CH-037

July fifth, 7:56 in the morning.

Sunlight filtered through the glass and fell into the Carson City church's grand meeting hall.

The dappled tree shadows drifting with the breeze made the entire hall feel all the more quiet and sacred.

The meeting was set to begin at 8:30, yet the grand conference room was already alive with the movement of hems and the low murmur of voices, as white-robed priests bearing cross necklaces arrived one after another.

They were like attendees of some high-profile summit of the religious world.

Everyone's attire was neat and their expressions solemn. The meeting hadn't started yet, so they gathered in twos and threes by the round tables or near the windows, exchanging matters of note.

They very tacitly didn't rush to take their seats, because the clergy of Ecclesiastical Prefect rank and above had yet to appear — and so these district priests naturally felt no urgency to sit down just yet, lest they give others something to criticize.

For the moment they were just chatting, killing time.

If a pair of ears were placed within that group, the things they heard would mostly be breakfast foods, each other's prepared gifts, and recent events in the various pastoral districts.

"You've all heard, haven't you? The deacons have been passing it around among themselves — I heard about it just yesterday."

"About the divine image?" a priest joined in, lowering his voice with mystery. "I've heard that today there will be a rehearsal, and at that time we'll have a chance to go to the bell tower to view it. I was told along the way here that it's a truly rare treasure."

Having said this, he sighed: "I used to hear that Father Symeon was a renowned sculptor, and I didn't quite believe it. Now that one masterpiece has come out, it will make his name known everywhere..."

Before his mood had been fully shared, another voice cut in: "No — it's about Father Alistair!"

Hearing someone discussing "Alistair," others nearby all leaned in, ears perked: "What have you all heard?"

A voice began: "The biggest piece of news should be that Father Alistair is said to be a future papal candidate sent by the Grand Cathedral."

Many people had already heard about this. But they were still uncertain why a future papal candidate would be sent to suffer in some godforsaken corner of the world. Besides, the person seemed far too young.

They all wanted to know the details. A priest asked: "Does this have any particular explanation behind it?"

"I heard Archbishop Leopold has denied this matter," someone objected. "There's no candidate at all, according to him."

"Archbishop Leopold denying it doesn't necessarily mean things are clean," a white-haired elderly priest said, leaning on his cane as he slowly made his way toward the center of the discussion.

The voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unquestionable certainty. He continued his analysis: "Don't we all know? He has long since aligned himself privately with that Grand Cathedral family's camp. When the Carson ecclesiastical district votes in the future, it will certainly go to that family's heir."

Some people caught on immediately, understanding which family was meant by this. Others were still wondering which family, or what secret history was involved here, when the elderly priest paused, his eyes narrowing slightly: "Suppressing news of this person now is to prevent another candidate from rising — otherwise, given Archbishop Leopold's personality, if this district had produced such a miraculously inclined figure, he'd be rushing to take them under his wing as a treasure."

This reasoning quickly received support from others. "Exactly — I've heard he's reluctant to even give up that statue, and has been trying to have Deputy Archbishop Hugo think of a way to keep it here."

At that moment, another voice broke in with a touch of skepticism, redirecting back to the candidate discussion: "A candidate must certainly be an heir of a great family, mustn't he? If Father Alistair were a candidate, surely those great families wouldn't be willing to cast him away in some remote Carson ecclesiastical district, would they?"

The middle-aged priest shook his head, unable to help himself: "I've heard that this Savoie pastoral district priest not only has to till the land himself in broad daylight, but also has to cook dinner for his deacon's family every evening. For several months in a row he's been eating nothing but potatoes and black rye bread — the kind that even nobility wouldn't glance at. Even the children from the neighboring village feel free to come and bother him every day, taking his food, taking his drink, and he hasn't dared say a word. Is that the kind of personality someone from a powerful family would have?"

He swept his gaze around the ring of attentive priests, paused, and spoke with conviction: "Let's take Duke Leslie for instance. Even having received barely any proper aristocratic upbringing, just standing there, he has a distinctiveness about him. I saw him just yesterday — one glance told me he was out of the ordinary."

Hearing Leslie discussed, those who were informed joined the conversation: "Honestly, if Leslie's birth mother hadn't died, with the influence of his mother's family, Leslie might have studied at the Grand Cathedral's church school and been virtually guaranteed a senior clerical position in the future — a bright path ahead."

Just as they were getting into it, gathering everyone's focus like a newsreel, everyone's ears perked up like hounds — after all, in their respective pastoral districts, boring and without much to pick up on, whatever they heard here, true or not, as long as it didn't seem to concern them, was just good gossip to listen to.

"Another person chimed in: "It's said that Leslie's mother Odora had the kind of power—" and wondered if Leslie had inherited it. If truly so, those at the Grand Cathedral would be deeply pained to have lost such a treasure...

Another voice responded with speculation: "The power struggles at the Grand Cathedral are far more serious than we can imagine. Never mind the fact that our current duke was once a highly regarded imperial heir — and wasn't he still exiled from the Grand Cathedral to the Northern Lands? Furthermore, Lady Odora had endured no small number of incidents from a very young age. At the time no one dared discuss it in detail — it was only known that she fell ill one after another, leaving her body with permanent damage."

This person paused and said: "Leslie... let alone making a name for himself, perhaps before even growing up, it will be hard to keep his life intact. I think this practice of sending children to be raised at the Grand Cathedral — isn't it wishful thinking on the part of those parents?"

The older generation of priests talked more freely on such matters — they had seen more, remembered clearly, and once they opened their mouths it was like lifting the lid on an aged jar, old stories and events pouring out all at once, transfixing the listeners and making them think involuntarily.

"Thinking about it," a priest said, letting a question fall softly, "isn't it peculiar that the Savoie pastoral district's self-described miracle-working Father Alistair was specifically arranged near the duke's villa where Leslie lives... Do you think that could be mere coincidence?"

This was a good question. A question worth pondering deeply.

People exchanged glances, as though each hoped to find the answer they wanted in someone else's eyes.

But before the topic could extend further, the meeting fell unexpectedly quiet — someone unintentionally fell silent, and then without anyone deliberately stopping the conversation, a collective silence descended.

This seemed a coincidence — and yet it felt intentional. No one had purposely spoken up, and no one had deliberately cut things short. It was simply a stillness that arrived without warning, all at once.

Yet this collective silence came at exactly the right moment.

Because the very subject of their conversation, Alistair, had just walked in through the doorway from around the corner.

His was a young and cool and striking face.

Like the other priests, he wore a white priestly robe. But unlike theirs, the long robe made the young man look like freshly fallen snow in the depths of winter — cold yet serene. Simply standing there, he was a quiet yet impossible to ignore presence.

People instinctively held their breath.

And so, the moment Shu Li had just entered the meeting room, he was nearly driven back by the silence and the row of probing gazes that met him.

"......" He felt his walking posture was already starting to go wrong.

As the priest with the shallowest standing and the most negligible presence in the entire ecclesiastical district, Shu Li had the previous day, in a very self-aware manner, gone to sleep early and planned to be up early the following day. This way, he would have no need to walk through greetings with every senior colleague upon entering the conference room. Instead, he could choose a corner seat, and if someone came to acknowledge him he'd stand and say hello, and if no one wanted to acknowledge him, he could simply be the mold on the wall.

But the night before, Father Symeon had told Shu Li they should set out together. So Shu Li had adjusted the plan — he just hadn't anticipated that Father Symeon would have a bad stomach that morning and caused the timing of their arrival to change. The important thing was, people's health came first.

Shu Li had still prioritized having a deacon give him some medicine. After that fuss was over, by the time Shu Li entered the conference room, it was already past eight.

And Father Symeon said he might need another trip to the washroom, so Shu Li came in ahead of him.

Right now, in the hall — with the exception of Father Symeon — all the other priests had assembled. Shu Li was a little embarrassed, but what was most dreadful was that the moment Shu Li walked in, they all went quiet.

Left with no choice, Shu Li hurriedly gave the room a slight bow, nodded his head as a greeting, then conscientiously went to find the rearmost seat and sat down, pulled out his notebook and pen, and worked very hard to project the image of a good, compliant little priest with no rebellious spirit at all, doing his best to sit obediently within the organization's arrangements.

Yesterday, the deacon had notified everyone that today they needed to prepare the wedding blessing remarks. In addition, Archbishop Leopold would be testing their professional competency, so Shu Li had prepared a great many notes.

Shu Li felt he'd done extraordinarily well.

But he hadn't anticipated that barely after sitting down, there came from the conference room the sound of a sharp intake of breath. It was a middle-aged priest, the silver cross in his hand trembling gently in the light.

Two other priests beside him very tacitly exchanged glances.

Shu Li, alert to the anomaly, quickly stood back up: "I... did I accidentally take someone's seat?"

The bearded elderly priest who had made the sound opened and closed his mouth, and at length said: "It's — nothing, sit wherever you like." The elderlypriest even trembled a hand to gesture.

Under the gaze of all present, Shu Li stood undecided about whether to sit or not, before ultimately steeling himself, choosing to ignore everyone's eyes, and sitting back down — bowing his head to study the grain of his notebook.

This notebook really is the very image of a notebook... Shu Li sat in discomfort, hoping only that Father Symeon would hurry back.

And in this silence, watching the small priest who remained calm and unmoved by the crowd's attention, the gathered priests exchanged glances in silent understanding, conveying "this priest is quite out of the ordinary."

Before long, the agreed meeting time arrived.

Father Symeon made it back by a hair's breadth, stomach still cramping, hurrying in at the last second. Seeing a familiar face, Shu Li finally felt some relief. Upon meeting someone he knew, he felt as though he had just been let down from a great height.

Had he known in advance that arriving at this conference room early would involve such an ordeal, he would have kept waiting with Father Symeon and slid in at the very last minute together.

Father Symeon glanced left and right and, seeing no senior clergy present, felt a glimmer of hope: "The Archbishop hasn't arrived yet?"

Shu Li nodded and also asked with concern: "Father Symeon, are you feeling any better?"

Father Symeon rubbed his stomach: "It wasn't just breakfast I lost — I brought up bile."

Shu Li hadn't had the chance to ask earlier, and now did: "Did you eat something this morning?"

"I ate the same things as you," Father Symeon recalled. "Oh — I remember now. After leaving the dining hall, weren't we going back to the room to change clothes? At that time I drank a cup of water. There was a strange taste to it, and after I spat it out, my whole body started going wrong."

Shu Li's brow furrowed slightly: "......" Surely no one had put drugs or poison in his water cup? It couldn't be that serious, could it?

Shu Li couldn't figure it out, yet felt that if this kind of novel-worthy plot really were happening around him, it would be fitting, just slightly unexpected.

Father Symeon asked: "Didn't you drink the well water too?"

Shu Li nodded. The water supply here came from wells — the deacons had said earlier that if you were thirsty, you should draw your own water. Herens had drawn a full flask of water for Shu Li the evening before, and there was still some left over in the morning.

"Did you not notice any strange taste in the water?" Father Symeon asked.

Shu Li was unsure: "I can't say for certain, because any water I drink I always boil first — I can't drink unboiled water. That could be one reason. Of course, it could also simply be that Father Symeon had some water intolerance — your stomach has been a little sensitive since arriving in Carson City? And today it was particularly bad?"

Shu Li glanced around at the others and said: "I'd imagine everyone drank the well water. If there truly were something wrong with the well water, it seems unlikely that everyone else would be unaffected while only you have a stomach problem, doesn't it?"

Seeing Father Symeon's furrowed brow, Shu Li reassured him: "Perhaps Father Symeon has just finished an ascetic period and your digestive system hasn't had time to recover yet — still quite sensitive and delicate?"

Father Symeon couldn't arrive at any other explanation either, and could only nod.

But he quickly brought himself back to the matter at hand: "Why are the Archbishop and the others so late? I remember today is quite busy — the wedding is the day after tomorrow."

Shu Li replied: "No idea."

He was the type who took things as they came. If nothing had happened, he'd wait calmly, at his own pace. His operating principle was simple: "No need to rush, rushing won't get you anywhere." Some of the others, though, didn't have this patience — the meeting having run fifteen minutes over, someone wanted to go find Deacon Gideon to ask what was happening. After all, among the Carson City church's deacons, he was the most approachable.

Just then, a sharp cry of alarm suddenly came from the direction of the well.

"Archbishop Leopold has drowned himself in the well! Somebody help!! Come quickly—!"

"Save us!! Somebody come—!!"

The cry struck the conference room like a lightning bolt in a summer storm, and caught everyone completely off guard.

Those still in conversation fell silent all at once and stared at each other in bewilderment. In the next second, someone immediately reacted and took the lead rushing out — and a dozen or so district priests all surged out together, robes flying and footsteps chaotic, unable to conceal the panic. Shu Li too helped support Father Symeon as they hurried to the wellside.

By the time they arrived, Archbishop Leopold's body had already been pulled out of the well.

Archbishop Leopold's body lay on its back on the ground. His soaking black robe clung to his high-body-fat frame, droplets dripping one by one from sleeves and hem, soaking the entire stone path. To Shu Li's eyes, the body looked exactly like a bloated black balloon. His hands and feet had turned white and shriveled from being submerged, the skin so puckered it resembled rotting fruit peel — conveying an unsettling fragility.

Though no smell of decay had yet reached them, Father Symeon had only to breathe in the damp miasma of the well water before his face went instantly pallid. He covered his mouth and stumbled backward.

The next second, Shu Li watched Father Symeon run to the corner and begin dry-heaving.

The sounds of "ugh" that erupted only made more of the watching priests grow even more visibly pale.

Evidently, the impact of seeing the body was not small on them. Shu Li himself couldn't quite push into the crowd to look at the body, so he hurried over to help Father Symeon, patting his back. Meanwhile, in the periphery, Herens too came running over. Shu Li could see his sleeves and trouser legs were both wet — meaning he had certainly been among the first to rush in and help pull out the body.

Herens asked: "Father Alistair and Father Symeon — are you all right?"

Shu Li felt he himself was holding up reasonably well — after all, he had only seen pale white hands and feet. He hadn't viewed anything beyond that.

Though truly, dead people weren't so frightening to him.

Meanwhile Deacon Gideon, who had been right there at the scene, had completely lost his composure and was still shaking Archbishop Leopold's body desperately. Even knowing Leopold showed no response, all Gideon could do right now was pray for a miracle.

The person who interrupted Gideon was Elder Father Griffin from the Kaya pastoral district: "Gideon, give up — go find Deputy Archbishop Hugo and Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian right now! Let them come and take charge."

Gideon was still in shock, but hearing this voice, he barely managed to pull himself upright from the stunning reality.

"I — understood!"

But then, from the bell tower, there came a shriek. It was Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian's voice.

"Let's go have a look!" After living through one disaster, everyone was much calmer now. Elder Father Griffin, as the most senior elderly priest among them, had become the anchor for the whole group. He hurried from the wellside to the bell tower not far away.

"Heaven — what on earth is happening!" Elder Father Griffin muttered as he rushed.

He may have been elderly, but his legs weren't any weaker than a young person's in his home district where he tended the farm himself. His cane went "thud thud thud" in faster and more urgent beats than opening drumbeats, striking everyone's nerves into disorder.

Shu Li had originally felt there was no need for a whole crowd of people to go look and then all rush back to gawp — he didn't intend to go. But Father Symeon, seeing the Archbishop's body now suddenly exposed without the crowd to block it, with nothing but open space between him and it, reached out and gripped Shu Li's shoulder. He said weakly: "Father Alistair, take me with you — I can't stay here."

Herens, who had an eye for what needed doing, immediately propped up Father Symeon's other arm.

Shu Li, freed from supporting the weight, instinctively wanted to get close to the body and take a proper look. He had a feeling something was off, but had barely taken two steps when Herens called to him.

"Father Alistair." A faint but urgent gleam passed through Herens's eyes. "All the priests have gone to the bell tower — if you're not with them, it'll make people suspicious."

"......" Suspicious? Shu Li turned the word over in his mind, but redirected his steps. He gave instructions to a few junior deacons to stand guard over the body, then they made their way back to the second site of the cries — the bell tower.

Before they'd even arrived, Shu Li could already hear the cries of distress from inside the bell tower. Whatever sight had greeted them in there was prompting more dismay than even a corpse had — and this sent a deep unease pressing down on him.

"......" Shu Li quietly prepared himself psychologically.

Yet when he entered the bell tower, instead of any body lying prone on the chapel floor, a cluster of priests stood circled under the statue standing at the center — the statue of clasped hands offered in prayer, white and flawless. From the eye sockets of that pale, serene face, two streams of deep red liquid seeped slowly down the cheeks in winding trails — as though weeping tears for humanity.

In a daze, Shu Li saw that some priests had already dropped to their knees in prayer, lips moving in continuous murmurs, shoulders shaking beyond their control — as though a winter had suddenly stormed their hearts and they were powerless against the cold brutality the disasters brought.

"......" The divine image would not weep blood on its own.

Shu Li stared hard at the two rivulets of crimson — wanting nothing more than to step forward one pace and investigate. Father Symeon, as if seeking warmth, gripped his hand tight with both of his. Distracted by the gesture, Shu Li realized that for them, this inexplicable phenomenon was more frightening than even the dead body. And so he stopped himself, first taking a moment to pat Father Symeon's back. When Father Symeon's mental state had settled, Shu Li then took him by the hand and walked steadily into the chapel.

In truth, what had drawn his attention, beyond the blood-weeping statue, was a figure in a rather frenzied state. While everyone was thrown into alarm and unease by the blood-weeping statue, one figure stood motionless beside Father Symeon's work displayed in the chapel's side alcove. The man's body was rigid, as though turned to stone. Gradually, his trembling hands pressed against the base of the sculpture — fingers going white from the grip, yet without any awareness of it.

"Deputy Archbishop Hugo," Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian said to the Deputy Archbishop who was out of it, his urgency edged with anxiety. "This is not the moment to be looking at a divine image. Please quickly help handle matters. The district cannot function without your direction right now!"

Deputy Archbishop Hugo hadn't taken in a single word Damian said. He only kept asking: "This statue — is this the one Archbishop Leopold was talking about keeping? The one that was sent here?"

Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian, both frustrated and helpless with Hugo: "Before, when I wanted you to look at it, you had no interest. And now you're putting valuable time into looking at a statue?"

But Deputy Archbishop Hugo was completely oblivious to it all — he just stared, transfixed, practically as though his whole soul had been absorbed into it, and couldn't help murmuring: "Such a great divine image cannot be casually handed to some royal noble. It would be a desecration. It must be kept here — I need to think of a way to keep it here."

He said it far too plainly. Damian immediately moved instinctively to cover Hugo's mouth.

You couldn't just say things like this out loud!

Damian reflexively swept his gaze across the priests from the various pastoral districts. Some of them hadn't paid attention — but a portion of them, hearing the sound, had reflexively averted their eyes.

On the other side, Hugo, restless and agitated, tried to shake himself free of Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian's dissuasion — like a stubborn elderly child refusing to eat — dodging and sidestepping several times, his impatience mounting by the minute.

Just as he was about to snap, a shout already rising from his throat, he turned his head — and his gaze collided with the small priest standing at the chapel doorway.

The window light slanted inward, enveloping the young priest in a soft, bright luminance. The sacred white robe was like clouds surrounding a deity, cleansing the hearts of the faithful.

In that instant, Deputy Archbishop Hugo was transported back to the dark alleyway in his memory — a sliver of moonlight cast without reservation across a young man's shoulders, like light embodied in flesh.

He froze.

Impatience and anger, doused by that light, were extinguished little by little. His fingers loosened imperceptibly, and the words that had been rising to his lips caught in his throat, unable to get out. Instead, step by step, he moved forward — walking toward the young man.

Shu Li had been observing that figure — and hadn't imagined that upon catching Shu Li's gaze, the man would walk directly toward him. That gaze was clouded yet intent, as though searching for something — or as though having finally found something — carrying a strange resolve.

"......" What was happening? Shu Li instinctively tensed his shoulders, just about to step back, when the man reached out and took Shu Li's free hand.

The man's palm was ice-cold and gaunt, and one could feel his trembling and confusion.

The man looked into Shu Li's eyes, his voice rough with emotion: "Please tell me... am I in heaven right now?"

Shu Li, not understanding what was happening, looked to Herens and Father Symeon for help, but they also had no idea what was going on. Unable to fend for himself, Shu Li could only hesitate and reply: "You... probably aren't."

The moment those words landed, the man broke into a dazed and luminous smile, lightly patting Shu Li's hand: "Good child... you are the best child I have ever seen."

"...?"

Shu Li's brow furrowed slightly, his mind in total confusion, trying to work out what condition the man might have — some psychiatric disorder, or delirium. But before he had time to process it, the man's eyes suddenly went vacant, his body going limp in the same moment — the whole of him collapsing straight toward the floor as though his bones had been removed.

"Hey—!" Shu Li cried out in alarm and reached out to catch him, but grasped only empty air.

The man toppled heavily to the floor with a dull, heavy sound, like a mourning bell struck in the chapel.

Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian's face changed dramatically: "Deputy Archbishop Hugo!"

Amid the undisguisable horror and confusion, Shu Li understood. This head-bandaged man likely had Acute Stress Disorder. Because of the head injury, he had suddenly become incoherent, with impaired recognition of reality and some other typical neurological symptoms.

"......" He'll need proper rest.

Shu Li nearly said this out loud, but comparing his own understated, even somewhat out-of-place detachment to the chorus of distress coming from the entire ecclesiastical district all around him, he still pulled back his professional composure.

"Mr. Sir—!" Shu Li put in his best performance.

In a single morning, the two most important figures in the Carson ecclesiastical district — one dead at the bottom of a well, the other fallen into unconsciousness.

Disasters toppled like a row of dominoes, spinning out of control one after another. At this moment, the entire ecclesiastical district felt as though invisible hands had seized it by the throat. Oppression and unease filled every corner of the district.

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