When the seventh chime of the morning bell from the Grand Cathedral of Holytorch echoed, the "Mercy's Light Almshouse" in the Eastern District was already bustling with the day's work. This was the capital's largest charitable institution for commoners, directly managed by the Church of Purelight, with the Head Sister Seraphina as its de facto administrator.

Sylas arrived there on a slightly chilly morning. She hadn't left the Cyrus's Adventurer Station outpost for several days since the incident at the Sacred Healing Hall and the warning from Inquisitor Elijah after their alleyway encounter. Astra sensed his sister's unease, but the Knights' heavy patrol duties kept him from being with her constantly. Finally, it was Brulee who brought news.

"Sister Seraphina sent word," Brulee handed Sylas a sheet of simple handmade paper, faintly scented with herbs. "She says Mercy's Light has a new batch of herbs that needs processing and could use help. Hearing about your unique application of Lumino, she wondered if you could come see if it might help some chronic patients."

The neat, graceful handwriting on the paper read: "Miss Sylas, I heard of your comforting of the wounded with warm light at the Sacred Healing Hall, and was deeply moved. At Mercy's Light, there are some who have long suffered from illness and pain; perhaps your radiance could bring them some relief. If it is convenient, you may come to Oak Street in the Eastern District after morning prayers tomorrow. May the Light guide you. – Seraphina"

The words carried a sincere invitation, free of any tone of command or demand. After a moment's hesitation, Sylas decided to go. She needed to understand the Church better, to understand those who held different attitudes towards her and her brother's powers.

Mercy's Light Almshouse was located in the Eastern District of the capital, home to artisans, vendors, and low-wage laborers. Unlike the solemn grandeur of the Cathedral district, the buildings here were low and crowded, the streets narrow yet brimming with life. The almshouse itself was a three-story stone building, originally the old mansion of a fallen noble family, purchased and converted by the Church. Its walls were somewhat mottled, but the entrance was swept clean, the wooden sign bearing the characters for "Mercy's Light" polished to a shine.

Sylas arrived just as morning prayers ended. A line had already formed in the courtyard—elders with canes, women holding coughing children, artisans with dirty bandages wrapped around hands. They waited quietly, their faces not showing the numbness or resentment common in slums, but a kind of peaceful expectation.

At the front of the line, behind a long table, Seraphina was distributing the day's breakfast: dark bread, a bowl of thin oatmeal, and a small spoonful of jam. She wore her faded, starched gray nun's habit, hair neatly tucked under a white headscarf, a few brown strands slipping from her temples. Her movements were unhurried. With each portion handed out, she would look up at the person, softly saying "May the Light bless you," sometimes adding a question like "Has old Peter's cough improved?" or "Has little Mary's fever broken?"

Sylas noticed that when Seraphina spoke, the eyes of those receiving food would brighten, as if they received not just sustenance, but something more precious.

"Head Sister, this is Miss Sylas," a young nun led Sylas to the table.

Seraphina looked up. Up close, she seemed more approachable than during the ceremony. There were indeed fine crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, but those light brown eyes were clear as autumn lake water. Her features weren't stunningly beautiful, but carried a gentle, resilient beauty accumulated over years. Most striking was her smile—warm, genuine, utterly unaffected.

"Miss Sylas, thank you for coming," Seraphina handed the distribution work to another nun, wiping her hands on her apron. Those hands were indeed slightly rough, knuckles somewhat enlarged from years of labor. But when she took Sylas's hand, the warmth from her palm was reassuring. "I am Seraphina. I apologize for the presumptuous invitation, but I heard from Eliana what you did at the Sacred Healing Hall." Her voice was soft, her pace measured. "There are some things we should discuss inside."

The interior of the almshouse was more spacious than it appeared from outside, but also more austere. The ground floor held a main hall and treatment rooms, the second floor wards, the third floor living quarters for nuns and staff. The air carried a mix of herbs, disinfectant, and old wood, not unpleasant.

Seraphina didn't take Sylas to an office, but directly to the second-floor wards. About two dozen patients lay here, mostly elderly and chronic sufferers. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting patches of light on the worn but clean floorboards.

"Most people here," Seraphina said softly, her gaze sweeping over the gaunt faces on the beds, "don't have acute illnesses, but years of physical strain, malnutrition, and... despair."

She walked to a bed by the window where an old woman lay, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Seraphina sat by the bed, naturally taking the old woman's hand. "Grandma Sagla, how are you feeling today?"

The old woman slowly turned her head. Seeing Seraphina, a flicker of life entered her vacant eyes. "Head Sister... same as always... hurts all over..."

"This is Miss Sylas. She might be able to ease your pain a little." Seraphina turned to Sylas, her eyes questioning. "If you're willing to try. Grandma Sagla was a washerwoman in her youth, soaked in cold water for forty years. All her joints are ruined. The Church's healing arts can reduce inflammation, but that pain rooted deep in the bones..."

Sylas understood. She approached the bed, closing her eyes as she had at the Sacred Healing Hall, summoning the Lumino within. This time, she was more careful, more precise. The light didn't diffuse, but coalesced into slender, warm streams that flowed like living things towards the old woman's swollen, deformed joints.

Grandma Sagla's body trembled slightly. After a few seconds, tears welled in her cloudy eyes. "Warm... it's warm... inside the bones... hasn't been this warm in so long..."

Seraphina watched quietly, her expression complex. It wasn't just relief, but something deeper, almost sorrowful.

For the rest of the morning, under Seraphina's guidance, Sylas treated over a dozen chronic patients. Her light had an unexpected effect on these long-accumulated pains. After each treatment, Seraphina would carefully ask the patient about their feelings, diligently noting them in a small book.

At noon, the patients began their rest. Seraphina took Sylas to the small garden behind the almshouse. It wasn't large but was well-kept, with some herbs and edible plants. A simple lunch was on a stone table: rye bread, vegetable soup, a bit of cheese.

"Sorry, this is all we have," Seraphina smiled apologetically. "The almshouse budget is tight."

They ate quietly for a while. Seraphina suddenly spoke: "Miss Sylas, your light... is special. Different from the Church's standard Luminomancy, and even more different from the Conclave's aggressive light. It's very... pure. Like what light should be."

Sylas's heart tightened, her hand pausing on the spoon.

"Don't be nervous," Seraphina's voice remained gentle. "I'm not from the Inquisition, nor a scholar. I'm just a nun who tends to the sick. To me, whether a power can alleviate suffering matters more than whether it conforms to doctrine." She took a sip of soup and continued, "Elena told me Inquisitor Elijah approached you."

Sylas nodded, unsure what to say.

"Inquisitor Elijah... is someone who strictly adheres to doctrine," Seraphina chose her words carefully. "He believes order, purity, and absolute loyalty are the cornerstones of upholding the faith. And sometimes, upholding these requires firm measures." She paused. "But I believe the core of faith is compassion. If a faith cannot alleviate worldly suffering, but instead creates more fear and division, it may have strayed from light's true intent."

She spoke calmly, but her words carried weight.

"I invited you here, partly because we truly need your help, and partly..." Seraphina looked directly into Sylas's eyes, "...I wanted you to know the Church is not a monolith. At least here, in this almshouse, we judge a person by what they do, not what they possess."

In that moment, Sylas felt a stone that had weighed on her heart these past days loosen slightly.

The afternoon work involved processing the new herbs. The almshouse storeroom was filled with various dried herbs needing sorting, grinding, and preparation. Seraphina participated herself, her knowledge of each herb's properties extensive.

"This is silverleaf daisy, good for fever... This is bitterroot, eases stomach pain, but dosage must be careful... This is nightshade, has analgesic properties, but overdose causes hallucinations, must be strictly controlled..."

She sorted while patiently explaining to Sylas and several young nuns. Sunlight from the high window cast a golden halo around her. In this moment, she didn't seem like a lofty Head Sister, but more like a patient teacher, or a gentle older sister.

Just as work was halfway done, a commotion arose from the front courtyard. Sounds of argument, a child's cry.

Seraphina's brow furrowed slightly. She put down the herbs in her hand. "I'll go see. You continue."

Sylas hesitated, then followed.

In the front courtyard, several figures in the white, gold-trimmed robes of the Conclave of Lumina were confronting the almshouse nuns. They surrounded a figure cowering in a corner—a boy about fifteen or sixteen, ragged clothes, disheveled hair, dirty face, but most noticeable—on his exposed arms and legs were dark red, scale-like patches that glinted faintly in the sunlight.

A mixed-blood? Or some disease?

"In the name of Pure Light!" the lead Conclave member declared loudly, his voice grating. "This boy bears clear signs of Chaos taint! He must undergo purification!"

"It's just scale-skin disease!" a young nun stood before the boy, her voice trembling but firm. "The old physician saw him. It's a skin condition, not Chaos taint!"

"Skin condition?" the Conclave member sneered. "You think we haven't seen true taint? This color, this texture... clearly low-level Abyssal creature bloodline contamination! Step aside, sister. This is for the safety of the whole district!"

The boy curled tighter, trembling, biting his lip in silence.

"What is happening?" Seraphina's voice rang out. She walked through the crowd, steps steady, expression calm.

Seeing Seraphina, the Conclave members' attitudes tempered slightly, but remained aggressive. "Head Sister, we discovered this boy during patrol. He bears suspicious taint marks. He must be taken to the Purification House for examination."

Seraphina didn't answer immediately. She walked to the boy, crouched down, and calmly examined the patches on his arm. Then, she did something that surprised everyone—she reached out and gently touched the dark red scales.

"Head Sister!" several nuns exclaimed.

The Conclave members were also stunned.

Seraphina touched carefully, even lightly scraping the surface of a patch with her fingernail. After a moment, she stood, turning to the Conclave members, her voice still gentle but carrying undeniable certainty. "This is Redscale Psoriasis, a rare hereditary skin condition. I've read about it in medical texts. It is not Chaos taint, not contagious, and won't cause mutation. It just... causes the patient great pain. The skin dries, cracks, itches."

She turned to an older nun. "Anna, fetch some licorice ointment and bandages." Then to the boy: "Don't be afraid, child. What's your name? How long have you had these patches?"

The boy looked up, his dirty face, eyes remarkably bright. "L...Lain. Ever since I can remember... Itches terribly when it's dry, I... I can't help scratching..." His voice was small, tearful.

"It's not your fault," Seraphina's voice was gentle but firm. "It's an illness, like a cold or fever. It can be treated, managed."

The Conclave member's face darkened. "Head Sister, how can you be so sure? What if—"

"I have studied thirty-seven typical manifestations and forty-two atypical variations of Chaos taint," Seraphina interrupted, her tone still calm, but her words carried professional authority. "Redscale Psoriasis resembles the secondary contamination symptoms of the low-level Abyssal creature 'Scalding Lizard' in color, but has three key differences: First, psoriatic patches have regular edges; taint marks show fine, tendril-like diffusion. Second, psoriatic patches feel dry and rough; taint marks feel damp, slick, sticky. Third, psoriatic patches show no reaction to holy water; taint marks emit slight smoke. If you're unconvinced, we can perform a holy water test now."

She looked at the lead Conclave member. "Do you have holy water?"

The man's face flushed, then paled. Clearly, they didn't carry such specialized detection tools on routine patrols.

"Since you don't, please leave," Seraphina stood, dusting off her hands. "I will care for this child. If any anomalies are found later, I will report to the Inquisition myself. In the name of the Light, I assure you."

At this point, the Conclave members could no longer insist. They glared at the boy, then left grudgingly.

Only then did Seraphina truly relax, her shoulders slumping slightly. Sylas noticed that the hand which had touched the patches was trembling faintly.

"Head Sister, that was too risky..." the older nun Anna brought the ointment, whispering.

"I couldn't just watch them take a sick child away," Seraphina shook her head, crouching again to clean and apply ointment to Lain's wounds. Her movements were gentle and professional, softly comforting as she worked: "This might sting a bit, bear with it... That's right... You're a brave child."

Lain bit his lip, tears welling but not falling.

After tending to him, Seraphina arranged for a nun to take Lain to bathe, change clothes, and eat. Then she returned to the herb storeroom, resuming work as if nothing had happened.

But Sylas saw that as she ground herbs, her fingers gripped tighter, knuckles white.

At dusk, Seraphina saw Sylas off. The setting sun cast their long shadows.

"Thank you for today, Miss Sylas," Seraphina said. "You were a great help."

"That child..." Sylas couldn't help asking, "Was it really a skin disease?"

Seraphina was silent for a moment, the sunset casting shadows on her face. "Yes, and no," she finally said. "Redscale Psoriasis does exist, and it's unrelated to Chaos taint. But the patches on Lain... are darker and more extensive than typical. I cannot be one hundred percent certain either."

Sylas was stunned.

"But what I am certain of," Seraphina looked towards the almshouse, where warm lights were now lit, "is that if the Conclave had taken him, his best outcome would be weeks locked in the Purification House basement, undergoing various painful 'purification rites.' The worst... being 'disposed of' as a 'potential contamination source.'"

Her voice was soft, but each word carried weight.

"Sometimes, we face not just the illness itself, but people's fear of it, and those who wield power using that fear," Seraphina turned back to Sylas. "What you saw of the Conclave today is just the tip of the iceberg. Within the Inquisition, under Inquisitor Elijah, there are those who believe that to maintain 'purity,' the strictest measures must be taken to prevent any possible contamination. Mixed-bloods, people with rare diseases, even those who just look unusual, can become targets."

She paused, deep weariness flashing in her eyes. "All I can do is try to protect those with nowhere else to go within this almshouse. With the medicine I know, with Church regulations, with the limited shelter this nun's habit can provide."

"But if that child really is dangerous..." Sylas hesitated.

"Then I will be the first to discover and contain the danger," Seraphina's reply was surprisingly calm. "I will check on him daily. If there's any deterioration or anomaly, I will take necessary measures. But until then, he should be treated as a patient in need of help, not a contamination source to be eliminated."

They had reached the almshouse gate. Seraphina stopped, speaking solemnly to Sylas: "Miss Sylas, I know you and your brother possess unusual power and are drawing certain people's attention. If... if one day, you feel you have nowhere to go, or need help, you can come here. This almshouse's doors are always open to those needing shelter."

She took Sylas's hand, the rough, warm touch reassuring. "This isn't any formal promise, just the meager kindness a nun can offer. But sometimes, a little kindness can light a lamp in the darkness."

Sylas didn't know what to say, only nodding firmly.

On her way back to the station, she kept thinking of Seraphina's words, her courage facing the Conclave, her gentleness tending to Lain's wounds, the deep, undispellable weariness in her eyes.

This Head Sister was different from Elena at the Healing Hall, from Rosalyn in the library, from Ilia in the alley. She seemed like a warm, resilient heart within the Church's massive body, stubbornly pumping the blood called "compassion" through the cracks of rules and doctrine.

And Sylas faintly sensed this heart was under increasing pressure.

For the next few days, Sylas went to Mercy's Light Almshouse daily to help. Seraphina taught her more about herb usage, how to use ordinary Lumino to alleviate pain, how to communicate with those suffering chronic illness. Sylas also met more people at the almshouse: elderly who had lost children, artisans disabled by work injuries, abandoned children, refugees fleeing the edges of the Darkwoods.

She gradually understood the source of the weariness in Seraphina's eyes. The suffering here was too much, too deep, and what could be done was too little. Food was always insufficient, medicine always scarce, beds always full. New people came seeking help every day, and the help given was often just a drop in the bucket.

Lain stayed at the almshouse. Seraphina had him help with tasks he could manage—sorting herbs, sweeping the courtyard, tending to younger children. The patches on his body improved somewhat with ointment care, and he gradually became more cheerful. But Sylas noticed Seraphina checked on him personally every day, more and more carefully.

On the afternoon of the third day, after an examination, Seraphina frowned deeply. She sent Lain away and spoke to Sylas alone: "The patch color is deepening, and... some new textures are appearing."

"Is it worsening?"

"Not like typical worsening," Seraphina shook her head. "Worsening Redscale Psoriasis means spreading, thickening, cracking. But Lain's patches... the texture is changing, becoming more like... scales."

The word brought silence to both.

"I need to consult some older medical texts," Seraphina said. "But those are in the restricted section of the Church's main library. I'll have to find another way."

Just then, hurried footsteps came from the front courtyard. Young nun Mia ran in, panting: "Head Sister! Inquisition people are here! They say they want to 're-examine' that child from a few days ago!"

Seraphina's expression changed. She quickly said to Sylas: "Take Lain to the basement, hide in the innermost room of the old archive. No one goes there usually. Hurry!"

Without hesitation, Sylas grabbed the confused Lain, slipped out the back door, through the kitchen, down the narrow stairs to the basement. It was cold and damp, piled with junk. The old archive was at the very back, its door hung with a rusty lock—but it was unlocked.

They had just hidden inside when heavy footsteps and voices came from upstairs.

"...Head Sister, we received a report. The boy with taint marks from a few days ago might be more serious than anticipated," a cold voice said, not Elijah's, but equally devoid of warmth.

"Inquisitor, I've explained, it's Redscale Psoriasis," Seraphina's voice was calm as ever. "I observe him daily. No anomalies."

"But someone saw the 'psoriasis patches' on that boy glinting. Redscale Psoriasis doesn't glint."

A brief silence.

"Could be ointment reflection," Seraphina said.

"We need to examine him personally. This is an Inquisition order, Head Sister. Cooperate."

Footsteps began echoing through the almshouse. The nuns' low protests, patients' anxious queries, the Inquisition's rough search.

In the old archive, Lain trembled, clutching Sylas's arm. In the dark, the patches on his arm were indeed emitting a faint, dark red glow, like smoldering embers.

"Am... am I turning into a monster...?" the boy asked tearfully.

"No," Sylas gripped his hand, whispering. "Head Sister will find a way."

But she wasn't sure either. She could sense Lain's energy fluctuations were abnormal, not like pure disease, nor simple Chaos taint, but... something older, more indefinable.

The search upstairs lasted nearly an hour. The Inquisition people turned over almost every corner, but Seraphina insisted Lain had left days ago, perhaps scared, run off on his own.

"We will issue a notice," the Inquisitor said coldly. "If found, report immediately. Head Sister, harboring a potential contamination source is a grave crime. Even with your status, you cannot bear the consequences."

"I understand," Seraphina's voice remained steady.

Finally, the Inquisition left. After a long while, Seraphina came to the basement. She carried an oil lamp, her face pale in the flickering light.

"They're gone for now, but might have left watchers nearby," she whispered. "Lain, you must leave the capital."

"But I have nowhere to go..." the boy wept.

"I know a place," Seraphina crouched, wiping his tears. "A small village at the edge of the Darkwoods. The physician there is an old friend. He knows many rare conditions, might help you. And it's far from the capital, beyond the Inquisition's reach."

She pulled a small cloth pouch from her robe, pressing it into Lain's hand. "Some money inside, a letter, and enough ointment for two months. Tonight at midnight, I'll arrange for someone to get you out of the city."

Then she turned to Sylas, her expression complex. "Miss Sylas, I know this request is excessive, but... could you escort Lain part of the way? Just to the first post outside the city. Someone will meet you there. I can't send almshouse people; too conspicuous. And you... you're capable, and not of the Church, less suspicious."

Sylas was stunned. This meant helping hide a potentially dangerous person, defying the Inquisition.

"If you're unwilling, I completely understand," Seraphina said immediately. "This is my decision alone. I shouldn't involve you."

Sylas looked at the weeping Lain, at the plea and resolve in Seraphina's eyes, remembering her words in the garden: "Sometimes, we face not just the illness itself, but people's fear of it, and those who wield power using that fear."

"I'll take him," Sylas heard herself say.

Seraphina closed her eyes, exhaling deeply. "Thank you. May the Light guide you, protect you."

At midnight, the capital slept. The almshouse back door opened silently. Three figures in dark cloaks slipped out, melting into the shadows of alleys.

Seraphina personally saw them to the door. Before parting, she checked Lain's cloak one last time, ensuring it covered him completely, gloves on his hands.

"Remember, no matter what, don't remove the gloves or hood," she instructed, then looked at Sylas. "The contact is at the old oak tree three miles east of the city gate. He'll say 'The moonlight is clear tonight.' You answer 'But there are stars behind the clouds.' Remember this passphrase."

Sylas nodded. She carried a small pack with rations, water, and emergency medicine Seraphina prepared. The shortsword at her waist was from Astra for self-defense. She wasn't skilled in combat, but it was better than nothing.

"Head Sister..." Lain's voice choked.

"Go, child," Seraphina gave him a gentle push. "Living well is the best repayment."

The three disappeared into the night.

The Eastern District streets were eerily quiet at night. Occasionally patrol guards passed, forcing them to hide immediately. Sylas led Lain through the maze-like alleys by memory and instinct. Her heart pounded; every gust of wind, every distant footstep made her tense.

Lain was obedient, biting his lip to stay silent, but Sylas could feel his hand trembling, palm sweaty.

Nearing the eastern gate, torchlight suddenly flared ahead. A group of figures blocked the way—not city guards, but men in white, gold-trimmed robes.

The Conclave! They were manning a checkpoint near the gate!

"Little ones, where to so late?" the lead man raised a lantern, eyes scanning Sylas and Lain.

Sylas forced calm, lowering her voice. "My brother is sick, bad cough. Taking him to a healer."

"Sick?" the man stepped closer, raising the lantern. "What sickness? Let me see."

"It's contagious," Sylas pulled Lain back. "Sir, best you don't come close."

This only raised suspicion. "Contagious? Then we must check! Things have been unsettled in the city lately. Who knows if it's Chaos plague!"

He reached for Lain's cloak. Lain shrank back in fear, his hood slipping slightly, revealing his chin and neck—and the dark red, faintly glinting patches there in the dim light.

"What's that?!" the Conclave member shouted. "Grab them!"

Sylas knew there was no time to hesitate. She shoved the nearest man aside, pulling Lain into a side alley.

"Halt!"

"Suspicious persons! After them!"

Shouts and footsteps followed. Sylas didn't think about direction, just ran. Lain kept up surprisingly well.

They raced through narrow passages, their pursuers closing in. Lantern light flickered on walls, footsteps chaotic. Sylas's heart hammered, mind racing—what to do? Caught meant disaster! Lain would be taken, Seraphina implicated, she herself in deep trouble!

Rounding a corner, she spotted a low wall. Behind it was a derelict yard with a high woodpile.

"Over!" she pushed Lain.

They scrambled over the wall, hiding behind the woodpile. Just in time, their pursuers ran past the alley mouth, footsteps fading.

They didn't dare emerge immediately, hiding behind the pile until all sounds ceased, then cautiously peered out.

"What now?" Lain whispered, voice still trembling.

Sylas checked their bearings. Their panicked run had taken them off the route to the east gate. And the Conclave would surely have tightened vigilance; the east gate was out.

She remembered Seraphina's words: "If in dire straits, try the sewers. The abandoned well on Third Street in the Eastern District connects to the old sewers, leads outside the city. But it's dangerous. Don't go unless absolutely necessary."

This was absolutely necessary.

"Follow me," Sylas took Lain's hand, feeling their way towards Third Street.

The abandoned well was in the backyard of a half-collapsed house. The opening was covered with broken planks. Moving them aside released a foul stench. A rusty iron ladder descended into darkness on the well wall.

"Down there?" Lain looked into the bottomless well, voice quavering.

"It's the only way," Sylas gritted her teeth, starting down first.

The ladder creaked ominously. Below was dark, only a sliver of moonlight from above. Halfway down, Sylas felt an opening in the wall—the sewer entrance.

The opening was small, crawl-only. Inside was a brick passage, low-ceilinged, forcing a crouch. Underfoot was viscous sewage, emitting a nauseating smell. The air was damp, stifling. Distant dripping water, skittering of small creatures.

Lain followed, gagging.

"Bear it," Sylas took two cloths from her pack, wet them with water, handed one to Lain. "Cover your nose and mouth."

They groped forward in the dark. The sewer was a maze, many forks. Sylas could only choose by instinct, praying it led outside. She summoned Lumino, forming a small, faint light orb in her palm, barely illuminating a few meters ahead.

The light revealed thick moss on brick walls, filth floating on water, rats scurrying past. Lain clung to her sleeve, not daring to fall behind.

After an indeterminable time, a draft of air came from ahead, the air fresher. They hurried, turned a corner, saw moonlight ahead—an exit!

The exit was barred by a rusted iron grate, but several bars had rusted through, wide enough to squeeze through. They crawled out, finding themselves on a weed-choked riverbank. Looking back, the capital's walls loomed like a giant shadow in the night.

They had escaped.

Lain collapsed on the ground, gasping, then began to cry—first soft sobs, then wailing. Fear, relief, all the pent-up emotions of these days.

Sylas also slumped against a tree, weak all over. She gazed at the distant capital outline, thinking of Seraphina, the people needing help at the almshouse, her brother, all they'd experienced since coming to this world.

This world was far more complex than she'd imagined. There were those like the Conclave who harmed others waving the banner of "purity," and those like Seraphina who stubbornly clung to compassion in the gaps of rules. There was fear and rejection of unknown power, but also kindness willing to lend a hand.

And she had to find her own path.

After resting, they continued. Near dawn, they found the old oak tree Seraphina mentioned. Sure enough, someone waited under it—a middle-aged man in ordinary farmer's clothes, leading a mule.

"The moonlight is clear tonight," the man said.

"But there are stars behind the clouds," Sylas replied.

The man nodded, looking at Lain. "This him? Climb up. We need to reach the next stop before daylight."

Lain climbed onto the mule, looking back at Sylas, tears flowing again. "Thank you... thank you both..."

"Get well. Live well," Sylas said, handing him the small pouch Seraphina had given.

The mule carried Lain away, led by the man along a small path, gradually disappearing into the morning mist.

Sylas stood alone under the old oak, watching the fish-belly white appear on the horizon. A new day began, and she had to return to the capital before full daylight, pretend nothing had happened.

But some things, once done, could never be undone.

Three days later, Sylas returned to Mercy's Light Almshouse. Everything seemed as usual—nuns busy, patients waiting, the scent of herbs in the air.

But the atmosphere was subtle. The nuns spoke more softly, eyes uneasy. Seraphina looked more tired, dark circles under her eyes poorly concealed by powder.

"Lain arrived safely," Seraphina whispered to Sylas when no one was near. "I received word. Thank you, Miss Sylas. I owe you a great debt."

"What... is he, really?" Sylas finally asked the question she'd held back.

Seraphina was silent a long time, then led Sylas to her office. The room was small: a desk, a chair, a bookshelf, a simple bed. From the top shelf, she took a thick book wrapped in cloth, pages yellowed, edges worn.

"An ancient physician's notes. Found it at an old book stall, not registered with the Church," Seraphina turned to a page with a hand-drawn illustration of a human figure with scaly patches, dense annotations beside it.

"According to this, what Lain has might not be simple Redscale Psoriasis, but a rarer 'Draconic Atavism,'" Seraphina's voice was very soft. "Legends say in ancient times, humans intermarried with certain intelligent dragon-kin, leaving a thin bloodline. Usually recessive, but in rare cases, some stimulus causes dominant expression: skin scaling, increased strength, sensitivity to certain elements, etc."

She looked at Sylas. "It's not Chaos taint, but an ancient, nearly forgotten genetic trait. But in the eyes of the Inquisition and Conclave, any 'non-human' trait is contamination, heresy, must be purified."

Sylas looked at the illustration, remembering the glowing patches on Lain's arm. "So you knew from the start?"

"I suspected, but couldn't be sure," Seraphina closed the book. "And even if sure, I wouldn't have handed him over. Draconic Atavism is not an illness, much less a sin. It's just a trait a child was born with, like some are born blond, others dark-haired."

"But you defied the Inquisition's order," Sylas said. "They'll investigate."

"I know," Seraphina walked to the window, looking at the people lining up in the courtyard. "These three days, Inquisition people came twice, checking on various pretexts. They're looking for leverage, applying pressure. Inquisitor Ilia summoned me personally yesterday, warned me 'not to let overflowing sympathy cloud judgment.'"

She turned back, her smile weary but firm. "But you know, Miss Sylas? The day I became a nun, I swore before the icon to alleviate worldly suffering as best I could. That vow didn't say 'only alleviate suffering of those conforming to doctrine,' didn't say 'only help absolutely safe, harmless people.' Suffering is suffering. Those in need are those in need."

"But if Lain really is dangerous..."

"Then the responsibility is mine," Seraphina interrupted. "I made the judgment; I bear the consequences. That's the weight of choice. Compassion isn't mindless sentimentality. It's seeing the risks, weighing pros and cons, and still choosing to believe in the possibility of good in humanity, still choosing to extend a hand."

She walked to Sylas, taking her hand. "I've thought a lot these days. I've helped many. Some recovered, lived good lives. Some relapsed, remained in pain. Some, I saved their lives, and they used that life to do bad things. Compassion is like sowing seeds. You never know which seed will sprout, which will die in the soil, which will grow thorns."

"Then why continue?" Sylas asked.

"Because if you don't sow, you certainly won't reap," Seraphina's eyes shone in the shadows. "Because even if only one in ten seeds sprouts, it can turn a patch of land green. Because... it's what I believe is right."

She let go, took a small wooden box from a drawer, handing it to Sylas. "A token of thanks, and a memento. Open it."

Sylas opened the box. Inside was a silver brooch shaped like a leaf, veins finely detailed, gleaming faintly in the light.

"It's a 'laurel leaf,' symbolizing shelter and healing," Seraphina said. "I made it myself. Not valuable, but... if you ever meet someone needing help, or need help yourself, seeing it might remind you there's a stubborn nun in this world who believes compassion is stronger than fear."

Sylas gripped the brooch, the cool metal warming in her palm.

"As for the Inquisition, I'll handle it," Seraphina resumed her usual calm expression. "I've been in the Church many years; I carry some weight. They can't move against me without evidence. And..." she smiled slightly, "...the almshouse has helped too many. Some now hold positions in workshops, guilds, even low-level official posts. Purely from interest, moving against me wouldn't benefit the Church either."

In that moment, Sylas saw another side of Seraphina. Not just the compassionate nun, but a clever survivor within a complex power structure. Her compassion had a gentle side, but also resilience, even sharpness.

Leaving the almshouse, a light rain began. Seraphina held an old umbrella, walking Sylas to the gate.

"Miss Sylas, you and your brother may face a difficult path ahead," she said before parting. "The Church has people like Elijah, and people like me. The capital has forces like the Conclave, and countless ordinary people like those in the courtyard who just want peaceful lives. This world is complex. There are no black-and-white answers."

She tilted the umbrella towards Sylas, her own shoulder getting wet.

"But please believe, whatever path you choose, whoever you ultimately become, in this almshouse, there will always be a nun who will light a lamp for you, keep a bowl of warm soup, prepare a clean bed. Not because you're special, but because... this is my choice, the reach of my compassion."

In the rain, her smile was warm and firm, the crow's feet at her eyes seemingly filled with wisdom and tenderness accumulated over years.

Walking back to the station, raindrops cooled her face. She fingered the laurel leaf brooch in her pocket, remembering the rough, warm touch of Seraphina's hand.

Compassion had weight. It wasn't just the warmth of giving, but the difficulty of choice, the courage to bear risk, the stubbornness to hold onto initial heart in a complex reality.

And that weight now rested on her heart too, letting her see a small but steadfast lamp on her confused path ahead.

Returning to the station outpost, the rain stopped, a faint rainbow appearing on the horizon. Astra had just returned from patrol, saw her soaked, immediately fetched a dry towel.

"Where were you? Didn't see you all morning."

"Went to help," Sylas dried her hair, speaking softly. "Brother, I met someone..."

"Who?"

"A nun. She made me understand some things."

Astra looked at his sister, noticing her eyes were different from a few days ago. Less uneasy, more... resolve?

"No matter what happens," Sylas looked up at her brother, "we'll face it together, right?"

Astra was taken aback, then smiled, ruffling her hair. "Of course. You're my sister."

Outside the window, the rainbow grew clearer, arching over the capital like a bridge connecting the clearing sky and the rain-washed earth.

And behind the window of Mercy's Light Almshouse, Seraphina also gazed at that rainbow. In her hand was a secret letter just received, only one line: "Child safe, treatment begun. Don't worry. Be careful."

She held the letter to a candle, watching flames consume the paper to ash.

Then she turned, pushed open the door, walking towards the people waiting for her in the courtyard. The post-rain sunlight shone on her gray nun's habit, on her gentle, firm face.

Another day's work was beginning.