Ghervil’s hand trembled slightly as she clutched the book, having just seen its pricing: [Internal Circulation Edition. Value excessively high. Price not subject to evaluation.].
To be freely gifted something money could not procure, it felt like an unbearable weight.
She understood profoundly that no such thing as a free lunch existed in this world.
“I don’t think I…”
“There is no need to rush into a refusal,” the Bishop replied, his gentle smile unwavering. “Accepting this token of apology will come at no cost to you.
We would never apprehend you or subject you to unlawful procedures simply because you might suffer from certain, perhaps even non-existent, ailments. The Goddess watches over every individual equally, and patients are no exception.”
Ghervil fell silent, contemplating his words.
This was a remarkably direct declaration, yet it could also be an elaborate trap.
Until this moment, only Dr. Callan had truly witnessed her ‘episodes.’ The Bishop and Lalviye-Komel were likely still in the realm of speculation and verification.
Should she accept and acknowledge it here, she would effectively confirm the fact of her illness.
Was this method employed because the book contained no ailment that perfectly matched her own?
While she preferred not to think ill of others, she knew that no one occupying such a high position was a simple character. She would not be so foolish as to lower her guard with someone she had just met and knew nothing about, regardless of how much goodwill they displayed.
“My apologies, Bishop, but I don’t believe I require this book…”
“Dong—”
“Dong—”
As the profound chime resonated, both Ghervil and the Bishop simultaneously glanced towards the window. It was four o’clock; the evening service had begun.
“Here’s what we’ll do: I shall take you to a certain place. You may make your decision after you’ve seen it, but until then, I would be grateful if you would keep the book safe for me.”
The Bishop’s voice blended with the lingering echoes of the bells, gradually subsuming the faint, almost imperceptible sounds of people outside.
With a soft creak, Bishop Sartre pushed open the wooden door and stepped out, indicating for her to follow.
Shaking her head, Ghervil followed behind him, a hint of resignation in her demeanor.
It was difficult to refuse him now, given how far the conversation had progressed.
Not a soul could be seen in the central courtyard’s cloister; everyone was undoubtedly gathered in the main church hall.
Unexpectedly, the Bishop did not lead her to the service. Instead, he wound halfway around the cloister and entered a long corridor with a checkered floor, where natural light gradually gave way to the glow of lamps.
After walking for perhaps five or six minutes, they began to encounter several figures in black robes, all women. They politely greeted the Bishop and offered Ghervil a benevolent smile.
From their brief exchanges, Ghervil gathered that these women were doctors, much like Lalviye-Komel’s mother.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered cautiously from behind, clutching the book, which was considerably thicker and heavier than the abridged version, to her chest.
Holding it in her hand would quickly lead to fatigue and aching, so she had reluctantly resorted to carrying it close.
“You will have your answer soon enough.”
In truth, she had already pieced together most of the puzzle. With doctors continually appearing ahead, they were likely headed to a ‘hospital’ or a similar medical facility. Where there were doctors, there would inevitably be patients.
Given how deeply hidden this place was, these would not be ordinary patients.
After a few more turns, a descending staircase appeared at the end of the corridor.
At the bottom of the stairs, an iron door secured by no less than three heavy locks stood before them.
As the Bishop fumbled for the correct key in the dim candlelight, the scene that greeted Ghervil once the door swung open left her considerably surprised.
Approximately thirty or more beds were arranged in parallel, each separated by a distance of three to five meters. Every bed was shrouded by a pallid, grey-white curtain.
Beyond the beds, the space was equipped with essential furnishings such as desks, wardrobes, tall candelabras, and washbasins for personal hygiene.
The area was divided into two distinct sections, with women provided separate quarters. It boasted five prayer rooms, three dining halls, and two libraries.
She had anticipated that such a place would reek of unpleasant odors, at the very least a strange concoction of various medicines, yet there was none.
The floors, beds, and walls were meticulously clean, and the air carried a delightful fragrance of roses.
The only drawback was the poor lighting; relying solely on candles and gas lamps, the space could never truly be bright.
It was not until they passed the entrance of a prayer room that the individuals inside, noticing their presence, stirred.
“Your Grace!”
An excited male voice prompted individuals from that room, and indeed from the other four prayer rooms as well, to emerge and offer polite greetings.
Ghervil quickly surveyed the group, noting a mix of men, women, and children. The oldest appeared to be in their fifties or sixties, while the youngest were mere twelve or thirteen-year-olds, totaling some thirty to forty individuals.
Their spirits seemed remarkably high; at the very least, she could discern no hint of illness in their demeanor.
“This is the last surviving nun of Solis Abbey,” Bishop Sartre announced, stepping aside to reveal Ghervil fully to the assembled crowd.
“She is also the sole successor to Anthea, the late Abbess.”
The sudden shift of attention to herself left Ghervil feeling somewhat numb. It seemed the Bishop’s final remark had only intensified their excitement.
They gazed at her with a fervent devotion, akin to how one might look upon a deity—indeed, it was precisely the kind of gaze one would expect from zealous cultists, and that was precisely how they made her feel.
A few individuals even began to pray to her, clutching their crucifixes.
Feeling a surge of awkwardness, she glanced frantically to the side, only to find the old man had retreated, maintaining his benevolent smile as he feigned ignorance.
After more than ten minutes of this uncomfortable standoff, the sound of a door opening finally brought an end to the overwhelming situation.
The locked iron door of the underground hospital swung inward, revealing an elderly woman in black robes, her hair streaked with grey, leading the way.
Despite having only seen her from behind and a glimpse of her profile, Ghervil recognized her instantly: it was Lalviye-Komel.
Her imposing height, in contrast to the others, was impossible to overlook.
Accompanying her were five other black-robed doctors, who followed closely, carrying a container resembling a large medicine vat. The scent of roses grew more intense with their approach, yet their faces remained devoid of expression.
As the container was placed beside a table, its contents were ladled out, bowl by bowl. The patients, with an almost instinctive understanding, formed a line to receive their portions.
This scene evoked a strange sense of familiarity in Ghervil, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.
The once somewhat lively group of dozens quickly quieted, as if taking their medicine had become as routine as eating or sleeping.
She was reminded of her own days in a hospital in her previous life, of endless IV drips and the constant regimen of medication.
From the initial, detailed instructions from doctors regarding precautions, she had progressed to instinctively recognizing a nurse’s identity and purpose simply by the sound of footsteps entering the room.
Such habits were cultivated only after a very long time, measured in years rather than months.
“The medicine, brewed from Blood Rose (TL Note: A fictional plant used for medicinal purposes in this world.), has a remarkable calming effect on the patients’ minds,” Bishop Sartre explained, seizing the moment while the patients were occupied with their doses.
“Over the past eleven years, this is the safest and most effective treatment we have discovered for common plague sufferers, entirely devoid of side effects.”
Eleven years…
This implied that some of these individuals had been afflicted with the plague since infancy.
Ghervil’s brow furrowed deeply in concern.
“Have they remained here all this time?”
“Every one of them understands the consequences of venturing outside,” the Bishop explained, his voice tinged with melancholy. “At least here, they can still cling to hope, learn vocational skills, etiquette, and knowledge typically taught in schools, ensuring their lives are not entirely devoid of purpose. With sufficient willpower and faith, and a stroke of luck, they might recover, pass the necessary tests, and return to a normal life outside. However, only two individuals have ever achieved this, and regrettably, they met with unfortunate ends not long ago.”
Bishop Sartre sighed heavily.
“Perhaps you even encountered them; they performed the same work.”
“The coachman, Scard, and Angeli,” Ghervil articulated, the names clear on her tongue.
This revelation effectively sentenced these individuals to a life of perpetual tedium within these walls, or to a relapse of their illness and an unknown demise should they ever leave.
“I still fail to comprehend why they reacted so strongly upon hearing Abbess Anthea’s name.”
While a novel distraction might pique their interest in their monotonous lives, it hardly warranted treating her as a divine entity.
Could it be…
“Because of a verbal agreement, one that, once established, carried more weight than any written contract.”
Bishop Sartre’s voice was heavy with emotion, his eyes, sunken deep within their sockets, seemed lost in a mixture of recollection and observation of the patients.
Ghervil waited quietly for him to continue.
“Even now, I can scarcely believe that catastrophe unfolded overnight. Wails of agony filled every corner, as rats burrowed out from people’s mouths, eye sockets, beneath their skin—virtually every orifice. One moment, you would be conversing with someone, and the next, they would be torn apart, leaving only a skeletal frame.”
“I had served as Bishop for many years before the Mistfall (TL Note: A cataclysmic event in the story, often associated with a supernatural fog.) began its rampage. Previous calamities typically left discernible traces, allowing us to devise countermeasures. However, the curse unleashed by the Mistfall was utterly unprecedented in human history: an unknown plague, an unknown power—everything was shrouded in mystery. Twenty years ago, I truly grasped how utterly weak and… laughable… humanity was in the face of the Mistfall.”
Having finished their medicine, the patients, guided by the doctors, returned to the prayer rooms for their devotions, as the service had not yet concluded. The doctors locked the doors behind them as they departed, save for Lalviye-Komel, who paused at the doorway, her gaze lingering on the Bishop and Ghervil for a fleeting moment before she, too, receded into the shadows.
From beginning to end, no one had disturbed their solemn recounting and listening.
“It was precisely this horrific catastrophe that Abbess Anthea burned to ashes with a single fire.” As he spoke, the despair and fear gradually faded from the Bishop’s voice, replaced by his usual kind and genial tone, and he smiled warmly at Ghervil.
“Everyone was debating how to handle the few dozen mildly afflicted survivors—the防疫局 (TL Note: A fictional ‘Epidemic Prevention Bureau’ responsible for public health and safety.), the Hospital Department, the Academy, and, of course, myself, as the then-and-still head of Mistfall City’s diocese.”
“The outcome of their discussion was to send them here for treatment at the Holy See?”
Ghervil knew it was time to interject.
“Oh, those fellows were hardly so benevolent. They almost unanimously demanded their execution, especially those from the Hospital Department. They even blamed Abbess Anthea for not completing the job thoroughly, leaving them with such a mess to clean up.”
“That is… truly excessive…”
Though she said this, Ghervil was genuinely unsure how she would have chosen herself. Considering the unknown and uncontrollable nature of the disaster, from a rational standpoint, eradicating the threat entirely might have been the best course of action.
Yet, humans were ultimately creatures of emotion.
“The final result was that you and the Abbess persuaded them. If I’m not mistaken, the Abbess must have played the primary role.”
“You already possess half of your Abbess’s sagacity.”
Only half? She reluctantly considered it a compliment. Ghervil cast a dismissive glance.
The old man stroked his beard, his chin raised slightly.
“Under those circumstances, persuading them was almost impossible. It was Abbess Anthea who proposed a compromise they could reluctantly accept.”
“She offered the entire Abbey as collateral, securing a very long deadline. Eleven years… to give the Holy See eleven years to treat these patients. If, by the end of that period, they were not cured, she herself would personally deal with them.”