The old woman led the way toward the white tower, her steps slow and unsteady.
She was actually only about fifty years old, yet her hair was already streaked with white, her skin deeply furrowed, and her movements weak and frail. She appeared far more aged than President Olei of the Archaeological Association, who was over eighty, or Archbishop Trinlais of the Black Night Cathedral, who was in his seventies. It was a constitution entirely unbefitting a rank five soul severer.
Lynch felt no surprise, however. He had taken the time to learn about this elder who had personally treated his leg injury, and he knew the reason.
This recognized saint had personally ventured deep into major epidemic zones five times in the last thirty years to lead treatment efforts. She had been infected by plagues lethal enough to kill anyone else, surviving only through the unique constitution of a soul severer. She had also entered war zones seven times on behalf of the Church of Suffering to rescue civilians, once even using her own body to block artillery fire to save several children. Although the gunpowder and shells of this world were less powerful, they were still beyond what a low rank three soul severer could withstand at the time, leaving her with countless internal injuries.
Innumerable wounds and illnesses had long since hollowed out her soul. Everyone knew that this old woman was perhaps the only soul severer in the world who did not need to worry about mysterious erosion or soul distortion, because in her physical state, she would likely exhaust her soul entirely before it could ever be eroded.
This was the origin of the title 'saint.' Regardless of their inner thoughts, people were outwardly respectful to the old woman. It was the sort of situation where if she wanted to slap someone, they would first find a way to soften their face so as not to hurt her hand.
Although she was now semi-retired, she continued to run about for people who had nothing to do with her, exhausting what little soul she had left.
Lynch naturally supported Nightingale's arm. He did not truly understand the old woman's psyche or actions, but that did not diminish his respect for her. Especially in close proximity, feeling the frailty and overdraft emanating from her body, Lynch could not help but feel a surge of emotion. Whether he would help or not remained to be discussed, but he would at least consider it seriously.
“I gave you a brief introduction last time; this is a trouble that is bound to happen.”
“Due to the dissipation of the avatar of the King of Ghouls, the authority it controlled will also briefly fall out of control. Although it will eventually be re-condensed by its main body, the uncontrolled power will radiate throughout the present world during the process, causing great influence on the living beings here. This process is unavoidable, so I have been in contact with you since you drove away the avatar of the King of Ghouls.”
Lynch nodded. This had been briefly mentioned when the old woman treated him, at least giving him some mental preparation.
“Its other authorities are of no concern, but the disease aspect is quite troublesome. These illnesses are not natural; they are caused by the interference of authority and carry mysterious power, to the point that they manifest not only in the body but also in the spirit—for instance, falling into madness after becoming ill, much like those eroded by mystery. Even more troublesome is that because this is interfered with by divine authority, the medicine of the present world cannot treat it at all. Once you fall ill, you can only wait for death.”
“Fortunately, the number of patients will not be too high—within the scope of Lande, there will be about tens of thousands, and worldwide, there will be at most hundreds of thousands of patients. By the time these patients pass away, the period of authority interference will have passed, and no one else will fall ill.”
Hundreds of thousands of patients worldwide was indeed not a large number, yet the figure still made Lynch's heart palpitate. Then he heard Nightingale say:
“Those patients have all been subjected to mysterious interference; their conditions are very unstable, and most importantly, they are all dangerous.”
As she spoke, Miss Nightingale suddenly stopped. Lynch realized he had followed her deep into the Temple of Suffering.
This was a five-story tower. The white tones and the pungent smell of medicine gave Lynch the illusion of having entered a hospital from his past life. However, a steam lift platform stood at the entrance, and the exposed gears and steam pipes reminded Lynch that he was still in the steam-filled Victorian era.
Directly opposite the entrance to the tower was the most important chapel of the church, where the holy statue of Fiona was placed. The two did not go there, however; Miss Nightingale stopped in front of a door.
Pressing her hand against the door, the old woman looked back at Lynch: “It is not a pretty sight, child. Prepare yourself.”
Is it inside?
Lynch's heart tightened, and he nodded solemnly at the old woman.
Creak. The door opened.
The room did not look like a hospital at all; it resembled a small prison. A row of iron bars as thick as a wrist divided the room into inner and outer halves. Inside the cell, an iron bed was bolted to the floor. A person was restrained on the bed with several leather straps, and two clerics in white robes were at the bedside. They looked back at the two who entered, nodded, and continued to work with their heads bowed.
It is just like an eighteenth-century mental asylum.
Moreover, the two turning their heads startled Lynch. Both were wearing ugly bird-mask beaks; the metal masks reflected a cold light under the gas lamps, making every movement of the white-robed figures full of uncanniness. The atmosphere was quite chilling.
“Put this on.” Nightingale handed over a bird-beak mask and put one on herself. “It has been professionally cleaned; there is no problem.”
Tying the mask to his face, a pungent smell of medicine wafted from the pointed beak. Although it was quite unpleasant, after breathing a few times, he felt refreshed.
Following the old woman into the cell, Lynch finally saw the restrained patient.
It was a little girl in her early teens. She might have once been lively and cute, but now she had transformed into a hideous monster.
The tips of her fingers and toes had keratinized into sharp claws, and the corners of her mouth had split to the sides, revealing bloodied teeth still hung with scraps of flesh of unknown origin. Her wide-open eyes were blood-red, filled with madness and bloodlust, and what came from her mouth was not language, but beast-like low growls and frantic roars.
Observing closely, one could see many wounds scattered on the little girl's body, some even fatal, yet the girl seemed entirely unaffected. Her violent struggles made the iron bed creak and groan.
Even with Nightingale's warning, the madness emanating from the little girl sent a chill through Lynch's heart. The creature's frantic movements reminded Lynch of monsters from classic horror films.
“This child is the first patient discovered by the church, found the day before yesterday. From her, we have basically determined the symptoms of the disease. Once it strikes, the spirit falls into madness, losing all reason, and the victim will bite anything nearby with extreme violence.”
Hiss, it really is a bit like a zombie.
“Is it really not going to infect others and develop into a plague?”
Lynch knew well the terror of zombies. Furthermore, in the Red Moon Memories, the great catastrophe at the end of the First Age had begun with a plague, which had left a deep impression on him; thus, he was quite sensitive to matters of plague.
“Heh, you can rest assured. This disease is born of divine authority and does not possess the contagiousness of a normal plague. I explained it to you that day—it is almost impossible to form a plague using this method; otherwise, there would be no one left in the world. There is only the disease, without the other two elements: replication and transmission; it cannot form a plague at all. Those patients also fall ill suddenly; these are all normal phenomena.”
With a professional confirming it again, Lynch finally set his mind at ease and asked: “How long will they be like this? Can they turn back into normal people?”
“After about a month, they will die one after another. This process is uncontrollable; the death of all patients is the only outcome. No one can save them.”
Lynch pursed his lips behind the mask: “So what can I do?”
“You are the only exception.” The old woman stopped shifting the topic. “It was you who caused the avatar of the King of Ghouls to be destroyed, so conceptually, you have a restraining effect on this disease.”
Hmm? Is there an antibody in my serum?
Lynch, having watched countless films, made the association immediately, but after his explanation, Miss Nightingale shook her head.
“If it were a normal disease, perhaps that could be solved, but this situation is far more dangerous.” The old woman patted Lynch's arm and said earnestly, “Child, listen well. Because you have a restraining effect on this disease, your blood must be used as a guide to completely fix the restraining effect in concept. This way, any medicine in the present world, once approved by you, will have a restraining effect on this disease in the future.”
“That is a good thing; is there a problem?”
“The problem is that this process requires your soul to repeatedly confront the authority of the disease. Only by holding out until the end can it be completed.”
Lynch frowned behind his mask and asked: “What if I fail halfway?”
The old woman sighed and pointed to the patient tied to the bed.
“To be honest, we cannot give you equivalent compensation. Some potions, some money, at most a few more mystery relics—that is the limit of what we can pay. These are not worth mentioning compared to the life-threatening danger you are taking.”
Seeing Lynch lost in thought, Nightingale said very candidly:
“Also, in the end, not that many people will be saved.”
“Hmm?”
“It is a matter of time. We have to wait for the patients to appear, which is now, before we can formally begin. And even if everything goes smoothly and we finish the conceptual solidification, the subsequent drug development will take a long time. Optimistically estimated, it will take at least half a month to develop a treatment drug, and even if it is distributed to patients at the fastest speed then, at most one-third or even fewer will be able to wait for the medicine.”
The old woman sighed deeply, her expression lost as she said:
“In the end, only a few tens of thousands may be saved. Most patients will still die. I think it is necessary for you to know this result in advance.”
“So, I will not persuade you, child. You have the right to choose. Everything is decided by you.”
For a moment, the room fell completely silent, with only the frantic roars of the patient echoing within.
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