Chapter 2 – Island of Saints β

Along the dark and rugged corridor, he walked forward. The black stone walls were slick with dampness, covered in a thin layer of frost. Patches of dark green moss grew between the cracks, glistening under the faint firelight from the lamp troughs, dripping tiny beads of dew.

From every wall, from every crack in the stone, came the undulating sound of hymns and the continuous Mass: He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD…

He carried a bag of silverware, the coarse hemp robe scratching his skin. He tugged at the collar—no matter how many times he had been here, the lifelike sensation still amazed him.

At the fourth narrow fork in the path, he turned right. Ahead was a small stone chamber. He knew The Penitent was waiting inside. Many times before, he had listened to that guy confess his blasphemous acts of lust.

“Brother.” Sure enough, The Penitent stood up from the ground and walked toward him. The Listener couldn’t be bothered to speak to him and directly pulled open the door of the Confessional, slipping inside. He was always filled with curiosity about this small room because it was where the story began. Perhaps on some wooden board, in some hidden crevice, lay secrets he had yet to discover.

Before him was a broken chair, crooked and nearly falling apart. A red sash hung from the slanted wooden beam above. He pulled it down and asked through the carved wooden panel, “What is your sin?”

The answer was the same as always—revolving around The Convert, that infidel with cat-like eyes. During the Third Crusade of the Christian Eastward Expedition, his entire family was captured in Jerusalem. To survive, the despicable boy converted to Catholicism and was sent far away to the Island of Saints.

“He has a gold ring pierced through his left nipple, about the size of a fingernail, with an Arabesque pattern…”

The Listener frowned. The last time The Penitent had spoken, he said ‘there is’ a gold ring on his left nipple. A minor discrepancy, but he didn’t let it slide: “Say it again.”

“He has a gold ring pierced through his left nipple,” The Penitent said, somewhat puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

The Listener shook his head: “Mutilating or adorning the body violates monastery rules.”

The Penitent wanted to continue, but The Listener interrupted him: “What were you doing at this time yesterday?”

The Penitent fell silent for a moment before countering, “Is this related to confession?”

No, it wasn’t. The Listener was just speculating—perhaps The Penitent was “alive” like him, with his own tasks and intricate storylines.

Leaving the Confessional, he pocketed the bag of gold coins and returned to his room. The roof was low, and sunlight never reached it. He wouldn’t record the question of whether The Penitent was “alive” because it was pointless. The next time he came here, nothing would remain.

All the words he had spoken, all the earth he had dug—every trace would reset.

After a quick tidy-up, he headed to the refectory. Today’s Morning Prayer was The Israelites Demand a King. The door of the Tabernacle compartment was propped open with a small stool. He sat obediently on it, reciting “Since the day that I brought them up out of Egypt,” but his eyes roamed over the lifeless crowd. The Convert sat in a far corner, The Penitent next to The Ascetic and The Flagellant, while The Mute stood by the refectory entrance holding a bread basket. On the platform was The High Priest, his old eyes closed as if asleep.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour before Morning Prayer ended. The monks left their seats, gathering in small groups while waiting for bread. The Listener walked toward The Convert, who leaned alone against a pillar—wavy curls, amorous eyes, radiant and wantonly beautiful.

“Brother,” The Listener called to him. He knew this wasn’t the same “Convert” as before. Just from the way he stood, he could tell.

The Convert turned his head, glanced at him arrogantly, then turned away without a word.

“We’ve never spoken before,” The Listener muttered. “You might…”

The Convert walked away without hesitation, as if annoyed, moving to lean against the next pillar. The Listener followed him like a panting lapdog: “I have a deal…”

The Convert cut him off: “I don’t sleep with people.”

“No,” The Listener blushed slightly, lowering his voice. “I want you to kill someone.”

The Convert finally looked at him properly, seemingly intrigued: “How much?”

Just then, The Mute began distributing bread. The monks formed a line, and The Listener took the chance to lean in close to his ear: “A thousand gold coins!”

The Listener led The Convert to knock on the door of the slate-roofed hut. The Keeper’s gaunt face appeared in the crack, asking no questions as he let them in.

Inside was a bed and a niche enshrining a holy icon. Apart from that, the room was filled with handmade wooden carvings, large and small, some remarkably lifelike. The Listener couldn’t help but ask, “You made these?”

“A small hobby,” The Keeper said, lifting a lamp and walking toward the brass door.

“What’s the point? I mean, they’re all just…”

“Do you find meaning in everything you do?” With that, The Keeper bent down to lift the brass door.

“Wait,” The Listener said nervously. “Aren’t you going to ask us first?”

“We all know what’s going on. No need for nonsense.” The Keeper pushed aside the white candle. The door wasn’t even locked. He lifted it, and a musty, bone-chilling dampness rushed out.

The Listener didn’t move. “This isn’t following the rules,” he said, glancing around as if something were watching. “We have to stick to the storyline, or else…”

“Or else what?” The Keeper crouched by the dark opening. “What can they do to you?”

The Listener was momentarily speechless. The Convert bumped into him from behind and stepped forward: “Enough chatter. The thing’s down there?”

The Keeper and The Listener exchanged a glance but said nothing. The Convert snatched the oil lamp and bent down to crawl into the hole. Soon, his voice echoed from below: “Fuck, we have to dig this ourselves?!”

Two shovels leaned against the wall by the brass door. The Listener spotted them: “Please find us someone reliable.”

“Two people not enough?”

“That guy’s hand…”

Before he could finish, The Convert’s voice rose again: “Laozi ain’t digging! You said you wanted me to kill someone, not dig holes!”

“Don’t get The Mute,” The Listener added.

The Keeper was clearly surprised—that was exactly who he had been about to suggest. After a moment’s thought, he understood: “You’re the farthest along of all The Listeners I’ve met,” he said with a rueful smile. “The others gave up long ago. Like me.”

The Listener said nothing, perhaps a little embarrassed. He grabbed a shovel from the corner and ducked into the Vestment Vault.

The Convert had already lit a fire. In the dim glow, he looked stunning—his long hair like black satin edged with gold, dazzling and extravagant, with a faint scent of frankincense. But The Listener was used to it. He rolled up his sleeves, picked a random corner, and started digging.

“Hey,” The Convert called lazily, “this isn’t your first time, is it?”

“What?” The Listener didn’t look up.

The Convert sidled over, his sword-wielding fingers lightly resting on The Listener’s shoulder: “Digging up this dirt like a tenant farmer.”

The Listener didn’t answer but stopped, staring at his hand—not with fascination, but something closer to wariness.

The Convert withdrew awkwardly. “You’re different from the others,” he said, flipping his hand to reveal a scar on his palm. The Listener saw it and glanced at it. The Convert noticed and immediately warmed up: “First time playing ‘The Convert.’ Tried the blade, cut myself by accident.”

It was The Penitent who cut him. The Listener nodded but didn’t expose the lie.

Seeing his indifference, The Convert snorted and walked away, though his eyes kept darting back. The Listener dug a few more times, then inexplicably felt his ears grow hot. He rubbed them impatiently, a faint tingling sensation reminding him of someone.

A passerby, he told himself. Maybe they’d never meet again.

Even if they did, he might not recognize them.

Just then, the brass door above creaked. It was The Keeper, leading a burly man down—broad-shouldered, his monk’s robe wrinkled and smelling of smoke. It was The Firehand, the blacksmith of the Island of Saints.

“One gold coin a day,” The Listener offered.

“Deal.” The Firehand tossed his cloak to The Keeper, eager to start.

The Listener had another condition: “No nails.”

The Firehand held out his stubby fingers: “Blacksmithing’s hard work. Nails don’t grow long.”

The Listener nodded and kicked the other shovel toward him: “Wash your hands after each session.”

Dawn was approaching. The Convert and The Firehand climbed out of the brass door first. The Keeper scooped water for them to drink when someone knocked.

They all froze, staring at each other.

“Who is it?” The Keeper asked.

“Uh, uh-uh!” It was The Mute. In the half-light of dawn, his incomprehensible muttering sounded especially eerie. The Keeper signaled for The Convert and the others to hide below.

“Coming,” he said, then went to open the door. The Mute entered familiarly, carrying a bundle of rotten wood, grinning with simple-minded cheer.

“Thanks, brother.” The Keeper turned to rummage in an earthen jar for a reward—any little trinket would please the poor mute. Holding a piece of mica, he turned back to see The Mute staring fixedly at the brass door, as if drawn to something.

Following his gaze, he saw a single gold coin lying on the ground—dropped earlier by The Firehand!

“Brother…” he called, but The Mute was already moving, carefully picking it up and examining it, his throat making a “heh-heh” sound.

“That’s mine.” The Keeper reached to snatch it back, but The Mute dodged, spotting the hastily placed bowls of water. Clutching the coin, he grinned and shook his head at The Keeper.

He walked past him, triumphant, and pushed the door open to leave. The Keeper didn’t dare stop him, quickly lifting the brass door and shouting urgently below: “We’ve been discovered!”

Flickering firelight filled the Vestment Vault as The Listener emerged from the shadows: “Who was it?”

Perhaps it was fate. The Keeper answered helplessly: “The Mute.”

For a moment, no one spoke, until The Listener suddenly slapped The Convert on the back: “Kill him.”

His voice was quiet, but his tone was firm. It was misplaced anger—resentment toward the previous “Mute.” The Convert grinned brilliantly and immediately moved to charge upward, only to be stopped by The Listener: “No, wait until tonight. Do it here,” he said soothingly, brushing his back, “He’ll come back.”

That voice was calm and gentle, carrying a reassuring power. The Convert nodded unconsciously, but the hand on his back withdrew, and the damp chill of the cellar immediately rushed in, making the warmth of that palm-sized spot all the more noticeable. The Convert quickly said, “Come to my room after dinner. We’ll discuss it?”

The Listener didn’t say “okay,” but as he passed by with his shovel, he nudged him with his elbow—an agreement.

The Convert’s room was in a prime location, with a large south-facing window offering a distant view of The Seven Saints’ Tombs. The corner was piled with all sorts of things—wooden combs, iron pendants, expensive and cheap items tossed together.

“Gifts from people,” The Convert said, removing his cloak and fixing The Listener with a deliberately haughty, cheap look. “Some just wanted a touch, others…”

The Listener sat properly in a chair, head lowered. The posture reminded him of someone else—not long ago, they had faced each other like this, talking about “home,” “Allah,” and “dreams.”

Annoyed by his distraction, The Convert leaned in, bracing his hands on the back of the chair to loom over him: “Aren’t you going to ask what they wanted?”

“To sleep with you,” The Listener said flatly, though the tips of his ears reddened, “to hold you like a woman.”

The Convert laughed uncontrollably, flashing a set of pearly teeth: “Don’t you want to do that?” He slowly sat down, coquettishly, right on The Listener’s lap. “Only here can we do this.”

The Listener avoided his advances: “I just want to find the ‘answer.'”

“Do you know why I came here?” The Convert propped his elbow on The Listener’s shoulder. “I liked this man,” he said flippantly, pointing at himself, “and pursued him.” Then he pointed at the pile in the corner. “Even gave him junk. Didn’t work. I never cared about those damn storylines—I just chased ‘The Convert’… until I became him.”

The Listener seemed to think of something, his face flushing instantly. The Convert paused, then burst into laughter: “Bastard, what are you thinking?!” He mischievously wrapped his arms around The Listener’s neck and whispered, “‘The Convert’ needs a man…”

The Listener shoved him away, as if startled, staring at the ground in embarrassment: “Tonight… cough… what’s the plan?”

“What’s there to plan?” The Convert fixed him with those Eastern eyes that seemed lined with kohl. “A stinking mute—just one stab.”

No one could resist those eyes, but The Listener held firm: “Then… I’ll go…”

Taking advantage of his movement to stand, The Convert suddenly pulled him into a kiss. Before The Listener could finish speaking, a nimble tongue recklessly invaded his mouth. The Listener shuddered and fell back into the chair. The Convert clung to him desperately, but it was too much of a stretch, so he planted one foot on the chair’s edge to keep him still.

Tongue! The Listener felt like his mouth had been set ablaze—hot, tingling, numb. He gripped The Convert’s slender waist, trying to push him away, but he was still a man—his resistance wasn’t absolute. For a split second, he might have even enjoyed the infidel’s body, his whole body burning.

“Good?” The Convert asked softly, cupping The Listener’s square jaw with both hands. “I have more…”

The Listener panted, slowly releasing him, frowning as he closed his eyes for a moment. He calmed himself and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand: “Do you like me?”

“Of course not!” The Convert found it hilarious. “I just wanted to see what it’s like—the ‘Convert’ I was obsessed with, debauched in a man’s arms.”

“You think I’d fall for it?”

The Convert laughed loudly: “I don’t believe anyone wouldn’t fall for it!”

The Listener stood up, walking a little awkwardly. The Convert noticed the slight stiffness in his legs and was about to mock him when he saw him head straight for the bed. There was a wall cabinet there, which he opened with the familiarity of handling his own belongings.

He took out a cup.

There was already a cup on the table. The smile faded from The Convert’s face: “Why not use the one on the table…”

The Listener walked back to pour water, answering naturally: “Isn’t it broken?”

It was broken.

It took The Convert a while to squeeze out a sentence: “How… did you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The Listener took a sip of water, swished it around vigorously, and spat it directly on the floor. “This isn’t the first time I’ve spat out your water.”

In other words, they had kissed many times before, under all sorts of circumstances, with all sorts of motives, and all sorts of details. The only constant was that The Listener always rinsed his mouth in disgust afterward.

That night, The Listener and The Convert barely spoke. The Firehand sensed the tension and stayed quiet too. They dug until midnight when The Convert finally couldn’t hold back anymore: “Hey, blacksmith.”

“Huh?” The Firehand paused, surprised.

“What do you think of ‘The Convert’?”

The Firehand was stunned by the question: “You’re The Convert. Why ask me?”

The Convert leaned lazily against the wall, putting on a seductive act: “Yeah, tell me.”

The Firehand gave him a once-over with a voyeuristic gaze, clearly enjoying it: “Good,” he snorted, “Good is good, just too…” He nudged The Listener with his shoulder. “What’s the word? Too wanton!“

The Listener couldn’t help but laugh.

The Convert’s face flushed crimson. He straightened up and glared at The Firehand furiously: “The wanton ones are bastards like you!”

“I wasn’t talking about you, why so defensive?” The Firehand leaned on his shovel, rolling his eyes impatiently. “We’re talking about ‘The Convert’ here. I’ve seen him doing it with my own eyes!”

The Convert didn’t believe it. “The Convert” was always pursued but never obtained: “Impossible!”

“You think I’m lying?” The Firehand stopped digging, driving his shovel into the dirt with exaggerated emphasis. “Behind The Seven Saints’ Tombs, in the woods—you know that dead chestnut tree? Right behind it!”

Half-doubting, The Convert looked to The Listener for confirmation. The Listener was also bewildered, grabbing The Firehand: “Don’t talk nonsense, I’ve never—”

The Firehand yanked his hand away and said bluntly: “With The Archer!”

The Archer? The Listener was stunned—the golden-haired, high-born Archer? Unconsciously, he glared at The Convert, unable to believe there was still a part of this man’s story he didn’t know.

Just then, there was movement above—two pairs of circling footsteps. The Convert reacted instantly, swiftly extinguishing the torch at the base of the stairs, drawing his scimitar, and melting into the shadows.

The brass door was suddenly flung open, revealing The Mute. The Keeper tugged at him, feigning panic, while The Listener and The Firehand stood in the firelight, looking up, waiting for him to descend.

As they had hoped, The Mute cautiously climbed down. Seeing the empty Vestment Vault and the round pits dug in the ground, he gestured frantically—his meaning simple: he wanted in.

The Keeper followed him, pulling the brass door tightly shut behind them as a precaution. Everyone held their breath, waiting for him to approach. Suddenly, a scimitar emerged from the darkness behind him, flashing once before resting against his neck.

In that instant, The Mute noticed the blade—and at the same moment, it slashed across his throat.

Blood sprayed out. His eyes widened in disbelief as he clutched at his neck, but it was useless—his monk’s robe was instantly soaked. He staggered forward, trying to turn around, but The Convert gave him no chance, kicking him hard in the side from the shadows. He struggled futilely for a few seconds before toppling backward—right into the pit The Listener had dug for him.

“Fuck me…” The Firehand shuddered, staring at the darkness as if seeing a ghost. Slowly, The Convert emerged—raven curls, cold cat-like eyes, flashing a dazzling, triumphant smile at The Listener.

The Listener ignored him, bending to examine The Mute’s corpse: “What a hassle.”

“Cover him up first,” The Keeper patted his shoulder. “The day after tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Huh?” The Firehand dropped his shovel: “All this digging for nothing?”

The Listener looked somewhat disheartened. Too many times, he had been stuck in this dark, dead vault. Then The Convert’s brow twitched, and he said in frustration: “We’ve got the wrong place!”

The Listener froze, then immediately denied it: “Impossible. The Island of Saints only has one ‘underground’!”

The Convert smiled again—radiant, teasing: “Are you sure?”

The Listener wavered. If they were truly wrong, then all this effort, all these attempts…

“Underground, in an iron cage, silver,” The Convert raised three fingers, his gesture effortlessly graceful. “Have you ever thought—why a cage, not a box?”

The Listener thought for a moment—then his eyes widened.

The Convert met his gaze: “Cages are for living things. What living thing could be buried underground?!”

Wrong. They’d been wrong all along. Panic surged in The Listener: “But… aside from the Vestment Vault, there’s no—”

“There is,” The Convert cut him off. “Right on the Island of Saints. Somewhere I see every day.”

Every day… The Listener recalled his room—nice view, a spacious south-facing window, a distant glimpse of The Seven Saints’ Tombs, the tall spire of the bell tower, and… Wait. The Seven Saints’ Tombs?

“The Seven Saints’ Tombs,” The Convert sheathed his scimitar with a flourish, tossing his head arrogantly. “The real ‘underground.'”

The Listener punched his own thigh hard, calling to The Keeper: “Do you know anything about it?”

“A little,” The Keeper replied softly, as if in awe. “Those tombs belong to seven Saints from different eras. They’re arranged in a fan shape—the highest point at the center is the founder of the Island of Saints, nicknamed ‘The Monk-King,’ Archduke Maximilian. On either side of him are three tombs each. They’re so old, no one remembers the Saints’ names anymore.”

“Are they guarded?”

“No,” The Keeper, who had never taken this seriously before, now seemed invested. “The tombs have been neglected for years. They don’t look like they’re hiding anything valuable.”

The Listener nodded: “But there are seven tombs…”

The implication was clear—which one was the one they were looking for? The Convert pushed past him brashly, scimitar in hand, and asked The Keeper: “No names, but are there any legends?”

“There is,” The Keeper thought for a moment. “These seven Saints each died in different ways.”

Suddenly, the Vestment Vault fell silent. The flickering torchlight cast wavering shadows as everyone held their breath, waiting for him to continue.

“Only the Monk-King died of natural causes. The others all met violent ends,” The Keeper subconsciously glanced at The Mute’s corpse in the pit. “Each tomb has murals depicting how the Saint died. We can—”

“Enough chit-chat!” The Firehand interrupted impatiently. “Let’s go check it out now.”

They took the small path, unable to leave the Vestment Vault, so The Keeper didn’t join them. It was the dead of night, and judging by the moon’s westward tilt, dawn wasn’t far off. The Convert led the way, the night wind brushing past his hair, which was scented with frankincense, carrying a rich desert aroma.

“Wait!” He suddenly stopped, raising a hand to signal the others. The Listener crouched low, peering over The Firehand’s broad shoulders. About a hundred paces ahead, near the ancient, weathered stone walls of The Seven Saints’ Tombs, two shadowy figures were lurking suspiciously.

“Did someone else take on the same job?” The Convert whispered, turning back to ask.

The Listener was baffled: “No… that can’t be…”

“Looks like The Ascetic and The Flagellant,” The Firehand squinted under the moonlight.

“What are they doing here at this hour?” The Convert had already drawn his blade, readying himself.

“Don’t attack,” The Listener pushed past The Firehand and caught The Convert’s wrist in an intimate grip. “One kill is enough.”

“They’re leaving,” The Firehand slowly straightened, rubbing his stiff lower back. “Probably just here for penance.”

The Convert sheathed his blade with a cold laugh: “I don’t buy it!”

“That’s just how they are,” The Firehand took the lead this time. “The Ascetic eats only one meal a day, drinks one sip of water at dawn, noon, and dusk. The Flagellant cuts his arm with a small iron knife daily—rumor has it his left arm is already rotten.”

As they spoke, The Seven Saints’ Tombs loomed before them. Thick stone beams lay broken on the ground, and from the remnants of the towering facade, one could faintly glimpse its former grandeur. Even in ruins, it demanded reverence.

“Which one first?” The Convert craned his neck to ask.

The Listener scanned the seven ancient tombs from north to south and pointed to the tallest, grandest one in the center: “Start with the ‘King.'”

They entered. Torches were lit as they descended the rough stone steps. The Convert noticed the steps had been swept clean: “The Ascetic and The Flagellant,” he pointed at the ground. “We’ll have to be careful if we come back tomorrow.”

The Listener spotted murals on the walls flanking the staircase, though they were badly eroded, only traces of ochre lines remaining. From the general composition, they seemed to depict Archduke Maximilian’s lifelong devotion to The Lord and his people.

The Firehand ignored—or couldn’t understand—these details. He was the first to enter the burial chamber, but as soon as he stepped through the narrow doorway adorned with a bas-relief of an angel delivering a child, he let out a horrified scream: “Ahhh!”

The Convert and The Listener rushed down, finding him on the last step, having dropped his torch and collapsed to the ground, his trembling finger pointing at the northern wall of the chamber: “There’s…” he gasped, “something in the wall!”

The Listener strained his ears but heard nothing: “Just the wind,” he helped The Firehand up. “You’re too tense.”

“No, there’s something!” The Firehand insisted, then added excitedly, “Like… the sound of wings flapping—huge, powerful wings!”

The Convert picked up the torch and shoved it back into his hands, coldly stating: “That’s the wind.”

The Firehand refused to believe it, staring fixedly at the northern wall. But no matter how hard he stared, the sound he claimed to have heard never returned.

Compared to the structure above, the burial chamber was low and cramped, with groundwater occasionally dripping inside. At its center was an unsealed stone coffin, its lid half-open and carved with a relief of the Saint. The Listener peered inside—it was empty.

“Nothing here,” The Convert shrugged.

“Let’s go,” The Listener swept the torch around the chamber one last time, unwilling to give up. “Dawn’s coming.”

As they turned to leave, The Firehand muttered complaints, insisting he had truly heard something strange. The Listener cast a final glance at the coffin and, in a fleeting moment, noticed the Saint on the lid holding a scripture in one hand while the other rested on his chest, his index finger pointing south.

──────

Morning Prayer ended, but no one came to distribute bread. The monks crowded in the narrow passageway, banging their empty bowls on the tables. The Listener and The Convert stood far apart, avoiding eye contact. Behind them, separated by two people, was the young Pious One, reciting The Gospel of Matthew in a childish yet fluent voice:

“Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom. And five of them were foolish, and five were wise…”

Just then, the refectory door burst open. The novice who brewed the beet soup rushed in frantically: “The M-Mute is missing!”

A brief commotion rippled through the crowd, but as soon as someone stepped in to replace The Mute in distributing bread, calm was restored.

After receiving his bread and soup, The Convert didn’t stay to eat. Instead, he brushed past The Listener and left. The Listener pretended to collect his portion before immediately following him out.

The Convert waited in a nearby patch of grass. Seeing The Listener emerge, he poured his beet soup onto the ground and walked away without a word. The Listener trailed him at a distance. From behind, the man had the slender, graceful figure of a youth. In a monastery full of men, wasn’t the purpose of his character to seduce?

“What’s on your mind?” The Convert suddenly asked, half-turning to glance at him from the corner of his eye.

That charm, that coquettishness—it was all part of the character’s design. The Listener lowered his head: “Nothing.”

“I felt your gaze,” The Convert smiled, stopping to wait for him. “Burning hot.”

The Listener caught up and walked beside him: “Nonsense.”

“They won’t find The Mute,” The Convert swallowed his bread against the wind. “We left no traces.”

“They’ll find that gold coin,” The Listener snatched the bread from his lips. “Stop eating. The wind’s too strong.”

“You’re on good terms with The High Priest, right? Guide him,” The Convert shoved him lightly and reclaimed his bread. “Make them think he ran off with some money.”

“Where are we going now?”

“The Seven Saints’ Tombs,” The Convert continued eating against the wind, exuding a wild, desert-born defiance. “Paying respects to the Saints’ relics during the day is perfectly normal.”

This time, they chose a smaller tomb to the right of the “King’s” resting place. The tomb’s entrance was carved with a pair of Flame Angels holding shields, above which was a Latin inscription: Miracles as Mountains.

Inside the passageway, faint daylight from the entrance revealed ancient murals painted with egg tempera—a monk-like figure lying atop a maiden, engaged in intercourse.

The Listener turned away in shame. The Convert sidled up to him, mocking softly: “Oh, so pure, are we?”

The Listener didn’t argue, simply stepped around him and descended. The stairs were coated in thick dust, leaving clear footprints with each step.

“No wonder The Ascetic and The Flagellant swept the tomb passages,” The Convert frowned, looking back. “But why only the ‘King’s’ tomb?”

“Maybe they only visited—”

“Shh!” The Convert pressed a finger to The Listener’s lips, tilting his head to listen toward the burial chamber. It reminded The Listener of last night, when The Firehand claimed to have heard “huge, flapping wings.”

But this time, it was the sound of a man moaning—

Ah… ahhh…—clearly engaged in that activity below. The Listener’s eyelashes fluttered uncomfortably. The Convert studied him with amusement: “A pair of lovebirds,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb along The Listener’s soft lip line. “In a place like this, it must be quite thrill—”

“—Turn him over…” A voice suddenly drifted up from below.

The Convert and The Listener exchanged startled glances. There were at least three people in the burial chamber!

The Listener turned and left, his ears burning as he hurried past the licentious murals. The Convert chased after him, barely suppressing his laughter: “Hey—where are you going?!”

The Listener went to find The Keeper.

The Keeper rummaged through his collection of “holy artifacts” and pulled out a scroll of parchment. Unrolled, it revealed a map of the seven tombs, with Archduke Maximilian’s resting place at the center: “The one you just visited is here,” he pointed to the small structure south of the “King’s” tomb. “This monk died while ‘transacting’ with a Romani prostitute, who then converted to Catholicism. Thus, he was canonized.”

“Absurd!” The Listener rapped the table. “What about the others?”

The Keeper read the small inscriptions on the map from north to south: “The first was killed by a rabid dog, the second by an infidel’s blade, the third by self-flagellation, the fourth in the arms of a prostitute, the fifth by plague, and the southernmost one…” The writing was faded, and he squinted. “The only woman. She died… in a cage.”

The Saint on the “King’s” coffin lid, holding scripture—The Listener suddenly remembered—the index finger on his chest was pointing south!

“She was also the earliest Saint here,” The Keeper continued reading, then abruptly widened his eyes. “She… was locked in a cage by Archduke Maximilian until… she starved to death?”

That night, The Listener, The Convert, and The Keeper lay hidden in the grass near The Seven Saints’ Tombs, watching the “King’s” resting place. The Ascetic and The Flagellant had returned, carrying bags of ritual implements, moving slowly at the tomb’s entrance.

“What are they here for?” The Convert chewed on a blade of grass, bored.

“Maybe they really are here for penance,” The Listener said. “Look, they’re not even trying to hide.”

The Firehand had been sullen all this time. Now he asked, “Wasn’t that Archduke a good man? Why would he lock a woman in a cage to starve?”

“We might find out once we go in,” The Convert had been polishing his scimitar, the blade gleaming.

“Speaking of which,” The Firehand nudged The Listener, “shouldn’t we renegotiate the split?”

The Listener’s voice turned cold: “Renegotiate?”

“Originally, it was just digging. One gold coin a day,” The Firehand grinned. “But now we’re tomb raiding. Shouldn’t it be an even—”

“Even split?” The Convert cut in. “I was thinking of killing you both and taking everything for myself once we find it!”

He meant it. The Listener and The Firehand fell silent. The Convert didn’t hold back: “Who came up with the clue for The Seven Saints’ Tombs? Who slit The Mute’s throat?” He rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder. “And you two want to split it evenly? Ridiculous!”

They hadn’t even found anything yet, and infighting had already begun. The Listener said nothing.

The Ascetic and The Flagellant entered the main tomb. The Convert was the first to dart from the grass, crouching as he sprinted toward the southernmost tomb. The Listener and The Firehand followed closely, but though they moved in the same direction, The Listener sensed they were each nursing their own schemes.

They slipped through the tomb’s entrance and lit their torches. Before them stretched a long, deep passageway, the dust on the floor glowing white under the torchlight. The Listener glanced at the walls—instead of murals, there were exquisitely carved stone reliefs, still smooth and pristine after three centuries.

The Convert had no interest in the reliefs. He charged down the steps, lured by the “answer” below. But what awaited him wasn’t a burial chamber—it was an even longer, deeper passageway, cold wind rushing upward.

“Hey,” he called back, “this damn thing’s bottomless!”

The Listener approached, raising his torch. The passage stretched too far to see the end: “The thing’s down there,” he said, trying to rally the group. The Convert pushed past him and took a step forward. “Then what are we waiting for?”

They descended slowly, so slowly that by the time the torchlight began flickering precariously, three arched corridors suddenly appeared ahead. Each arch was cradled by a stone-carved angel, their spiderweb-draped arms inscribed with sacred verses:

Left: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”

Middle: “For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country, but of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.”

Right: “For ours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.”

“What the hell is this?” The Firehand stared at the words, baffled. The Convert recalled the passage from The Gospel of Matthew that The Pious One had recited in the refectory that morning: “Maybe it’s a clue.”

“Even if it is, we can’t decipher it,” The Convert drew his blade and stood before the left arch. “How about we each take one?”

There was no other way. The Firehand took the right, The Listener the middle.

Once inside the archway, the world shrank to just himself. After no more than a dozen steps, a gust of wind extinguished his torch, leaving The Listener stranded in absolute darkness, too afraid to move.

Then he realized a problem—what if his path was the wrong one? What if The Convert or The Firehand found the treasure first? Would they wait for him at the exit? Or would they keep it for themselves, as they had threatened earlier?

He turned to retrace his steps, at least to retrieve another torch. But the moment he moved, he slammed hard into a wall. He tumbled down the steps, his forehead going numb, his ear suddenly wet and sticky—probably blood. He guessed he had split his head open.

Somehow managing to grab onto a step and stop his fall, he sat up weakly, momentarily disoriented. As he leaned against the stone wall to catch his breath, he realized the bleeding wouldn’t stop—soon, half his shoulder was soaked. Panic set in. He groped blindly in the dark but found nothing. Desperate to stand, whether from dizziness or something else, his foot slipped, and he fell again, tumbling deeper into the abyss.