CH-035

Shu Li didn't get back to his residence until past ten o'clock at night.

First letting Leslie calm down, then seeing him home. Shu Li figured that if the boy refused to go, he could only find a constable to escort him back. After all, he could not casually take a random child off the street back to his own residence — even with a stray cat, one wouldn't be so careless, let alone with someone of such a significant background.

After seeing Leslie off, he and Finnian browsed a nearby small market for a bit. At nine-thirty, he sent Finnian back to the Schneider Bread Shop. At the time, Band and Sona were still working out how to open for business the next day. After exchanging a few words, Shu Li headed back to his own lodgings.

Approaching eleven o'clock, there was still no sign of Herens returning.

Shu Li left a lamp burning for him and began reviewing the evening's events in his mind.

Because he had suddenly realized one crucial thing — the novel's plot had never mentioned Leslie attending his father Claude's wedding. In the novel, after Leslie was suspected of being a demon, his father Claude came to Savoie pastoral district and resolved the whole affair in one fell swoop. That was to say, before Leslie entered military school, he had no particular connection or interaction with his parents, stepmother, or stepbrothers — let alone anything like attending a wedding.

Now his fate had developed a small fork in the road — would this trigger the butterfly effect?

Shu Li thought it through more carefully, and the matter should have begun with "his father Claude never coming to Savoie pastoral district at all." Or perhaps Claude had in fact appeared once, and Shu Li simply didn't know about it?

Shu Li didn't know — he had no god's-eye perspective, and by now wasn't paying much attention to the novel's plot anyway.

Having reached no conclusion, he turned his thoughts to the ailing Leslie.

A low fever wasn't necessarily serious — it could be from irregular routines, or diet, or weather changes and unfamiliar water, or of course emotional causes. As long as things were adjusted, and it didn't turn into a recurring high fever, it would be fine.

Besides, the subject in question was still the male lead, Leslie. Shu Li wasn't worried Leslie would come to any great harm.

It was just that when a person's mood was poor, their spirits were easily depleted — and so while Finnian was keeping Leslie company so he wouldn't be alone, Shu Li had gone to a nearby restaurant and bought a bowl of hot vegetable soup, put it in a wooden cup and brought it out.

When Shu Li came back, he found Finnian sitting cross-legged on the grass eating mango out of boredom, while Leslie lay resting against a tree trunk, with the jacket Shu Li had previously told Band to give to Finnian draped over him as a makeshift blanket.

Faced with the warm soup being handed over, Leslie only drank one sip and refused to drink more, but was still urged into drinking two or three more sips.

After resting for about thirty minutes, Shu Li raised the idea of walking Leslie home.

He had wondered before why Leslie was always so unwilling to stay at home, always wandering outside — back in Savoie pastoral district it was like this, and in Carson City, a place he didn't know, it was the same. Later, this too became quickly clear.

Because when there was no one he wanted to see at home, he didn't want to face a lonely self; and additionally because there were people at home he disliked, and so he didn't want to stay there.

When Shu Li made this suggestion, he had also anticipated that Leslie might refuse. After all, he knew all about childish stubbornness and self-respect. But he also knew a child's weak point — his father.

"I'll take you back first — you don't necessarily have to go inside the house," Shu Li had packaged the persuasion as a concession. "Maybe you'll happen to run into your father, and if there's something you want to say to him, you can say it then."

Finnian also chimed in with reverse psychology: "The duke comes from a military background — if he sees you looking so limp and soft, he'll definitely be displeased."

Leslie, stung by that comment, agreed to go back.

Shu Li didn't know what Leslie's life would be like going forward. In the novel, he had been imprisoned in the dungeon of Savoie pastoral district, and after this Carson City wedding, he should be leaving with his family members and moving away from Savoie pastoral district. But at least it was better than being tormented in the dungeon until his hair turned white from suffering.

Shu Li didn't continue thinking about Leslie — instead he began thinking about the Schneider Bread Shop. If the business went well, Shu Li was thinking of giving Elder Yager's daughter Cecelia a chance to experience city life, rather than being confined day after day to land and fields, or spending every day busy with household chores. He didn't know what Cecelia herself would think. In truth, Shu Li had thought about bringing Cecelia along on this trip to Carson City to give her a taste of city life. Not to make her choose, but to give her the opportunity to have a choice. After all, not everyone would like city life — maybe after coming once, Cecelia would feel that Savoie pastoral district was where she most belonged. But at least she'd have seen it once herself.

The reason he hadn't brought it up was that the rooms provided to priests might be limited. He wouldn't feel comfortable having Cecelia share a room with himself, and he also couldn't just ask Finnian's family outright to host Cecelia. Equally, Shu Li had thought about Weya and Xia, but they were too young, and he couldn't manage two young children alone without looking after them properly — so he'd only considered coming by himself.

After a moment of thought, Shu Li began to feel a little drowsy, so he lay down and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night he was roused by a sound, and opening his eyes, saw Herens quietly moving to blow out the lamp. He didn't make a point of greeting him — just glanced briefly and went back to sleep.

In the morning, Shu Li woke earlier than Herens. After neatly folding his blankets, he went to the washroom to wash up and ran into another priest in passing. They exchanged nods of greeting but neither felt an urgency to start conversation, so neither did.

In any case, tomorrow was July fifth, and all the clergy from the ecclesiastical district would gather to meet and hold a meeting — there would be time enough then to meet and get acquainted.

He had planned to go to the bread shop first to check on things and see if there was anything he could help with.

As it happened, right as he was eating breakfast in the dining hall, he ran into Father Symeon.

Worth noting: the early breakfast provided by the Carson City cathedral was not particularly tasty — plain whole wheat bread and unseasoned oatmeal with milk, with some sliced fresh fruit on the side.

The ingredients looked better than what Savoie pastoral district used, but the flavor fell far short. Shu Li inwardly criticized the dining hall's cook for not having a passion for cooking. Think about it — in China, how many temples had attracted large numbers of non-believers purely because of how good their vegetarian dishes were. Just from the fragrance alone, people's faith could waver. It went without saying that the food at the public mass would be nothing to look forward to either.

Such criticism notwithstanding, when Shu Li needed to eat a full meal, he would still eat a proper full meal. He asked the kitchen for a knob of butter — not a particularly precious ingredient, so if you mentioned it to the kitchen staff, they'd generally provide it if they were inclined.

Shu Li spread a layer of smooth butter across the whole wheat bread. The butter met the heat and softened slightly, seeping into the bread's texture. The originally coarse, stiff bread edges immediately became yielding and moist. With one bite, the wholesome, pure grain fragrance mingled with the milky richness of the butter and spread through the mouth, the lingering taste carrying a gentle sweet-saltiness — as gentle and enveloping as morning light warming the palate.

Among the small fruits at hand — sweet and refreshing little pieces — beyond the apple slices and a small cluster of sweet-sour grapes, what Shu Li most enjoyed were a handful of plump, full raspberries, brimming with juice. In crunch, sweetness, and fragrance, they were the undisputed sovereign of that little array of small fruits. If Shu Li had a tail, raspberries were exactly the sort of good thing that would have him eating and wagging his tail simultaneously.

"Father Alistair, did you arrive yesterday at noon? When did you arrive?" Father Symeon greeted him first.

Shu Li was grateful that he always ate in small bites, never wolfing things down — which had spared him the scenario of having a mouthful of food when someone suddenly wanted to chat.

Shu Li had almost failed to recognize Father Symeon. Compared to the gaunt, withered Father Symeon from before, his complexion was now much improved, and even the previously white hair seemed to have a few black threads emerging from it.

Shu Li also greeted him and said: "I didn't arrive until last night — I went to Finnian's aunt's house as a guest afterward and didn't realize you'd arrived already."

Saying this, Shu Li couldn't help observing his mental state and felt genuine happiness for him: "Father Symeon, it's been some time since we last saw each other. You look much more spirited than before!"

Father Symeon couldn't help smiling: "It's all thanks to Father Alistair — even after you left, you still sent barley tea."

Barley tea was a grain tea made by brewing roasted or baked barley in hot water. Its fragrance carried a warm, toasty quality with a mellow, gently sweet aftertaste. It was the height of summer, and barley tea could relieve the heat and restore energy — good for the mind and spirit, better than plain water, so after roasting barley, he had shared it with Elder Yager and with Band the village head's family, and also had a postal courier deliver some to Father Symeon.

From his response, Shu Li could sense Father Symeon's inner transformation. In truth, after the miracle appeared in Stonehollow pastoral district, everything had begun to improve. Many outside faithful had come to witness it, and in turn the offerings for Stonehollow pastoral district had also increased considerably. And Father Symeon himself had rediscovered his past professional passion. All in all, his days were becoming more fulfilling.

"I'm glad for you." Shu Li said it without thinking. After saying it, he felt momentarily startled himself.

Honestly, in the past when he heard someone else say this phrase, he always felt a bit of awkwardness with it, and couldn't understand how someone in a not-very-close relationship could feel, or feel justified in feeling, happiness for another person. It felt like a condescending form of charitable goodwill.

Yet now he finally understood. It wasn't a superior's posture of charitable almsgiving — it was an expression of warm, genuine resonance. At this moment, he truly felt joy from the bottom of his heart for Father Symeon — a pure, reason-free delight.

It was also in this moment, saying it aloud, that he finally grasped — that this phrase was so exactly right, so precisely fitting.

Father Symeon's gaze shifted softly and brightened.

After a moment, he seemed to think of something, smiled, and asked: "Father Alistair, have you gone to see the carved divine image yet?"

"Not yet!" Shu Li was planning to see it the next day. "They say it's a peerless marble divine image. I want to make sure to get a close look when the wedding comes."

Because this kind of artwork would be going into the duke's manor, and there likely wouldn't be many chances to see it again in the future.

Father Symeon explained: "If you want to see it, you can go to the bell tower nearby right now. The Carson Archbishop has temporarily kept it there, planning to use it for the wedding, so he hasn't put it in storage yet."

"...Is that all right?" Shu Li wasn't an art enthusiast, and though he was genuinely curious, there was still a significant difference between making a special trip out of the way to see it versus coincidentally catching a glimpse along the way. He wasn't in any particular rush.

"There's a window." Father Symeon said.

"......" Looking at a sculpture through stained glass — that would be like viewing flowers through a mist.

Yet Father Symeon looked especially eager — like an artist who had just completed a work of heart and blood, desperately wanting even a single word of affirmation from a friend.

And so Shu Li hesitated for only a second before immediately providing enthusiastic moral support: "Then I very much want to go see it!"

The bell tower was actually on the side wing of the Carson City cathedral. Though a separate tower, it stood so close to the main cathedral walls that their shadows overlapped, as though they were one. The whole tower's stone walls were aged, long since stripped of their original luster by wind and sun, but the stained glass set within glittered like jewels. The tower rose from the ground and stretched up into the sky.

As Shu Li and Father Symeon approached, all around was perfectly silent — as though even the wind had detoured away. No clergy were in sight, not even a single bird could be seen. And so the cobblestone path before the bell tower appeared especially empty and desolate. The whole structure seemed to be sleeping — or quietly watching the approaching visitors.

Shu Li's first instinct was to go in through the main door, but Father Symeon reminded him: "Yesterday an officer had already led a tour around. Though the interior of the bell tower also has a chapel, its main purpose is for housing church sacred objects and important documents, and is not open to the public. When there's no one standing guard outside at ordinary times, it's locked up entirely."

And so Shu Li's hand, which had already started to extend outward, retracted, and he followed Father Symeon in circling along the outer wall of the bell tower, his steps landing on the gravel path behind the cathedral. They walked past neatly trimmed hedges and arrived at a slightly elevated platform at the edge of the garden — originally a base for placing stone statues, now standing empty.

Father Symeon stopped, his gaze lifting toward the upper part of the bell tower: "From here the angle is just right."

Shu Li followed the line of sight and sure enough — at the second-floor level of the tower, a small ventilation window stood half open. Sunlight slanted through, and not even the garden vines creeping to the windowsill could block the clear brightness of the light within.

Father Symeon gestured him to move closer: "The face of the divine image I created happens to be at the side — look through there."

Shu Li quickly adjusted his position and looked directly at the divine image Father Symeon had created.

Father Symeon's work stood quietly between light and shadow, its countenance solemn and familiar.

But Shu Li froze. The face seemed familiar to him, yet he couldn't immediately recall whose it was.

He furrowed his brow and tried hard to remember, his gaze drifting without intention down to his own shadow stretched long at his feet.

And in that instant, something in his mind went "click" and lit up. Then, fast as lightning before anyone could react, he felt a sudden blaze of heat. His face burned from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, and he stood rigid in place — like a small dog ambling peacefully along a road, suddenly given a kick out of nowhere, bewildered and wronged and with nowhere to run.

Shu Li could only stare in utter disbelief at Father Symeon, his mouth opening and closing without producing a single word.

"......" He forced himself to take comfort — surely he was mistaken. He was being far too self-absorbed. He probably just thought the statue resembled himself a little.

But Father Symeon smiled and spoke, seemingly entirely unaware of his suffering and struggle: "This divine image was modeled after Father Alistair. Does it capture the spirit? What do you think?"

"......" I feel mortified is what I think...

He instinctively covered his face with his hands, feeling that without this step, he might not have the strength to hold his face together and survive in this world. It was truly unbearable.

But this despair lasted only a moment. Because the next second, he remembered that this statue would be on display for three or four days in a row, to be watched, witnessed, and scrutinized by countless people. He felt as though he had already ceased to live a bearable existence.

Also because Shu Li had been silent for so long, Father Symeon grew uneasy: "Is it — not very good-looking?"

"......" No energy to respond.

Yet if he didn't respond, Father Symeon would only spiral deeper into his own anxieties. Shu Li pulled himself together and said: "Not that — it's just that I was thinking..." His social anxiety was flaring up completely.

The words turned over and over on the tip of his tongue, and Shu Li quickly changed his approach: "...It's that I was thinking — if someone recognized that it was based on me, might it be damaging to the image of the Lord? Should the face be changed a bit?"

"It shouldn't be recognizable," Father Symeon honestly said, having felt a pang of disappointment — he'd thought he had captured Father Alistair's likeness masterfully, yet the people around him had never at first glance connected the statue to Father Alistair. "Maybe the expression is a little formulaic, and it looks a bit rigid, so no one can tell?"

He said this and looked at his own work again, seemingly both questioning and regretting.

"!" Was that it? Shu Li looked at the statue anew and suddenly understood — this was probably like ancient portraiture. When modern people looked at the portraits of ancient figures, they couldn't tell at all who was who; the features all blended toward uniformity, the expressions abstract, with only "style" and "spirit" remaining. This was the same principle. For most people, this was nothing but a religious artifact. They were looking at the carving technique, the composition, the sacred atmosphere — not at him. Not "Father Alistair." And certainly not "Shu Li."

Thinking this, he also recalled that from yesterday until today, no one had had any particular reaction toward him — clearly because none of them had even thought to connect him to the divine image.

Shu Li exhaled slightly in relief.

Regardless, on the day of the wedding ceremony or the thanksgiving mass, he would absolutely walk around the statue in a wide circle. If some natural disaster or other catastrophe happened to destroy that statue, that would be more than ideal.

Shu Li couldn't help but think. As for Father Symeon's mood beside him — that was no longer Shu Li's concern.

But what Shu Li and Father Symeon didn't know was that there was another person standing below the statue in the blind spot of their view.

The young man gazing up at the divine image wore an expression as cold as frost at dawn. His face was chilling.

In a few days' time, he would complete his wedding in front of this statue and carve his name into history. But now, facing this divine image, it was as though he were looking into a mirror. And in the silence, everything within himself that he would rather not have seen was reflected back.

The sculpture stood on the shrine pedestal, a silent power flowing through it. Every detail had been honed to perfection, the lines tender yet full of strength. The hazy cloak drifted like mist, the draped fabric seeming to respond to a breeze. The lowered brow, the barely parted lips, the bearing elegant and noble — like an ancient deity come to earth, suffused with an incomparable holiness and peace.

Duke Claude suddenly felt that the statue's silhouette seemed somehow familiar — yet the cloak that veiled it in soft haze concealed the familiar brow and eyes, preventing any confirmation.

He stepped closer, his pace unhurried. His hand lifted — then paused, his gaze deepening. He turned away.

An emotion beyond expression welled up within him.

When had he ever become interested in a piece of stone like this?

To the duke, this thought was like a sudden alert. He realized this was not merely curiosity about a divine image, but some kind of feeling he should not have — something unpleasant, something unsettling, a sense of being controlled.

He managed a cold smile, though deep within was contempt and a suppressed anger.

There was no time to be caught up in inconsequential matters like deities.

He drew back his hand sharply, and when he looked at the statue again, his cold gaze carried revulsion.

When he left, he did not look back — as though nothing had ever happened in this place.