16 The Gray-Robed Cultivator, Part 3

Phyllis was unable to sleep.

To her shame, perhaps due to giving up coffee and irregular habits, or maybe because her body had grown younger since arriving here, her sleep quality had been remarkably good ever since. She would feel drowsy as soon as night fell and open her eyes at dawn, without even having a single dream in between.

But tonight, after hearing Brother Salvatore’s words, she felt like a novice cook flipping a patty in a frying pan—tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

Had he discovered it, or had he not? Were those words meant for “Felicianne,” or for “her”...?

Since that thought appeared, it had deeply rooted itself in her mind, refusing to vanish.

Lying in bed, she vaguely saw the shadow of a sword dangling from a rope on the floor, swaying back and forth.

She sensed danger but couldn’t lift her head to confirm whether the blade hovering above her was a deadly sword or a harmless banana... That feeling was tormenting, and Phyllis simply couldn’t be so carefree as to do nothing.

So from the next day, after eating breakfast at the inn and climbing onto the carriage, she began observing the elderly monk sitting beside her in secret.

But the more she observed, the more inscrutable he seemed.

Brother Salvatore was undoubtedly a very typical gray-robed monk.

He abstained from meat, refused to kill, prayed punctually even in the wild without bells, and lived a life of utmost austerity. His entire worldly possessions amounted to a worn gray robe, a wooden staff, a water pouch, a pair of cloth shoes, and a piece of bread recently given by the innkeeper.

In Phyllis’s impression, poverty always came with suffering, but that rule seemed to fail with this old monk.

He appeared utterly unconcerned about how he would survive if the bread in his hand ran out tomorrow; his entire aura was one of tranquility.

When the caravan journeyed into the countryside again and the travelers felt bored and weary, he even led them in song.

The old man’s singing wasn’t particularly pleasant, but whenever he started a couple of lines, the young men riding alongside would unconsciously hum along, and some would even take out their flutes to play, harmonizing with the clear jingling of horsebells.

The bright flute notes darted through the air like birds in the forest, joyful as spring rain weaving through vines, silently spreading in all directions. Before long, the entire caravan was wrapped in a gentle and pleasant atmosphere.

Such a man was truly impossible to imagine committing any terrible act...

At certain moments, many thoughts flashed through her mind, soaked in the deluge of modern information, but whenever Phyllis looked at the kindly, deeply lined profile of the old monk, she involuntarily wanted to deny them.

Though in the rational modern world the word “feeling” was often ridiculed, this animal-like intuition once saved her life as a child, so even as an adult, she still occasionally relied on this “gut feeling” in social interactions.

Like now, despite the short time they had known each other and some of his words and actions unsettling her, she was certain she had not sensed a trace of malice from this old monk.

More precisely, the kindness he radiated was too obvious, and that kindness was not just toward her—it was like warm sunlight shining fairly on everyone beneath the sky.

This person would not harm me—her intuition said.

But that had no basis; what if it was a disguise? What then?—In the next moment, reason coiled around her brain like a serpent, nerves never relaxed.

Phyllis spent the entire day quietly caught in this conflict.

When night fell and the caravan lodged at an inn again, Phyllis noticed that everyone seemed much more familiar and friendly toward the two “outsiders” hitchhiking with them—old and young.

“Our luck’s been good; no bad weather these days. We should reach Veris by tomorrow afternoon,” the caravan leader said.

After dinner, the leader quietly pulled the two aside and whispered, “We still have some business to settle in Veris and will rest in the city for two or three days. Would you like to come with us?”

Before Phyllis could wonder why this was even a question, the elderly monk gently declined.

“Thank you for your concern, but I am an old friend of the prior of Reina Monastery. As I pass through, I am obliged to visit him.”

The caravan leader was not surprised by this answer and nodded. “Oh, I know the place. It’s not far from the city gate. I’ll see you to the door and notify you when we set off again.”

They exchanged a rough itinerary, and just before parting, the leader seemed to remember something and warned, “By the way, tomorrow we’ll enter the outskirts of Veris. It’s more dangerous now than before, so please be sure to protect yourselves if anything happens.”

More dangerous... How much more dangerous could it be?

In an unnoticed corner, Phyllis glanced at a ghost drifting nearby, then quickly fell silent and withdrew her gaze.

Veris, like Aska, was now a “republic” outside the control of the imperial emperor.

Such a government system, while more prosperous for trade, had undeniable shortcomings in maintaining security within the city and its surroundings.

For example, the Aska Republic lacked its own army; in times of war, it relied on mercenaries. The city had few people responsible for maintaining order and could hardly guarantee safety in the outlying areas.

Especially in recent years, continuous crop failures had caused small-scale famines. Farmers who could no longer survive and beggars driven out of the city had caused bandit groups outside the city to swell. The city’s regular anti-bandit patrols could no longer control their numbers—Professor Pireo’s murder was the best example.

At this time, Aska had not yet been annexed by Veris and was a republic comparable in strength.

From this, one could infer that the area around Veris was also rife with bandits waiting to prey on “fat sheep.”

Thinking this, Phyllis woke the next day fully alert to her surroundings.

She imagined an arrow flying at the caravan without warning, or someone brandishing a sword charging at them, or horsemen suddenly bursting out from the shadows...

After running through every “bandit” image she had seen in films and novels, the caravan had already reached a point where they could see the walls of Veris in the distance.

They had arrived at the city outskirts—the most dangerous place for caravans—but no bandits appeared as imagined.

Only when the caravan nervously reached the city walls and saw the city gates did they realize how truly fortunate they had been, having encountered not a single bandit all along.

But before anyone could relax, a strange scene suddenly and unexpectedly broke into their sight just as they were about to enter the gate.

A group of people was leaving the city gate, pushing carts or pulling them with horses and donkeys, under the direction of a guard, transporting something out of the city.

The cargo on the carts looked disorganized, like heaps of unarranged hay from afar, but anyone with a bit of life experience could tell by the heavy footsteps that the cargo was not light.

As they drew closer, the young man riding at the front of the caravan suddenly let out a short cry, startling his companions behind him who nearly drew their swords.

“It’s... those are...”

The young man, who had been cheerfully telling dirty jokes over wine just a few days before, now turned pale.

He stared fixedly at the carts for several seconds before he could no longer hold back, dismounting and vomiting on the side while bent over.

His comrade hurriedly ordered the others to stop, took the empty reins, and calmed the horse. Before he could ask what was wrong, he suddenly froze stiff as if seized by something.

Though the caravan was not large, the disturbance in front soon attracted the attention of those behind.

Phyllis couldn’t help but straighten up and stretch her neck to look ahead, but being quite short, she saw nothing at first.

Soon, however, she caught the information she sought on the wind.

A foul stench—a smell of rot—floated in with the breeze, gradually enveloping everyone.

The caravan carts stopped, but the group opposite did not.

The wheels creaked as they rolled past silently beside the caravan.

With nothing blocking her view, Phyllis finally saw the source of the stench.

Human corpses, stacked haphazardly.

Some lay on their backs with legs wide, some facedown, some showing arms, some only a foot, others showing half-rotted faces peeking through the pale gaps... Like garbage destined for the dump, both the quantity and the careless arrangement sent chills down the spine.

“My Lord above... what has happened here?!”

The caravan leader, stunned for a moment, quickly dismounted and approached the guard.

“Are you a caravan from the south?”

The guard, wearing the Veris city emblem, covered his nose and mouth, glanced at the carts full of cargo, then looked the leader up and down before waving his hand. “If you want toI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.