Chapter 15: The Gray-Robed Cultivator, Part 2

Phyllis had to admit that children easily forget things they don’t particularly care about.

For instance, at this very moment, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t recall exactly when she began losing her baby teeth, nor how long it took for the new ones to grow back...

After all, she lost her teeth back in elementary school, surrounded by kids her age. Everyone more or less went through the awkward phase of losing teeth together, laughing it off as they endured that clumsy period. But now, having heard of a child who bit off a front tooth while eating bread, nearly every member of the caravan had come by in turn to take a look. Some even unabashedly revealed their large yellow teeth, teasing her like a child with chuckles and grins.

Watching these idle men swaying about before her eyes, Phyllis’s initial embarrassment shifted gradually into speechless resignation.

Losing a front tooth certainly affected her appearance, but fortunately, beneath the surface was an adult with a skin as thick as a city wall. Once calm, it didn’t seem to matter all that much.

At least she still had teeth to lose. Protecting her remaining teeth from now on wasn’t too late. As for those yellowed teeth laughing at her now—if they developed cavities, they would have nothing but the rest of their lives to reflect on why they hadn’t cared for their teeth.

Moreover, baby teeth were bound to fall out eventually. Losing a tooth now gave her, a girl disguised as a boy, a perfect excuse to remain silent.

So, for the entire following day, Phyllis said nothing beyond admiring the passing scenery, fully embracing the role of a shy, withdrawn child made aloof by the gap in her teeth.

Brother Salvatore, however, felt somewhat guilty about her losing a tooth on the bread. After carefully examining her gums, he earnestly comforted her for a while.

When the caravan settled at an inn that evening, he even requested the innkeeper to replace her dinner bread with a bowl of barley porridge, to make eating easier for her.

Phyllis had no objection to this arrangement. Yet, once everyone was seated, she glanced at the bowl of porridge before her, dotted with bits of meat and egg flowers, then at the old friar’s bowl containing only a few chunks of something resembling either turnip or rutabaga in broth. She immediately fell silent, holding her bowl.

Even though she had lived in this world for less than a month, she was keenly aware of how scarce the resources here were compared to the future.

Like Master Giovanni, who had previously cared for her. He was already among the top artisans, known as a “Master” for his skill, earning more than ordinary folk. Yet the most common foods in his home remained bread and barley porridge. Even when meat appeared on the table, it was dried or cured, rarely the kind of soft, freshly cooked food Phyllis now faced.

Though her body was still that of a child, an instinctive kindness toward the elderly made her nearly want to share some of the meat from her bowl with the old friar beside her.

Unexpectedly, before she could lift the spoon filled with meat, a thin, bony hand stopped her motion.

“Good child, this is prepared especially for you,” Brother Salvatore gently pushed her hand back, speaking softly. “The journey will be tough. While things are still manageable, you must eat well.”

“In that case, you should also—”

“I am a Brother of the Natula Order. Vegetarianism is part of my practice,” the old friar smiled, his voice steady and calm. “You needn’t worry about me. It has been my habit for years. Eating meat would only make me uncomfortable.”

Phyllis had encountered a few vegetarian friends and colleagues before, but abiding by a “mind your own business” principle, no one usually pressed for reasons once someone declared themselves a vegetarian.

So, upon hearing Brother Salvatore’s explanation, she ceased insisting and quietly began eating her porridge.

To be honest, the taste of the meat porridge was rather plain. It was bland and carried an indescribable fishy odor... Even Phyllis, not one to be picky, thought she might as well eat the friar’s turnip soup instead.

But since it was a kind gesture and a rare chance to consume protein, she made an effort to finish it.

Though the caravan had traveled all day, it was only the first day, and most in the group were young and strong, full of energy.

The dinner was lively, with no one observing formal dining etiquette or quieting down because a child was present. The boisterous chatter never ceased.

It seemed human beings had always been passionate about the same topics throughout history.

In a mere half hour of dining, Phyllis heard at least five or six stories of infidelity from different social classes.

The most sensational was the tale of “someone having an affair with a friend’s wife, only to find the friend was also involved with his own wife, and the four eventually decided to live together.”

“That’s nothing! I’ve heard even crazier!” Amid the noisy laughter, a young man raised his cup and stood, raising his voice to drown out others. “Have you heard about Lady Naquila of Venice? Her husband is one of the wealthiest merchants around, providing her a life of luxury and dignity. Yet, that couldn’t save her rusted mind. She was fooled by a friar into thinking he was an angel incarnate, and she ended up with—”

“Andrea!” The caravan leader’s face darkened, cutting off his nephew’s words. “Brother Salvatore is still here!”

At his uncle’s reminder, the young man, holding his cup, blushed and hurriedly apologized to the old friar.

He sat down quietly, no longer daring to make reckless jokes, which dampened much of the evening’s amusement, causing some discontent among the group.

“We’re not lying. These are well-known facts. Why can’t we talk about them?” someone muttered softly. “Besides, I heard that friar is also a Grey Robe Brother...”

Though the leader’s glare silenced the rest, the gazes of all naturally shifted toward the lone friar present.

As Brother Salvatore’s companion, Phyllis also felt those probing looks.

The sensation of being scrutinized was unpleasant. She was uneasy just sitting beside him, let alone the man at the center of this storm...

She glanced at the old man’s expression.

Contrary to everyone’s expectations, despite nearly being directly accused moments ago, the white-bearded friar appeared completely unperturbed, calmly eating his food bit by bit. Only after swallowing the last morsel did he lift his head.

“You all told wonderful stories tonight,” the elder said, tidying his appearance before smiling gently in that slow, measured tone. “It’s still early. If you’re not tired, would anyone like to hear a story from me before bedtime?”

Perhaps to ease the awkwardness or out of respect for the friar, the caravan leader agreed without hesitation.

Others, seeing his assent, dared not object, though some wore clearly impatient expressions. Yet, out of respect for the leader, no one left.

As a cleric, Brother Salvatore’s stories naturally contained no titillating or bizarre elements.

But just as textbooks are never as captivating as novels, these pious tales, heavy with moral lessons, could hardly compete with stories of love and scandal in excitement.

With this stereotype, Phyllis held little expectation for the friar’s tale, hoping only not to fall asleep.

Yet, as he spoke, not only she but everyone at the table became drawn in by the story.

Like other devoted Grey Robe Brothers, Brother Salvatore recounted the founding of the Natula Order—the story of Saint Natula’s missionary journey to the kingdom of Missal.

The kingdom lay far from Intentio Enno, and the journey was fraught with trials.

Saint Natula encountered both good and evil people. Once, he was nearly thrown into the sea to feed sharks by pirates, yet each crisis was resolved by the saint’s piety and wisdom.

Truthfully, compared to the earlier “four-person affair” story, this tale’s progress was rather gentle.

Especially when the friar described how Saint Natula was cast into the sea but was swiftly lifted by a whale and safely delivered to a small island, Phyllis nearly burst out laughing.

Still, she had to admit, despite its blandness laced with absurdity, the friar’s steady voice somehow brought a soothing peace to the heart.

The feeling was hard to describe... as if she had returned to the most carefree age, lying on a bright summer lawn, the scent of grass on her nose, white clouds drifting slowly across a deep blue sky.

No pain from past memories, no anxiety about the future. Just quietly watching the clouds drift evenly, fully immersed in the serene moment.

For this rare tranquility, even knowing that these hardships would be miraculously overcome by the great saint, she rested her chin on her hand, listening patiently to the old man’s slow narration. There was a moment she wished he could go on forever.

Of course, every story must come to an end.

Though Brother Salvatore had yet to reach the part where Saint Natula arrived at the palace of the Missal kingdom, he had to stop due to the hour, reminding everyone it was time to rest.

“Is this... the end?” The young man who had mocked the story earlier snapped back to reality, disappointed, then looked anxiously at the old friar preparing to rise with his wooden staff. “But you haven’t finished! You can’t just leave now!”

“If you wish, we shall continue tomorrow. It’s too late for today,” the friar smiled gently, nodding to the young people. “During our journey together, I have many stories to share.”

With that promise, the youth finally allowed him to depart.

As Phyllis followed him away, she glanced back to see some still staring at them, causing her to stifle a smile.

“You seem to like the story too.”

The sudden voice from above startled Phyllis, but when she met the old man’s gentle eyes, she nodded instinctively.

“It’s a wonderful story...”

“But you look a little puzzled.”

“Hmm...” Phyllis hesitated, then admitted, “I just can’t imagine someone riding on a whale’s back to escape... Did the whale happen to pass by? Or was it summoned by the Lord to rescue him?”

The old friar chuckled again, the tapping of his cane on the floor sounding lighter.

“Life and death are no different before the Lord, and there are few true coincidences in this world, Phylliciana...” The elderly friar shook his head with a sigh. “But the Lord does have favorites. Saint Natula escaped in that manner because he could understand animals’ language, communicate with them, even preach to them. That whale was one of his ‘brothers’ who had heard his words. So, when he called and asked for help, it came.”

Seeing the girl’s brown eyes widen slowly, the friar’s kind gaze deepened.

“This was a gift from the Lord. Because of this, he was willing to forsake all worldly possessions and dedicate his life to the Lord...”

Phyllis opened her mouth but could not utter a single word for a long while.

To possess such a ‘gift’ meant devoting one’s entire life to the Lord?

But who could say whether the bearer even wanted such a gift? At least she herself did not want this cursed gift, and likely neither did “Little Phyllis”...

In the end, this was not their choice.

“Saint Natula devoted his life to the Lord, rescuing countless people from hardship. For this, he was canonized after death, a well-deserved honor.”

“But how many such officially recognized saints appear in a lifetime? Who can live completely selflessly until death? I admit I cannot, so I cannot demand others to.”

Phyllis suddenly looked up at the old man, who seemed unaware.

His stooped figure, head bowed forward, eyes half-closed, made it unclear if he was truly awake.

“If one does not aspire to sainthood, living a good life as a mortal is also fine.” He shook his head slowly, his steps as unhurried as his words. “If one can live peacefully and ordinarily, that too is a great blessing...”