a few years before serving an alchemist. But Kraft doubted an alchemist would hire someone whose breathing grew increasingly labored and whose labor capacity was declining.

So this was more likely: they had discovered this mineral in a mine, in substantial quantity, otherwise it couldn’t supply the volume of pure glass being produced.

"But the kingdom has so many mines—how do we find it?" The scope was still too broad; Adrian didn’t believe they could search each one.

"Within the last few years, around the time the new glass appeared—that will help us find it." Following the logic, Kraft grew more convinced the causal chain was sound: "They found a way to conceal the mineral’s true purpose, fooling those searching for new materials, so it won’t be easily spotted."

"Add to that the timing of the cathedral’s stained-glass windows being completed—and the mine suddenly ceasing operations..." Adrian wasn’t stupid; he identified another possible trait. Few mines would match both criteria.

The trail had emerged. And this was Hegang—the most favored stop along the kingdom’s waterways, where sailors gathered. They brought more than just circulating gold—they brought rumors, true or false, vast in quantity.

"Get me a few more bottles of wine. I’ll go ask those men." There was always a drunken priest who drank with every passing captain—he wouldn’t lack for conversation.

The only question remaining: why had that mine suddenly stopped operating?