Nona wasn’t dreaming. He was sure of it.
His first reaction was a sharp pang of concern: Had the “doctors” done something to her? In their conversation in the dream world yesterday, Nona had mentioned the doctors’ strange attitude toward the “Holy Child.” They seemed intent on “crafting” a Holy Child of their own on their end. Although he did not fully understand what the concept of a Holy Child meant to those doctors, Nona was already a “semi-finished product.” It was entirely possible that the doctors had taken direct action against her.
He couldn’t help but frown. Shortly after, he forced himself to calm down.
Anxiety alone would achieve nothing here. If something had truly happened to Nona, he first needed to locate her physical whereabouts in the real world.
“A place that’s very bright and very dark.” That was how Nona had described her location.
What kind of place could that be? He pondered.
Rather than idly overthinking while standing in the solitary island’s void, he turned and entered Emil’s dream.
“Mr. Ghost!” Emil said excitedly. “Good evening. I wanted to ask—”
Mr. Ghost offered a slight smile. “Good evening, Emil. I’ve brought you a puzzle.”
“A puzzle?” Emil thought for a moment. “Putting picture pieces together?”
Mr. Ghost reached into his satchel and withdrew the puzzle’s baseboard and pieces. Though they appeared quite bulky, within the mystical space of the dream, they fit comfortably inside the small satchel.
“Yes,” Mr. Ghost said. “Except there are over a thousand puzzle pieces here for you to organize.”
Emil was a boy who loved studying the inner workings of a Rubik’s Cube, so Mr. Ghost believed he would possess enough patience to sort through these puzzle pieces.
Sure enough, Emil inspected the puzzle placed on the table with curious eyes.
“What will it look like in the end?” he asked.
Mr. Ghost let out a gentle laugh. “You’ll have to discover that for yourself, Emil.” Pausing briefly, he added, “However, pay attention to the time, Emil. Do not become overly absorbed in the dream.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you for the reminder,” Emil said. Yet, his eyes were already eagerly fixed on the puzzle.
He was a well-behaved boy; Mr. Ghost was not worried about him doing anything mischievous.
Thus, Mr. Ghost spoke up: “I have a few other matters to attend to and must leave for a short while. I will return in a little bit to collect this puzzle and see how much you manage to assemble in the meantime.”
Encouraged, Emil nodded vigorously and said, “I’ll work hard!”
Mr. Ghost smiled softly and temporarily departed from Emil’s dream.
Shortly after, he searched once more for the dream bubbles of “Siles Noel” and “Akamara,” ultimately arriving at that mysteriously vast farm.
The soft grass, dusted with early morning dew, exuded a lively and bright vitality entirely distinct from the deep-sea dreams. Even if time had frozen here, and even if there was no sign of any living creature, compared to the eternal, silent night of the deep-sea dreams, this place brought to mind the fresh smell of tender grass.
He stood quietly for a moment, taking in his surroundings. A light, misty veil hovered over the environment. He realized, however, that it was neither a dense fog nor a panic-inducing mist, but a delicate morning haze. The place felt remarkably harmless; it was hard to imagine that this was actually an Old God’s “paradise.” Perhaps this was connected to Akamara’s innate nature?
He noticed he was standing quite close to a lakeside cottage.
This space was broadly divided into three areas: the pasture area, the lake area, and the living area. The living area primarily referred to this exquisite, compact little house situated by the lake.
Although the lakeside cottage was eye-catching at first glance, he did not want to step inside so recklessly. That felt like Akamara’s ancient domain, not something to be approached lightly. Therefore, he first walked around the pasture and lake areas.
Both places were entirely vacant. The animal pens held no livestock, and the tilled soil bore no crops. There was only grass and lake water.
Green grass, lake water. He observed both carefully, but found nothing amiss.
Then, he turned his attention back to the lakeside cottage. He walked over and circled the house once, finding nothing unusual. It seemed like a completely ordinary country cottage… or rather, a slightly more refined and beautiful one. If this were a real farm, a farmhouse owner’s residence wouldn’t be this exquisite. Siles Noel had grown up on a small-town farm, and his memory contained knowledge and imagery associated with such places.
…Ultimately, this was the dream of a deity.
He took a light breath and stepped up to the front door of the cottage. A small garden patch was planned beside the door, but no flowers were planted in it. Even though everything here appeared tranquil and peaceful, it also felt as though everything had already changed.
He raised his hand and politely knocked on the door.
There was no response.
He couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at his astounding caution. Did he truly suspect that Akamara was still living inside this house?
Yet just as he reached out, intending to grasp the doorknob and open the door, he suddenly froze. He glanced to the side and noticed that upon the previously empty flowerbed, a single, fully bloomed flower had appeared.
It was an extraordinarily beautiful rose. He recognized it at first glance, for such a flower was unmistakable. Even so, he couldn’t suppress a surge of surprise—why would a rose suddenly appear here? What connection did roses have with Akamara?
He blinked, and in the very next second, the flower vanished abruptly, as if its vivid appearance moments ago had merely been a hallucination.
However, a sudden epiphany struck his mind.
Instinctively, he wanted to look toward the lake—he realized he had made a new discovery! An invisible guidance had emerged, seemingly prompted by that flower, or perhaps by his polite act of knocking.
He wanted to gaze at the lake, but he ultimately held back. He understood clearly that if he pursued this new discovery right now, he would likely be forced to leave this place immediately. And if he left, the next time he could return to the deep-sea dream would be 21 days later—far too long a wait.
Thus, he restrained himself. After careful consideration, he departed from the farm first.
His method of leaving the farm was to search for the dream bubble of “Siles Noel” once more and touch it. Soon after, he returned to the deep-sea dreams.
…It felt rather wondrous, as though he were traveling back and forth between two sides of a nesting doll.
He checked on Emil’s dream and saw that the boy had already completed nearly a third of the puzzle. The emerging picture showed a classroom scene. The speed was astonishing. Returning to Emil’s dream, Siles praised the boy’s diligence and cleverness before retrieving the puzzle.
“So, Mr. Ghost, will I be able to buy these toys in Professor Noel’s store later?” Emil asked, looking up with wide, expectant eyes.
“Yes,” Mr. Ghost said gently. “Though I suppose that depends on Mr. Noel’s pace.”
Emil immediately responded, “I understand! I’ll go urge the professor!”
Mr. Ghost: “…”
It seemed he had just brought a minor annoyance upon himself—my apologies, Professor Noel. Who told him to play the role of Mr. Ghost right now?
He bade Emil farewell, agreeing to meet again in 21 days.
Returning to the solitary island, he pondered for a moment while looking at the seedling representing Nona. An idea crossed his mind, though he hesitated over whether he should execute it—was it possible to transplant this seedling over to the farm?
Would that give him a clearer picture of Nona’s condition? Would it allow him to gain greater control over the farm’s circumstances?
Or would doing so unleash more of Akamara’s power, specifically causing more of the spider silk binding the little girl doll to snap?
…In the end, he cautiously abandoned the idea. It was merely a flash of inspiration, and no one could guarantee it would bring any benefit to Nona—what if Akamara’s power ended up corrupting her instead?
He could not take that risk. Faced with the mysterious and the unknown, he preferred a prudent, gradual approach.
Before he returned to the farm, it suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten one task today: searching for Jonathan Bryant’s dream. He had always hoped to glean some information from the Minister of Finance’s dream, but during his past searches, he had failed to locate the old man’s dream bubble. Perhaps the man simply rarely dreamed.
Without holding much expectation, he tried once more—and to his surprise, a bubble actually responded to his thoughts!
He felt that strange vibration again, but this time, the ripple did not envelop him; it merely swept across the vast sea of dreams. Soon after, a single droplet of water separated from the rest, suddenly floating right before his eyes.
Without hesitation, as though transcending time and distance, his instinct drove him to reach out and touch the water droplet.
In the next second, he entered an unfamiliar dream.
It was absolute darkness. He could see nothing, yet he knew he was standing somewhere solid. Faintly, he sensed that something was present ahead of him.
“…Who are you?” the entity spoke suddenly. Its voice was old and slow, yet exceedingly sinister, conveying a sense of cold cruelty. “Why are you here?”
Dim light suddenly illuminated the surrounding space, casting a twilight glow like a stage spotlight centered directly upon him. Under this faint light, the thing ahead revealed a portion of its true form.
It was a monstrous, bloated entity. His—or rather, its—body appeared utterly consumed by countless diseases, pathogens, tumors, and necrotic tissue. Yellowish-brown pustules, looking ready to burst, covered its forehead, hands, stomach, and feet. Trembling, flesh-colored spheres webbed with blue veins and blood vessels sprouted tightly around those pustules. Maggots writhed within its eyes, rotten meat paste clogged the gaps of its teeth, and thick plasma coated its palms.
Beside its feet sat a bucket filled with blood. From time to time, it let out soft, painful grunts, reaching into the bucket to scoop up half-coagulated blood and smear it onto its own body to soothe the invisible agony.
It looked as though it were living in intolerable pain, on the verge of dying at any second; yet it also seemed desperately thrilled to be alive, clinging to life with every fiber of its being.
…In the dream, Mr. Ghost gazed quietly at this disgusting, swollen, massive monster.
It grunted again, murmuring, “Who are you?”
Mr. Ghost paused briefly before replying, “You may view me as a ghost of the dream realm.”
“A ghost of the dream realm?” it scoffed. “Playing the mystique.”
Its tone was steeped in the disdain and harshness typical of a high-ranking figure.
Mr. Ghost remained silent.
He wondered: Is this Jonathan Bryant? Why does he appear as such a hideous sight in his dream?
…Was it because his body was so frail, tortured by illness, that he manifested as a monster crafted from disease within his subconscious? But what was the deal with that bucket of blood? Why would he use that blood to alleviate his pain in the dream?
His basic knowledge of Earth psychology told him that everything in a dream could reflect a person’s subconscious thoughts.
Nona missed the carefree times before her illness, when she played on green pastures with her friends; thus, the grass and playing children became her sweet dream.
Emil disliked appreciating those paintings in the museum but could not defy his grandfather’s wishes; thus, the art gallery became his nightmare.
So what was the meaning behind Jonathan Bryant’s bizarre appearance?
Mr. Ghost remarked casually, “You seem to be suffering greatly, however. Perhaps I might be able to help you.”
“Help me?” it repeated with deep suspicion. Then, it fell silent for a moment.
Suddenly, it began to laugh. “Can you make me immortal?”
Immortal? Mr. Ghost was slightly taken aback.
It was as if emotions long suppressed suddenly crashed through its composure. It forcefully squeezed a pustule near its cheek, causing a foul odor to burst forth instantly while yellowish-white pus splattered over its body.
Mr. Ghost was not hit, but he could not help frowning. The pitch-black space reeked of a nauseating stench.
It spat, “I’ve lived for so many years! The previous Grand Duke died, yet I am still alive! I outlived my colleagues one by one, desperately fighting just to stay alive, just to exist!
“And yet now, this winter, living has become a luxury! I have money, I have power, I can have seventeen or eighteen doctors attending to me at all times. I thought I would watch that ungrateful little brat die before me!
“And the result? The result is that death is still coming! Death is still… coming after all!”
Its voice was raspy, yet it failed to project much strength. The hatred seemed to have been replaced by the profound exhaustion of old age; only that raspy, trembling tone conveyed the sheer desperation within its mind.
Mr. Ghost narrowed his eyes, watching it in silence.
After a short pause, it spoke again: “From the day I was born, I knew I would face death. I was destined to be death’s prisoner, destined to return to death. My soul will cling to the shadow of death.
“Yet as I lived on, I realized… only the living can truly sense death—death itself! Once you die, there is nothing left! Only the living know what death is; the dead know nothing of death!”
It grew suddenly agitated, emphasizing once more: “Only the living know death! The dead know nothing!”
Mr. Ghost asked, “Are you a believer of Thaddeus?”
It suddenly let out a strangled “Ugh,” like a toad caught by the throat, emitting a series of garbled murmurs.
Mr. Ghost continued, “I have heard that over the course of time, many people have confused the concepts of certain deities. Is that the case for you? Only the living can experience death and prove their devout faith.
“You are a believer of Thaddeus, yet you crave the warmth of Personari. You long for death, yet you fear death. So you fabricated an excuse to keep yourself alive forever, wrapping it in a grand title, believing that staying alive is the only way to carry out Thaddeus’s will.”
He wondered: Does this Jonathan Bryant know about the Moshaque Hills? Does he know about the group of old men there?
Mr. Ghost’s voice lowered gradually: “Perhaps… you are simply afraid of dying…”
Suddenly, his vision blurred, as if the dream bubble had abruptly burst. In the next second, he found himself back on the solitary island.
He froze, realizing that Jonathan Bryant had awakened. He had been forcibly expelled from the dream—was it because of what he had said?
Regardless, he had indeed gleaned some crucial information from that dream.
He turned his gaze toward the center of the island. Upon the soft red clay, a third plant had appeared.
Unlike the two vibrant seedlings beside it, this was a withered, yellowed vine on the verge of decay. It lay solitary on the ground, short and frail, unable even to strike roots into the soil.
The owner of this plant was dying.
He stared at it for a moment, letting out a soft sigh. Then he shook his head, warning himself not to overthink it. Jonathan Bryant clearly harbored malicious schemes; there was no need to pity such a man.
Of course, as for death itself—merely death as a concept—he could afford that single sigh.
Soon, he calmed down and noted the stark contrast between the three plant forms. From this perspective, Nona’s current health seemed relatively fine; at least her seedling was growing quite vibrantly.
With that thought, he felt somewhat reassured and headed over to the farm. The faint vitality of the farm made him feel much better. The subtle sense of guidance reappeared as soon as he arrived.
This time, he did not resist the feeling, letting himself naturally follow the guidance forward until he reached the edge of the lake.
He looked down—something seemed to be reflected in the water.
…Stars?
No, a planet. The Fisher World!
Reflected in the mirror-like surface of the lake was the entire world!
He stared at the world in astonishment, viewing it from this perspective for the very first time. A world map? he thought. What purpose does this map serve?
Just as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed three plants clustered closely together. All three plants were located in the exact same place, the same country, the same world…
…Through the lake water, he could see the real-world locations of the dreams he had visited.
The moment he realized this, he also felt that he was about to leave this place. The sensation was clear yet surprisingly gradual, as if the farm were slowing down his departure.
Without hesitation, he utilized the last remaining moments to look toward the location of the seedling representing Nona.
In the next moment, Siles opened his eyes.
“…Lamifa… West District?” he murmured softly.
The vast planet could be zoomed in on. Naturally, that brief glimpse made him realize that only locations containing a “plant”—or rather, locations corresponding to dreams he had visited—appeared relatively clear. Other places he had never visited in dreams remained extremely blurred.
Currently, only the Duchy of Konst region on that planet possessed any clarity, particularly Lamifa City.
Perhaps, as he entered more dreams, the details of this map—this planet—would become progressively clearer.
…Much like unlocking the main map in an exploration game, Siles thought.
Right before leaving the dream, he had seized those few seconds to instinctively zoom in on the planet, catching sight of Nona’s seedling location. However, he hadn’t had enough time to inspect the exact details.
He could only broadly discern that Nona seemed to be in the West District of Lamifa, relatively close to the Kanla River, though he couldn’t be entirely certain if his eyes had deceived him.
He pondered this for a moment before his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
What did this lake and this planet truly symbolize? Did every Old God’s “paradise” harbor similar phenomena?
If that were the case, it would explain how the Old God followers at the Withered Wasteland were able to accomplish unbelievable feats through the “Temple of Belan.”
A “paradise” was not merely a dwelling place; it was the projection of a deity’s power onto the material world. If spirituality was the key for humans to command extraordinary power, then a “paradise” was almost like an Old God solidifying their own “spirituality” into something…
A composite, functional structure?
And human spirituality corresponded to the Divinity of the Old Gods.
Akamara’s Divinity pertained to “dreams” and “illusions,” and Her “paradise” happened to be the realm where dreams resided. The correlation was unmistakable.
Of course, matching other Old Gods’ Divinity to their respective paradises was likely far less straightforward.
In the late-night darkness, Siles quietly reflected.
…Nona was in the West District. That wasn’t entirely surprising, but it gave Siles a clear and comforting range to focus on. But where in the West District was she specifically?
Judging by the states of the plants corresponding to Jonathan and Nona, Nona should still be safe for now—at least compared to that dying vine. That allowed Siles to breathe a sigh of relief. Still, he needed to find a way to pinpoint Nona’s exact location.
Darwin Hospital… the underground gang? He suddenly thought.
Perhaps he would need the help of those children in the West District. Their knowledge of the West District likely surpassed anyone else’s, especially regarding hidden locations.
Furthermore, regarding Jonathan Bryant, Siles felt a subtle blend of emotions—a mixture of pity, disgust, and regret. Yet another follower of an Old God who had strayed onto the wrong path. No, Jonathan couldn’t even be said to have strayed; he had simply succumbed to human weakness, letting that weakness overpower what should have been an unshakeable faith.
A believer of death who lacked the courage to face death itself.
…Because he was afraid to die. But who could truly claim they had no fear of death?
Under this premise, if Jonathan Bryant was secretly funding the underground gang, and if he was secretly controlling the research at Darwin Hospital… those young children…
Wait.
Youth and old age?
Siles froze. An almost unbelievable suspicion flashed through his mind. Yet, in a world filled with such extraordinary phenomena, he realized such an occurrence was far from impossible.
Containers? Rebirth containers?
Who could say whether a greedy believer truly intended to resurrect an Old God within a container, or… resurrect their own dying self?
…Siles almost instinctively closed his eyes, overcome with disgust and revulsion at the thought.
Mental pollution… the Time Traces collected by the underground gang… the voices speaking inside Nona’s head… so many children suffering from mysterious mental illnesses…
Siles felt a faint sense of helplessness.
Revelators knew that utilizing Time Traces carried the risk of mental pollution. It had even made Siles feel as though ghosts of the past were reawakening in this era. He had also wondered if he could prepare for his future self by securing corresponding Time Traces and rituals in advance.
Yet he had never considered that someone might intentionally spread this mental pollution—mental pollution originating from themselves—so that their own soul might awaken in someone else at a future moment.
…That wasn’t impossible, was it?
The dead turning back to life; the living marching toward death.
No one knew if it would actually work, or if one’s soul could truly be resurrected inside a stranger’s body, but it represented a desperate gamble for immortality.
Siles rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The chill in the night air seemed to seep through his heavy quilt, chilling him to the bone. He couldn’t make out the ceiling in the pitch darkness, just as he couldn’t clearly see that hideous, disease-ridden monster in the dark dream.
A decrepit old man seeking to reawaken his soul inside the healthy body of a young child. That was why those doctors paid so much attention to the children’s “physiques”—because… because an elder needed a container healthy enough to hold his soul.
Is that it? he asked himself. Is this theory plausible?
He found it hard to believe such a horrific idea, feeling he might be overthinking it, yet he knew it was entirely possible. He simply hadn’t thought in that direction until he witnessed Jonathan’s dream manifestation and his desperate fear of death.
It was four in the morning in Lamifa City. Unable to fall back asleep, he lay with his eyes open, staring silently into the darkness, waiting for dawn to disperse the gloom in his mind.
Around six o’clock, Siles got out of bed, setting those complex thoughts aside for the moment.
On Monday morning, he needed to visit Darwin Hospital first to assist Professor Bright with his discharge procedures.
Professor Bright had taken a fall last month and sprained his ankle. Fortunately, it wasn’t a severe injury. After recovering in the hospital for over a month, he was ready to be discharged and return to his academic duties.
Siles had visited him several times over the past month, noting that while the fall hadn’t broken any bones, it had made Professor Bright acutely aware of his advancing age. He had expressed his intention to retire after the current academic year more than once. After careful thought, Siles rationally considered it a wise choice.
Professor Bright had reached retirement age, especially by the standards of this era. He could fully step back and enjoy a peaceful retirement.
Professor Bright shared the sentiment. He seemed to treat Siles more and more like his own child, occasionally patting Siles’s hand warmly. It made Siles feel that the once strict and hot-tempered Professor Bright was gradually yielding to the passage of time.
It was a complex feeling.
Siles arrived at Darwin Hospital shortly before eight in the morning. The orderly had already packed the luggage, though Professor Bright was still slowly finishing his breakfast. Seeing Siles, he smiled warmly. “Good morning, Siles.”
“Good morning, Professor,” Siles said. “Where is your medical record? I’ll handle the discharge paperwork for you.”
“Ah, right here.” Professor Bright handed it over, adding, “Finally getting out. I’ve missed my soft bed at home immensely, rather than this wretched…”
He gestured toward the hospital bed.
“…Cold, stark-white, hard, creaky iron frame!”
Siles nearly laughed at his tone. Maintaining his composure, he said, “You’ll be sleeping in your favorite bed tonight.”
Professor Bright nodded in satisfaction.
Taking the medical record, Siles headed toward the front counter. A middle-aged man dressed in attire resembling that of a noble family’s butler was standing in line ahead of him.
Siles stood a short distance behind him, waiting for the man to finish speaking with the nurse.
“…Nanisal. Yes, ma’am. He was registered under that name, without a surname,” the middle-aged man said in a low voice.
Nanisal? The boy referred to as the ‘Holy Child’ by the dice?
Siles instinctively looked up. He couldn’t see the man’s expression, but he noticed a look of hesitation on the nurse’s face behind the counter. After all, why wouldn’t a family register a child’s surname?
However, the nurse didn’t press the matter. She simply asked, “So, for this… Master Nanisal, are you planning to handle his discharge?”
“Yes,” the middle-aged man replied sullenly.
The nurse said, “In that case, please sign this form…”
Siles narrowed his eyes, quietly taking two steps back before heading swiftly toward Nanisal’s ward. If Nanisal was truly Jonathan’s secret grandson, and if Jonathan’s true intention was to prolong his own life…
He pushed open the door to Nanisal’s ward. Under the young boy’s startled, bewildered gaze, Siles observed him briefly, then shifted his gaze to the small metallic abacus hanging around Nanisal’s neck like an ornament.
“…Remember to take that abacus off,” Siles said in a low tone. “When your grandfather isn’t around. Don’t let anyone notice it.”
Nanisal looked down in confusion, grasping the metallic abacus at his chest. He seemed entirely unable to process what was happening, and his mental state appeared somewhat sluggish today.
Siles thought to himself: Who knows what scheme Jonathan is calculating.
He shook his head, offering one final remark: “Remember your name. Your name is Nanisal.”
With that, he turned and left the room. Halting near the corridor corner, he noticed the middle-aged man entering Nanisal’s ward less than a minute later.
Once the man was inside, Siles casually walked over to the counter to handle Professor Bright’s discharge paperwork.
When he returned, Professor Bright had finished breakfast and was taking a slow morning walk around the room to stretch his limbs.
Siles remarked, “I heard the boy in the neighboring room is also being discharged today. Professor, did you ever interact with him?”
“That boy?” Professor Bright pondered. “The one who shouted loudly before? Let me think… Ah, I remember. Last month when you came to visit, shortly after you left, that boy came over and chatted with me for a bit.
“It was so long ago that I almost forgot. He’s a pitiable child. His parents didn’t care for him much; it was his neighbors who helped raise him. He had quite a temper and wasn’t very liked, so after his parents passed, no one wanted to take him in. He roamed the West District for a while before someone claiming to be his grandfather showed up. Who knows if that was real or fake?
“Still, since he’s in the hospital, it means someone is willing to pay for his medical treatment. Though it’s quite tragic for a child to stay in a hospital all by himself.”
Siles thought: That might not be the whole truth.
However, he noticed a subtle detail in Professor Bright’s words. Frowning slightly, he asked, “You mentioned he used to wander the West District?”
“Yes,” Professor Bright nodded. “That’s what he said. If I recall correctly… it was around this summer?”
Siles mused that this was an intriguing detail. Perhaps Jimmy might know of Nanisal’s existence?
And why had Nanisal been willing to open up to Professor Bright so much?
While he pondered, Professor Bright finished changing his clothes. Siles picked up the luggage. The orderly had already gone downstairs to call a carriage.
“Is there anyone at your residence right now?” Siles asked.
“I’ve already hired someone to clean the house, and the cook should be at work,” Professor Bright replied. “Don’t worry so much about me, Siles. I still remember your cold last month.”
Siles: “…”
He offered a mild response: “There’s really no need to remember that for so long, Professor.”
Professor Bright burst into hearty laughter, appearing as cheerful as ever.
They boarded a hired carriage bound for Professor Bright’s residence—a house located in the East District of Lamifa, north of Atherton Square. This was Siles’s first time visiting Professor Bright’s home.
En route, Professor Bright described his home layout. It was a three-story house in a quiet neighborhood, very convenient for daily life, though a bit far from Lamifa University—about a thirty to forty-minute walk. However, Professor Bright owned a private carriage and employed a driver.
“If you plan to buy a house in the future, you might consider this area,” Professor Bright suggested. “Many scholars reside around here due to its proximity to the Lamifa Library.”
Siles understood. He had visited the Lamifa Library a few times himself; certain books were difficult to find or borrow at the university library, requiring visits to higher-tier libraries for copies. For Siles, it was indeed a good option.
He asked, “How much would a house in this area cost?”
“Five or six thousand Duke coins?” Professor Bright quoted offhandedly. “Honestly, Siles, you can afford to wait a bit. Your published paper will bring you a substantial financial reward as well.”
“What?” Siles was caught off guard. He had never expected his paper to bring him financial gain.
Of course, after his paper on wandering poets was published, he had earned greater respect at the university, but that was a matter of reputation. Furthermore, Chendo’s teaching assistant application had been approved swiftly, likely influenced by the paper. Siles suspected the History Department leadership had noticed Professor Mantel’s suppression of him and placed greater value on Siles’s talent because of the essay.
But actual economic benefits?
Siles’s reaction amused Professor Bright. He chuckled helplessly and said, “My goodness, Siles… that was an Outstanding-rated paper! Once January arrives, the internal department evaluations will award you a generous prize!”
Only then did Siles realize what Professor Bright meant. He had underestimated the benefits brought by an academic paper, realizing that beyond preparing lessons, teaching, managing student clubs, and attending society gatherings, he had completely forgotten a major aspect of academic life: evaluation for promotions and awards.
Accolades like “Outstanding Young Faculty” or “Annual Scholarly Achievement Awards” would bring both financial bonuses and favor from department heads—benefits he had previously overlooked.
Professor Bright added, “Besides, Dean Hurst is certainly aware of what that old fool Mantel did. Just wait, Siles. Dean Hurst will invite you for a chat soon, offering some words of comfort and casually mentioning certain benefits…
“It’s effectively compensation for you, though the Dean won’t state it outright. That’s standard practice.”
Siles nodded thoughtfully. Swaying gently with the carriage, his thoughts drifted as he gazed out the window at the hazy winter cityscape.
He asked, “What kind of compensation do you think it will be?”
Professor Bright thought for a moment before speaking: “It won’t be direct money or material goods, even if that old fool’s actions were somewhat petty.” He rubbed his chin. “However…”
He paused in thought.
“Right,” Professor Bright suddenly remembered. “Do you recall the spring break scholar visit program?”
Siles paused, recalling briefly. “I remember… it was mentioned during the end-of-term faculty meeting last semester.”
He had casually noted it down in his notebook at the time—since one had to write something during meetings—and assumed such an opportunity would never fall to a newcomer like him.
He expressed his doubts: “Would I really be considered for such an opportunity?”
Hearing him say that, Professor Bright feigned displeasure: “Why wouldn’t you be? Don’t sell yourself short, Siles.”
“I’m merely surprised,” Siles said.
Professor Bright explained further: “In previous years, these scholar visits were to neighboring countries like Kansas, or to other domestic universities.”
Siles nodded, finding that logical. Traversing the Ashless Lands was fraught with danger, and international travel hadn’t always been convenient, so academic exchanges naturally favored safer destinations.
“However, the Grand Duke proposed developing the Ashless Lands this year to establish stable diplomatic ties with more nations,” Professor Bright noted. “As the most prominent university in Konst, Lamifa University must show proper initiative.
“Therefore, this spring break scholar visit will likely involve traveling to far more distant places. It might turn out to be a grueling journey, especially if it requires passing through the Ashless Lands, making it considerably more dangerous.
“Because of that, some who were originally eligible might be reluctant to go. Normally, such assignments are given to mid-career professors—middle-aged, steady, and dependable.
“But now…” He shrugged before continuing, “Siles, I believe you stand a strong chance of being selected. First, you are a new professor who has achieved remarkable academic success, making you well worth cultivating.
“Second, you faced unfair pressure within your department—though that old fool’s methods were rather childish—and the department owes you an explanation. Professor Mantel reassigned your original teaching assistant without valid justification, which was a terrible precedent. Dean Hurst utterly despises private grudges interfering with department affairs.”
Siles understood. He asked, “Professor, do you know where the delegation might be sent next year?”
“That I cannot say,” Professor Bright replied. “It depends on the leadership’s intentions… Perhaps whichever country Konst has been strengthening ties with recently?”
Hearing that, a specific nation immediately surfaced in Siles’s mind: Middleton.
A country that even the merchant Lanmere had rarely traded with had suddenly hosted an art exhibition in Lamifa City recently—an event that was unusual in itself.
Perhaps the Lamifa University History Department’s spring break delegation would be heading to Middleton? Siles couldn’t help but wonder.
Still, he remained pragmatic, realizing his participation was merely a possibility rather than a certainty. He temporarily set the matter aside.
By then, the carriage had arrived at Professor Bright’s residence. The weather today was surprisingly pleasant, with rare sunlight gracing the chilly ground. Siles helped carry the luggage inside and handed over the student assignments he had collected while substituting for Professor Bright over the past month.
“So, how did those students perform on their assignments?” Professor Bright asked with keen interest.
Siles hesitated briefly, deciding to play the benevolent colleague: “They were very diligent, and their work was well-executed.”
Professor Bright nodded, then added, “No need to cover for them.” He tapped his finger against the stack of papers. “I’ll grade them myself.”
Siles: “…”
What could he say? That Chendo had been quite generous when grading those papers?
He maintained a helpless silence.
Siles joined Professor Bright for lunch before taking his leave.
It was Monday afternoon, December 21st.
It struck him that, by Earth’s calendar, today coincided with the Winter Solstice—a day traditionally marked by eating dumplings.
…Dumplings.
Although Siles knew full well that neither he nor Chendo would likely figure out how to wrap dumplings properly, he couldn’t resist stopping by the market on his way back to purchase flour, eggs, cabbage, and pork.
Oh, and tomatoes.
If wrapping dumplings proved too difficult… he could always have Chendo attempt scrambled eggs with tomatoes first, couldn’t he?
