Chapter 17: The Grey-Robed Cultivator, Part 4

The young monk’s voice was like a sharp knife, slicing through the rising sobs, chilling everyone’s hearts bit by bit.

Brother Salvatore had not expected the other to break down on the spot. He hurriedly reached out to support him and gently offered words of comfort. Gradually, the young monk’s crying subsided.

In those brief minutes, through his fragmented account, the others learned what had transpired within this monastery.

This small monastery, located on the outskirts of Veris City, belonged to the Settled Order of the Natura Sect, and naturally, its occupants were gray-robed monks affiliated with the Natura Order.

Unlike Brother Salvatore, who adhered to the traditional wandering mendicant life of the gray robes, the Settled Order monks lived within their own church’s monastery.

Although most Natura monasteries did not impose the tithe and depended entirely on alms from nearby residents for daily expenses—living conditions far inferior to those of the Black Robes—the settled life was still much better than wandering aimlessly without a home.

Because of this, even the settled Natura monks appeared more approachable than the Black Robes. Their humble life earned the trust of ordinary people, and when troubles arose, villagers instinctively sought the “more accessible” gray-robed monks for help.

Monasteries in this era also served as centers for medical aid and charity, especially those of the Natura Order. Monks who voluntarily upheld the teachings of Saint Natura were often more willing to assist, as it was the cornerstone of their faith.

So, when a steady stream of the sick knocked on the monastery doors, the respected abbot opened the gates without hesitation, welcoming them inside. He mobilized all the monks to set up temporary wards within the monastery, caring for those ravaged by illness.

If told simply, this was indeed a touching tale—one that, decades or centuries later, might be recounted to glorify the Natura Church and attract believers.

Yet such heart-wrenching stories inevitably end in tragedy. In just half a month, out of the twenty-two monks in this small monastery, including the abbot, only two remained alive.

Besides the young monk before them, still weeping, another was bedridden with the disease for three days, uncertain if he would survive.

The caravan leader’s face paled upon learning there was an infected monk inside. He stepped back half a pace, evidently regretting his hasty, impromptu decision.

After his nephew returned with news from the inner city, reporting that some districts there were less severely affected than the outer city, he gritted his teeth and ultimately decided to proceed into the inner city as planned.

Before leaving, he once again invited the accompanying gray-robed monks to join them, but Brother Salvatore refused without surprise—though this time his refusal was less decisive. After speaking, he glanced hesitantly at the child by his side.

“There are patients here who need care,” the elderly monk said to Phyllis. “He is my brother; I must stay to look after him. But this is not your burden. You need not remain here with me. Going into the inner city would be safer for you… If you wish, you may go with them into the city. We shall meet again in three days.”

Phyllis did not expect such an option. She paused, then her mind began weighing the pros and cons.

Honestly, this seemed a perfect opportunity to escape from him.

From the old monk’s current demeanor, if he were not truly benevolent, he would surely be a master of disguise—either a human trafficker or a deranged cultist.

Especially given his tattered robe and monk’s status, in later entertainment works he would certainly be portrayed as the latter. Even ignoring that, heading to the inner city with fewer patients seemed safer.

Phyllis lowered her eyes, her gaze flickering over the muscular calves of the men around her, before settling on her clenched hands pressed to her chest and the money pouch hidden beneath her short cloak. Finally, she shook her head.

“I want to stay here,” she said softly, her voice faint and uncertain. “I can live alone. I can take care of myself…”

***

Having made her choice, Brother Salvatore did not force her otherwise.

After confirming the general timing with the caravan leader once more, the old man supported the nearly fainting young monk with one hand, leaned on his cane with the other, and stepped through the small gate.

The monastery was very small. Entering the church through the side door, one could immediately see the altar on the right and the nave on the left.

It was just past noon, and no lamps were lit inside. Phyllis could only make out the interior by sunlight streaming through the windows.

The pews, which should have been neatly arranged, were piled crookedly against the walls. In their place lay several indistinctly patterned blankets, curled into strange shapes, as if some silent figures were crouching in the shadows…

All these thoughts flashed like fleeting light before sinking deep into her heart.

Phyllis paused for only a moment before quickening her pace to catch up with the two ahead, entering the monks’ living quarters.

There was still a patient in the monk’s dormitory, so Brother Salvatore naturally would not allow her inside.

Before entering himself, he found two relatively clean blankets, laid the girl down behind the kitchen, then left.

***

“This place isn’t bad. There’s a fireplace for warmth at night, and no worries about hunger.”

Professor Palleusso floated around the kitchen first and summarized, “Your choice was right; this place must be safer than the inner city.”

The weather outside was pleasant now. Phyllis planned to wash those two blankets, uncertain if they harbored parasites, hoping they’d dry by evening.

As she prepared to fetch water, she heard him speak and couldn’t help but ask, “Did you go with them into the inner city? Is it really that bad there?”

“No, I didn’t go all the way in—just watched from the outskirts for a while… You know I can’t be far from you,” the bearded ghost muttered softly, then composed himself. “I don’t know the exact situation inside Veris City, but judging from the scene at the gates, it must be similar to what happened in Veneti, maybe even worse.”

Phyllis recalled that Professor Palleusso had said he decided to leave for Asca suddenly because the city he had lived in, Veneti, had suffered a plague outbreak that killed over a thousand people within a week. That forced him to flee hastily with his guards.

How many dead were in that cart? How many carts were there in total?

Though they might not have died on the same day, Veris surely had more than one city gate…

What chilled Phyllis most were the conditions of the dead.

She had witnessed proper funerals of the era and knew that even centuries ago, the Ituen people valued their departed dearly.

They prepared the dead’s bodies carefully, dressed them in their finest clothes, solemnly placed them in coffins, and had relatives escort them to the church nearby for a priest’s funeral ceremony.

That was a crucial rite—the last thing the living could do for the dead—an unquestionable, solemn matter.

Yet here, the corpses were discarded like garbage, piled messily without dignity, even more chaotically than slaughtered pigs.

How many must have died in the city for everyone to abandon respect for the deceased, allowing them to be pushed out in such a manner?

“…Maybe things aren’t as dire as we think.”

Seeing the girl’s face turn pale again, Professor Palleusso felt a pang of guilt and comforted her.

“Anyway, we’ll leave in three days. Such a severe epidemic will surely alert other city-states. Even if they didn’t believe it before, they must now. There will be precautions…”

Phyllis knew he wanted her to relax, but the knowledge lodged in her mind made it impossible to summon even a faint smile.

The Black Death spread too rapidly, like a spark landing on dry kindling. In just two years, it swept across the entire western continent from the Ituen Peninsula. Even Mare Island, across the sea from the Old Continent, was not spared. No nation could escape the reaper’s scythe, which felled a third of the western lands’ population.

Like water flooding an anthill, what use was it for a single ant to foresee the disaster?

The deluge that could drown all had come; everything was left to fate.

Phyllis silently glanced at the water spilled on the ground, then began wringing out the remaining moisture from the blanket with force.

Knock, knock, knock—knock, knock, knock—

As she dragged a chair outside to spread the wet blanket in the yard, urgent knocks sounded again at the monastery’s front door.

Perhaps the distance was far, or the knocker’s strength weak, for she listened carefully before realizing there truly was someone knocking.

“It’s a boy, looks about thirteen or fourteen…”

When Phyllis reached the door, Professor Palleusso had already come back from the other side, hesitating briefly before his expression grew complicated.

“…He must be seeking help.”

Phyllis traced a circle on her face, lowering her voice behind the noise of the knocking.

“Is he… sick too?”

“No, doesn’t look like it.” The ghost pointed to several places on himself. “No black spots on his exposed skin, but he’s dusty and has a few bleeding wounds, like from a fall.”

The monastery should open its doors to anyone seeking help. But she was only a guest here, and the monastery was truly incapable of aiding more patients now…

Just as Phyllis intended to find someone, the knocking slowed, turning into one tap after another, followed by broken, pleading words.

“Please, I beg you… anyone, open the door…”

The hoarse voice begged, “My mother is dying… she doesn’t have the plague, really doesn’t… I’m not asking you to cure her, just to hear her confession before she dies, so she can peacefully meet the Blessed Mother… I beg you, please…”

The voice was pitiful, as if pulled from the depths of despair, striking Phyllis’s heart again and again.

On a night with a silver hook hanging in the sky, she once knocked on a door with all her might just like this.

***

What was she thinking then?

Probably nothing.

She didn’t consider whether it would help, or whether a normal person would be frightened by a stranger knocking at midnight, nor whether it might endanger others.

When pushed to the brink, people often cease thinking; few can resist their instincts amid despair—because the human spirit is so fragile.

Even looking back, when that difficulty had transformed from an insurmountable mountain into a mere dirt mound, Phyllis still believed that if the door had not opened that night, she would never be who she is now.

“…”

“Stop knocking, you might hurt your hand.”

On the other side of the door, the boy who had been leaning against it suddenly straightened.

“Is… is anyone there?!”

He wiped tears and snot quickly from his face, scrambling to his feet, pressing himself against the door.

“Please, please help my mother… she really doesn’t have the plague, I swear…”

“I want to believe you, but someone here is infected.”

Before he could finish, a voice from behind the door interrupted clearly.

“If the monks here went to your home, they might bring the plague to you and your family. Are you sure you want to risk that?”

The boy hesitated briefly, then nodded eagerly.

“Of course! In this situation… if you’re willing to help my mother, it’s nothing!” He was clearly agitated, speaking incoherently. “Thank you… I don’t know how to thank you…”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not a monk and can’t help much.”

The voice on the other side cut him off again, speaking plainly.

“I can only pass your message to the monks here. If they refuse, I can’t force them. By the way, what’s your name and where is your home? If it’s too far, it probably won’t work…”

The boy, stunned, listened and realized the voice inside sounded rather young, not like someone who belonged in a monastery.

But he had no time to consider that.

He hurriedly gave his name.

“My name is Francisco—Francisco Dapra! My father, Marco, runs the only inn in Pura Town! Our home isn’t far. We often come to Veris’s church…”

“Alright. I will tell them about your situation.”

The voice said. “Don’t worry. Whether they agree or not, I will come back.”

The voice vanished, and the boy seemed to lose all strength again, almost staggering.

This was the last place he had asked… if rejected once more, he would have to go home.

But what could he do at home?

His mother had suffered so long. If she died without her final confession, could she reunite with his father in heaven?

Staring at the gray bricks, the boy zoned out.

His usually lively mind was empty, letting the seconds tick by without thought, but no sound came from behind the door.

His pounding heart slowly cooled. For a moment, he didn’t even know what he was clinging to.

What did it matter if his family often donated to churches and monasteries? The priest responsible for Pura Town had abandoned his parish, running away with all the silverware. Even priests in Veris City had grown so shameless and detestable… Why would he think this monastery on the outskirts of Veris, where they had never set foot, would help him?

He looked up at the sky. The harsh sunlight made two tears fall from his eyes. He closed them, took a deep breath, his hand pressed against the wall slowly clenched, then fell limply.

Just as he was about to turn away, the door behind him opened suddenly.

From the dim interior, an old man in a gray robe and a short-haired child emerged from the shadows.

“Francisco from Pura Town, is it?”

The elderly gray-robed monk smiled warmly, stepping toward the boy.

“I am Brother Salvatore of Ascia. If you don’t mind that I have no clerical authority, I am willing to hear your mother’s confession.”