Mystery: Gray Walker

Chapter 152

Eliza took a small sip of water but did not answer immediately.

She put down the cup, her fingers unconsciously stroking the inside, as if pondering how to phrase it.

“Green,” she began slowly, “the Church does have the relevant procedures and resources. For wild extraordinary individuals who pose a high risk of getting out of control but have not yet caused significant harm, especially if their relatives apply, the Church may consider intervening to conduct an assessment and—possibly—containment guidance. But this requires rigorous screening to assess their danger, controllability, and the degree of cooperation from their relatives.”

She looked into Green's eyes, her tone growing increasingly serious: "But Emily's case—according to preliminary reports, she's involved in a murder, and a close relative at that. That's a completely different matter. The Church's first priority is to prevent the harm from escalating and to protect the public. In this situation, searching often means locating and eliminating the threat."

Green's heart sank. It was pretty much what he expected, but hearing it with his own ears still sent a chill down his spine.

"Isn't there any other way?"

He asked, unwilling to give up, "What if—what if her actions weren't entirely of her own volition? What if she was coerced, or—influenced by some force?"

Eliza's brow furrowed even more.

"Do you have any evidence, Green? This kind of speculation is dangerous. The loss of control by extraordinary individuals can lead to extreme behavior, and blaming external influences is sometimes just a way for relatives to comfort themselves when they don't want to accept reality."

I found a note.

1

Green took the folded paper out of his pocket, carefully unfolded it, and handed it to Eliza. "Found in her room. The handwriting is hers, but the contents—take a look."

Eliza took the note, put on her glasses, and read it carefully. When she saw the words "Someone is calling me," her fingers paused slightly.

"this----"

She looked up, her gaze grave. "This is indeed—unusual. Simple madness rarely leaves behind such a clear sense of being 'called upon.' This is more like—a state of being manipulated."

She handed the note back to Green, pondered for a moment, and said, "If you persist in this direction and have solid clues pointing to external interference—then there might still be room for maneuver. The church handles cases involving cult incitement and corruption in high positions differently. Locating and eliminating the source of corruption is sometimes a priority over dealing with the corrupted individuals themselves."

A glimmer of hope flickered in Green's heart: "Then what should I do? How can I prove—or at least get the church to investigate in this direction?"

Eliza walked to a small safe in the corner of the archives, entered the password, and took out a form.

"You can formally submit an investigation request for a 'Suspected Incident Induced by Extraordinary Forces'."

She handed the form to Green. "You need to provide a detailed description of all the anomalies you've discovered, including this note, and any clues you believe might be related to external forces. After the application is submitted, it will be evaluated by the deacon in charge of the relevant area. If he deems it worthy of investigation, he may dispatch a specialized investigator or a Purifier team to intervene."

She paused, then added, "But Green, you have to understand, even if the application is approved, our team's primary task is to assess the threat level and clean up the contamination. After we find Emily, how we handle her will still depend on her condition at the time and the harm she caused. The best outcome might simply be—to house her in a special church facility for long-term observation and purification. That might not be the reunion you're looking for."

"7

Special facility containment — purification.

These words alone are chilling.

But at least, it's a path.

A path that might lead to Emily and uncover the truth.

Moreover, if, as Lillian hinted and the note indicated, Veronica Thorne was indeed behind it all, then the Church's intervention might be able to strike at that dangerous enemy.

"I see."

Green took the form, his fingers tightening slightly. "I will fill out this application. Also—"

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "If I want to do some preliminary research before submitting the application, such as trying some divination or tracking methods to determine the general direction and increase the persuasiveness of the application—is there any deacon within the church who is good at this and relatively easy to communicate with, whom I could consult?"

He asked carefully, trying to make his intentions sound like he was "increasing the persuasiveness of the application" rather than acting on his own initiative.

Eliza gave him a deep look, seemingly seeing through some of his thoughts, but she didn't point it out. She pondered for a moment.

"Over there at the Grand Cathedral of St. Milon, there lives an old monk named Cecil. He's quite old and rarely participates in day-to-day affairs, but he's said to be very knowledgeable in 'mysticism' and 'spiritual tracing,' and in his youth was one of the best 'Night Watchers.' He's a bit—eccentric—but not a bad person. If you visit him under the guise of inquiring about ancient rituals or symbols, he might be willing to give you some guidance."

She wrote down an address and handed it to Green: "This is the address of his retreat in the back wing of the Grand Cathedral of St. Milon, next to the old cemetery. Remember, Green, Brother Cecil doesn't like to be disturbed, and he especially dislikes overly assertive requests for help. You need to show respect and humility for knowledge itself."

Brother Cecil—

Green noted down the name and address, and solemnly thanked Eliza: "Thank you very much, Ms. Eliza. Your help—means a great deal to me."

Eliza waved her hand, a gentle smile returning to her face: "Go, child. Act with caution, and may the goddess light your way."

Leaving the archives, Green didn't immediately go to find Clarice or Alvin. He needed some time to process the information Eliza had provided and refine his plan.

Brother Cecil — The Great Cathedral of St. Milon.

According to Green, St. Milon, as the core of the diocese, governed several cities including Oberhafen and was the true center of power.

It was not only where the bishops resided, but also the headquarters of the "Red Gloves".

This elite force, directly under the archbishop, is the Church's sharpest weapon against the highest level of threats.

The ultimate goal of the most elite members of the Oberhafen Night's Watch is to pass a rigorous selection process and qualify to be transferred to San Mirón and join the "Red Gloves".

"Before formally submitting an application that might trigger rigorous scrutiny, go and meet this old monk who is said to be skilled in 'divination' and 'spiritual tracking.' Under the guise of seeking knowledge, you might be able to subtly obtain some revelation on how to track the 'called one,' or even—if you're lucky—some vague guidance directly."

He touched the silver hair clip and the note in his pocket.

He had the medium and the clues; now, he needed a guide who could interpret the "call."

As night deepened, the gaslights in the sanatorium corridors lit up one by one, casting long shadows on the polished floor. Green stood in the shadows of the corridor, gazing out the window at the deep night.

Winters in Oberhafen are cold and long. But some roads, no matter how cold, must be walked.

He tightened his coat, carefully put away the form, turned around, and walked towards his temporary rest room.

Green sat down on the sofa, closed his eyes, and tried to temporarily suppress his chaotic thoughts. Exhaustion washed over him instantly, not just physically, but also mentally.

Just then, a series of slightly dragging footsteps, accompanied by the soft tapping of a cane on the ground, approached from afar. Green opened his eyes and saw Erwin leaning on his cane, hobbling towards him with a limp, a slightly frivolous smile still on his face.

"Hey, partner."

Irwin laboriously sat down on the single sofa next to Green, letting out a long sigh as if he had accomplished a great feat.

He rummaged around in his pocket with his uninjured hand for a while, then pulled out a magazine with curled edges and a fancy cover, and tossed it casually toward Green.

The magazine landed on Green's lap with a "thud".

Green glanced down and saw a scantily clad, alluring woman on the cover, with an exaggerated font for the title—"Midnight Rose:

A gentleman's private garden.

His lips twitched, and he looked up to glare at Alvin.

"Take a look at this," Alvin said, leaning back on the sofa, his tone relaxed. "It helps relieve mental fatigue and relax tense nerves. Trust me, it's a proven remedy."

Green picked up the magazine and then threw it back into Alvin's arms with a loud "thud."

"You're injured like this, and you still have the mind to think about this kind of thing?" His tone was filled with disbelief and a hint of annoyance. "Clarice is right, you should stay in the medical room."

Alvin caught the magazine and shrugged nonchalantly, which aggravated his wound, causing him to wince in pain, but his smile remained unchanged.

"Hiss—life is short, so enjoy it while you can, Green."

He adjusted his posture to make himself more comfortable, but his gaze drifted to the window. "Who knows, maybe I won't be able to see it tomorrow, or... I won't be in the mood to look."

He said it so casually, yet it sent a shiver down Green's spine. He detected a hint of self-mockery hidden beneath that relaxed tone, even—the indifference that comes from having just been on the brink of death.

That is indeed the job of the night watchman.

Today's colleague, who's joking around with you, might become a cold name in the archives tomorrow, or even have no name left at all.

A brief silence fell over the room. The flames in the fireplace flickered and crackled softly.

Irwin stopped trying to sell his magazine and simply placed it on a small table to the side. He turned to look at Green, his flippant expression softening somewhat.

"Seriously, Green," he said, his voice lowering, "you look like you need more rest than I do. Your eyes are bloodshot like spiderwebs. Still thinking about your cousin?"

Green didn't deny it, but rubbed his temples. "Yeah. Eliza gave me an application form and pointed me in the right direction."

"Cecil?"

Alvin raised an eyebrow, clearly recognizing the man.

"That old guy is difficult to deal with. He's very rule-bound, has a strange temper, and is always talking nonsense. But—he really does have real skills. I heard that when he was young, he could find people hiding in the sewers just from a trace of residual spiritual energy, and he could smell something was wrong from three blocks away."

He paused, looking at Green: "You want to go find him? For Emily's sake?"

“I want to try,” Green said, “at least to figure out what that ‘call’ really is.” Eliza said that if it could be proven to be external manipulation, things might change.

"A turning point—"

Alvin repeated the word, smiling enigmatically. "A turning point for the church's special facilities?" That place—

It's not much better than prison. But it's better than just being "eliminated," right?

His words were direct, but Green knew he was telling the truth.

Irwin looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Alright. Do you need me to go with you? Although I might not be of much help in my current state, I can at least give you some courage, or—when the old man kicks you out, I can help you pick up your things."

He spoke in a relaxed tone, but it made Green feel quite relieved.

Although Alvin usually seems carefree and talks a lot of nonsense, he is actually quite reliable when it matters.

"No."

Green shook his head. "Eliza said Brother Cecil doesn't like to be disturbed, the fewer people the better. Besides, you should just stay here and recover. If Clarice finds out I tricked you into going out, she'll skin me alive."

"She's been quite irritable lately."

Alvin muttered something, then flashed that nonchalant smile again. "Then be careful on your own. Cecil's place is near the old cemetery by the Grand Cathedral; that place—it's quite lively at night." Take your gun; it's not very safe lately. Also, don't touch anything in his house, especially those bottles that look like antiques or contain strange liquids.

"understood."

Green stood up. "You too, get some rest. Stop thinking about your midnight roses."

Alvin chuckled, picked up the magazine again, and casually flipped through it, as if the serious conversation from just moments ago had never happened.

"When you come back, we can share our thoughts on the book."

Green shook his head helplessly, ignored him, and turned to walk towards the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and glanced back.

Alvin leaned back on the sofa, a magazine obscuring half his face, only his eyes, illuminated by the flickering firelight, appeared exceptionally clear, quietly watching him.

"Thanks, Alvin," Green said in a low voice.

"Go quickly and come back quickly."

Alvin's voice came from behind the magazine, muffled, "Remember to bring some late-night snacks, the food here is so bland."

Green smiled slightly, pushed open the door, and walked out.

The corridor was silent, save for the echo of his own footsteps. He checked the address in his pocket and made sure that the "Silent Messenger" and the silver hairpin were both there.

Brother Cecil — Beside the Old Cemetery —

The night was deep, and the road ahead was unknown. But as Alvin's seemingly joking words suggested, some things, if not done now, may never have another chance to be done.

After leaving the sanatorium building, Green arrived at the stables.

Instead of riding in the Night's Watch carriage, he brought out a black horse and rode it.

The reason is that the signs on the carriages are a bit eye-catching, and I should try to keep a low profile now.

Come to think of it, Green hadn't ridden a horse much since arriving in this world. The original owner of this body had some basic riding skills in his memories, but they were still rusty. He took a deep breath of the crisp winter night air, adjusted his posture, and gently spurred the horse's flanks.

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