The priest waved at him, signaling Borne to come closer.
Borne hesitated for a moment but eventually walked up to the priest. Out of courtesy, he was about to kneel.
However, at that moment, the priest gently grasped his arm and said kindly, "Child, you have a wound on your shoulder; there's no need to kneel."
Borne's face changed instantly. His wound was hidden under his clothes and shouldn't have been easily noticed.
He looked at the priest in astonishment.
The priest seemed to sense Borne's doubt and unease. He smiled gently, his eyes still filled with compassion.
"You have nothing to fear; I only see a lamb in need of help," the young priest's voice was calm, as if it could soothe a person's soul.
He turned to the deacon beside him and said, "Go and clean this place; we need a quiet space."
The black-clad deacon frowned reluctantly but still obeyed the priest's instructions, directing others to clear the debris and trash from the church entrance.
Meanwhile, the priest gently held Borne's arm, guiding him into the dilapidated church.
Inside, the church looked even older and more rundown, with the stone walls covered in cracks and moss from years of wear.
Despite this, Borne still felt an inexplicable sense of peace.
The fractured stained glass windows allowed a few rays of slanting sunlight to stream in, casting mottled light and shadow on the worn wooden floor, creating a solemn atmosphere.
"Child, you are from Stormhaven, aren't you?" the priest suddenly asked.
Borne's heart skipped a beat, and he felt a bit tense.
He didn't know how the priest knew this, but he also knew that lying would be of no benefit in this situation.
He decided to answer truthfully, though his expression remained guarded.
"Yes, I come from Stormhaven," Borne replied with a nod, his voice deep.
He kept his eyes fixed on the priest, trying to discern more from his expression.
The priest smiled, waved his hand, and signaled Borne to relax.
"No need to be nervous, child."
Borne still felt some doubt.
He didn't believe the priest would call him over without reason, so he asked directly, "Father, do you need me to accomplish some task for you?"
The priest gently shook his head, the smile never leaving his face.
"No, I have no task for you.
Your accent brought back memories.
The moment you spoke, I felt the scent of home."
He paused, looking at Borne with a hint of nostalgia in his eyes.
"The scent of home? Are you saying… you are also from Stormhaven?"
Borne asked cautiously.
The priest nodded, his eyes showing a bit of warmth.
"Yes, I grew up there, but I was later sent elsewhere to fulfill my mission.
Your appearance reminded me of someone, someone I once helped."
Borne was momentarily unsure how to respond.
The priest smiled slightly and continued, "Your deep blue eyes are very much like his, and his hair was also like yours, golden.
Your eyes and brows resemble his, too—there's something about them that makes people feel at ease.
He was a man full of courage and integrity.
Though I can't recall his name, that look in his eyes is unmistakable."
Borne felt a surge of mixed emotions within him; he didn't know who the person the priest was talking about was.
But a strange feeling suddenly arose in his heart; perhaps this priest really had some connection to his hometown.
At that moment, a portly deacon hurriedly approached.
His black robe fluttered slightly from his running, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
He came to the priest, bowed respectfully, and handed over a folded piece of paper.
The priest took the paper and carefully unfolded it, his previously gentle expression suddenly becoming serious.
His eyes fixed on the content of the paper, and his brows furrowed slightly, as if he were contemplating something.
The atmosphere around them seemed to grow heavier due to his expression.
Borne observed all of this and felt a twinge of unease.
He noticed that the deacon stood beside them, a look of anxiety on his face, as if waiting for the priest's instructions.
Clearly, the contents of the paper were unusual and possibly brought some important news.
The priest's gaze swept over the paper, then he slowly raised his head and said in a low, calm voice, "Handle it the usual way. Wait for me outside."
The portly deacon nodded, seeming relieved.
He quickly put away the paper and then turned and left.
Borne's eyes followed the deacon's retreating figure, filled with curiosity.
He did not understand what the priest meant by "the usual way," nor did he know what was written on that paper, but it was clear that this was not an ordinary matter.
Noticing Borne's gaze, the priest smiled faintly, attempting to mask the severity of his earlier expression.
"Don't worry, child. It's just internal matters, nothing to do with the outside world," the priest said softly, smiling.
"Just some routine things we need to coordinate and manage."
Borne did not ask further questions, but his doubts were not dispelled.
He realized that this dilapidated church might be far more complicated than it appeared on the surface.
And this young priest's true background was probably not simple either.
"Let's not talk about that. Let me treat you first.
I could smell the scent of blood on you earlier," the priest said with a gentle smile, his face regaining its former calmness.
Borne was slightly stunned, a hint of shock flashing through his mind.
He himself couldn't smell any scent, yet the priest could.
"You... can smell it?"
Borne asked, his tone tinged with uncertainty.
The priest did not answer directly but pointed to Borne's shoulder.
"You move with a slight stiffness; I would guess your wound is not light."
Borne knew that the priest had already seen through part of his condition.
Although he still felt somewhat guarded, he could not refuse the other's goodwill at this moment.
Borne nodded, accepting the priest's assessment.
"Alright, then I'll trouble you."
"Come, take off your shirt and let me see the wound."
Borne obeyed the priest's words, slowly removing his shirt to reveal the wound on his shoulder.
The wound looked quite severe; the skin was torn apart, and the blood had clotted, but there were still visible signs of the flesh being separated.
The skin around the wound was tinged with purplish-red, a clear indication of intense pain and damage.
The priest extended his right hand, and suddenly a soft white light emanated from his palm, warm and sacred.
He directed the light from his right hand onto the bandage on Borne's shoulder. The bandage instantly fell away, revealing the terrible wound.
The wound was deep and gruesome, not yet fully healed, with muscle fibers and exposed blood vessels visibly twitching.
The edges of the wound appeared to have some tearing marks, as if ripped open by some powerful force.
Although Borne was long accustomed to the pain of battle wounds, he still felt sharp stabs of pain coming from his shoulder.
Yet the priest showed no fear at all. Instead, he carefully studied the wound, his eyes sharp, as if he were examining something closely.
"This was caused by a raptor-type magical beast, judging by the wound, it must have been a mid-tier beast's attack."
"How do you know?" Borne asked, surprised.
"The shape and depth of the wound, and the torn edges—only the claws of a raptor-type magical beast could leave such distinctive marks.
Especially those above mid-tier; their claws are imbued with wind elemental power, leaving traces like these after tearing through flesh," the priest explained.
Borne was slightly taken aback; he hadn't expected the priest to not only recognize his wound at a glance but also accurately identify the type and level of the magical beast that had attacked him.
As he spoke, the priest gently touched Borne's shoulder. The soft white light once again flowed from his hand, covering the wound.
Immediately, Borne felt a warm energy seep into his skin, the pain gradually fading, and his muscles seemingly beginning to heal.
He watched in astonishment as the wound slowly closed under the glow of the light, the flesh knitting together as if the priest's healing light was reweaving it.
It was far more potent than the healing provided by the medics—hundreds of times stronger.
"This is only a temporary remedy; you should stay here for the night," the priest calmly suggested as he stood up.
Then the priest walked out of the dilapidated church, leaving Borne alone inside.
The deacons, who had been waiting, bowed respectfully to the priest.
"Father Raphael, the carriage is ready," one of the older deacons said, his voice carrying a note of respect and nervousness.
Father Raphael glanced at them with a neutral expression and gave a slight nod.
Without another word, he walked directly toward a modest carriage parked outside the church.