Avalon, White Queen District.
It was a building that, from the outside, looked quite plain, more like a warehouse than a place of residence.
In fact, this was the sculpture studio of Lars Graham.
He was hunched over, holding a bone-white cane, standing attentively in front of a two-and-a-half-meter-tall sculpture, whose upper half was near complete, laboriously lifting his head to look at it.
In the air, white translucent chisels and hammers continuously appeared, emitting crisp striking sounds. The dense and numerous tapping noises reminded one of the sound of a torrential downpour. Without the old man making any visible movements, the sculpture was carved at an extremely rapid pace, as if a video was fast-forwarded.
—Lars Graham was 74 years old this year.
The old man's eye sockets were deeply sunken; his eyelids were purple and shriveled, and his darkened face was full of wrinkles. His fine, lusterless white curls were almost all gone, leaving only a thin fringe. Perhaps due to the lighting, the murky shadows in his brown pupils seemed somewhat yellowed. For Master Graham, simply lifting his head or even just opening his eyes was quite an effort.
To this date, the once-great artist had aged and withered to become like a fragile shadow.
He seemed as though if he went to sleep, he might never wake up again.
The silk robe he wore was patterned so intricately it resembled a Persian carpet—dominated by dark yellow, black, and red colors, with a plethora of elaborate and dense designs that could dazzle the eyes at first glance. Very few could pull off such a garb; it was so ostentatious that no matter how beautiful or handsome the owner, the clothes would certainly steal the spotlight.
But this suited Lars Graham just fine.
His entire being was like a withering flower, continuously collapsing inwards. He was stooped, his shoulders drawn in, his head lowered, and his legs bent... with legs even thinner than a girl's arms. Wrapped inside the luxurious robe was what seemed not to be a real body, but merely a shell encasing the soul.
That posture could remind one of a withered leaf butterfly trembling in its wings amidst a downpour.
Suddenly, the sound of carving ceased abruptly.
The sound of the chisel hitting the stone, however, still seemed to echo vaguely in one's ears, as if an illusion.
Without turning his head or body, the old man spoke in a low, drawling, hoarse voice, "What do you want here... Croix."
As his voice fell, a lovely and artistically tempered girl suddenly emerged from the shadows behind him.
Croix was covered with scars and dust. Her body was almost a blur of flesh and blood, some of which was even charred black on the surface.
But in reality, these wounds were just frightening to look at, appearing as if she had rolled on an iron plate a few times. In fact, most of the inner parts were already much better, at least no longer worsening. This included her right arm, which had nearly been severed, now reattached and nearly healed.
"Dean Graham, I've come to get some herbs," said Croix, her voice dry and husky. "And if there's something to drink, that would be even better... It's almost martial law outside, so I didn't dare go into their herb stores to buy herbs. But I still need a bit more to heal."
She called him 'Dean' because Graham was the current Vice-Dean of the Westide University Art Academy. Although he had been invited to Avalon to carve a sacred statue for the Queen, his position as dean had not been taken from him.
"The herbs are in the cabinet to your left," the old man sighed, leaning on his cane with difficulty, turning around in slow steps.
Above his forehead emerged a third eye, cold and indifferent, its jade-made pupil impassively sweeping over Croix.
"Not too bad for an injury, 'Caramel,' Miss," chuckled the old man, the tone of his voice indistinguishable between sarcasm and schadenfreude. "Compared to the trouble you've caused, your injuries are far too light."
"That's because I've used up all my life-saving gadgets!" She gritted her teeth, her voice filled with resentment as she spoke, "I still don't understand... How the hell did that Moriarty guess I was in there?"
While talking, Croix searched through the herbal cabinet taller than herself, pulling out drawers of needed herbs, dumping all the contents onto the table.
It wasn't just "a dose" amount; it was a massive quantity that would be harmful to normal people, enough to be drunk for at least a dozen days. Even if made into food, it would hardly be possible to finish in a day.
But Croix devoured them voraciously, swallowing all the herbs down.
Without the need for decoction or extraction, the "potency" within the herbs was drawn out and purified by the Path of Adaptation. Soon, her entire body's wounds emitted a faint green glow, and the injuries slowly healed at a speed visible to the naked eye.
It was as if the effect of continuously using these herbs for a dozen days had been concentrated into just fifteen minutes.
This was the skill of the "Herbal Healing Method," effective only on herself.
Croix's wounds healed faster than she ingested the herbs. After she finished eating them all, the horrific injuries on her body were almost completely healed.
Then, she began to vomit violently, expelling lumps of black mud mixed with chunks of flesh, which smelled putrid and awful.
That was the potency-extracted herbs, along with waste material produced inside her body while hastening the healing. After vomiting, Croix visibly felt much better.