Though somewhat skeptical of Weiwei's "dark room interrogation" method, Felix still ordered it to be set up.
Creating a completely dark and silent space wasn't something that could be done instantly, but the castle had plenty of rooms. A secluded chamber was soon selected and prepared. At the latest, it would be ready for use by the next day.
As it turned out, the dark room was more effective than anyone had anticipated.
Sean, the first test subject, lacked the mental resilience of a trained operative. He hadn't been given any psychological preparation, and he was thrown in at night, still bound hand and foot—though his jaw had been reset. By now, they were certain he wasn't suicidal, so there was no concern about him biting off his tongue.
In less than an hour inside the pitch-black room, Sean was already losing it, yelling and screaming. But the guards, following Felix's instructions, offered no response at all. They stood silent at a distance from the door and left him in total isolation for the entire night before finally pulling him out.
"He finally talked," Felix said, more surprised than smug. He'd honestly expected the dark room might take a few days to wear Sean down. But after just one night, with guards reporting Sean sounded like he was on the brink of madness, Felix had ordered him released—fearing that if the man truly went insane, they wouldn't get anything out of him at all.
And sure enough, once he was out, Sean began confessing to everything. If he hesitated, the mere threat of sending him back into that darkness was enough to make him snap straight again.
His utter breakdown astonished everyone. As Felix left the interrogation chamber, he overheard a few knights joking about trying the "dark room" themselves—just to see how scary it was. It must be worse than whips and branding irons, they said.
Weiwei could only silently pray for them. Hopefully, none of them developed claustrophobia after this—there were no therapists around in this era to help with trauma.
"Did he say who gave him the orders?" she asked.
"He gave a name," Felix replied, somewhat disappointed. "A suffragan bishop who works at Church headquarters. He didn't travel with the delegation."
Someone not even in Sardinson. The Church would never hand him over. That made the clue basically worthless to them.
"A suffragan bishop?" Weiwei repeated, skeptical. "Why would someone at that level want to harm the Pope? Are you sure Sean's not lying?"
Felix shook his head. "Not in his current state. No way he's faking it."
Weiwei nodded—clearly, the dark room's effect was terrifyingly real.
"As for this bishop he named," Felix continued, "I asked Cardinal Umberto and Father Matthew. Neither of them had any real impression of him. Just a minor figure. His previous bishop recently passed away unexpectedly, and a replacement hasn't been appointed yet. He and another candidate are competing for the spot—but apparently, his chances aren't good."
In the Church hierarchy, suffragan and auxiliary bishops both assist the diocesan bishop. But only auxiliary bishops have succession rights—if a diocesan bishop dies or is removed, the auxiliary bishop takes over. Suffragan bishops don't have that privilege.
"So someone who can't even secure an auxiliary bishop seat managed to buy off the Pope's attendant?" Weiwei frowned.
Technically, a suffragan bishop outranked a papal valet like Sean. But considering how much trust Pope John had placed in him, Sean could easily have leveraged that to gain a higher post later. With John's backing, he could have been promoted to a diocesan bishop—even if it was a powerless one. That would've been easy for the Pope to arrange.
This suffragan bishop wasn't the true mastermind—at best, he was just a middleman.
"When was Sean turned?" Weiwei asked. "What was he promised?"
Now they were getting to the real heart of the matter.
Felix's lips curled into a cold smile. "Right before the delegation left for Sardinson. He was promised a future as a cardinal."
Weiwei sucked in a breath. "That's quite the bait. But to believe such an empty promise—Sean wasn't very bright."
Truly not.
Cardinal—the rank just below the Pope. The pinnacle of Church power. Only a handful could ever reach that level. A suffragan bishop—someone who couldn't even secure a local leadership post—promising someone a red hat?
He either knew someone powerful was backing that promise, or he was a complete fool.
"So he knew there was someone higher up pulling the strings," Weiwei said.
"He knew there was someone—but he didn't know who." Felix nodded. "To be sure he wasn't lying, I threw him back into the dark room. I'll go check again later."
Felix never showed mercy to enemies.
Sure enough, when he returned for a follow-up interrogation an hour later, Sean looked even worse. But his story hadn't changed. Everything he'd said earlier appeared to be the truth.
With that, Felix had no choice but to admit the trial ended there.
"We can't get involved in Church politics," he said. "I'll hand him over to Pope John. Let them sort it out."
Weiwei agreed. It was also a good chance to score some goodwill. This had been a plot orchestrated by the Church's hawkish faction. By giving the scapegoat to the doves, they'd be sure to dig deeper on their own.
"Let's just hope they get something out of him before he gets silenced," Weiwei muttered.
She had little confidence in Pope John—an alchemy-obsessed man who hadn't even stepped outside the castle gates since arriving.
Maybe it was precisely because he lacked political savvy that he'd ended up in such a high seat in the first place.
"If the Pope can't handle it, there's still Cardinal Umberto," Felix reminded her. "He's not as harmless as he seems."
Felix had spent ages trying to find someone hidden in a monastery. Umberto had located that same person in under two weeks—even though he wasn't the head of the Church in the Pradi Empire, and the Church here was under constant suppression. That level of efficiency and influence spoke volumes.
By Felix's estimate, the royal capital should've already detained the real culprit—but it would take time for the news to reach them.
Weiwei trusted his judgment, even if she couldn't quite see what made Umberto special yet—aside from being very clingy in the fields, asking nonstop questions about agriculture.
On the other side of things, the knight Roberto had sent to oversee the interrogation returned with Sean's confession—and surprisingly, Roberto was no longer in a rush.
His earlier urgency had been due to Sean being someone the Church's hawkish red cardinal had tipped him off about before entering Sardinson. Roberto had been tasked with distracting attention while the real agent acted. That was why he'd behaved so suspiciously the entire time.
But he'd assumed Sean was under that cardinal's direct command. When things went wrong, Roberto panicked, fearing he'd be implicated. Hence the desperate efforts to get Sean away.
Now, though, it was clear Sean hadn't known anything about Roberto. That revelation had him breathing a lot easier.
Still, the matter wasn't over. The bishop Sean named needed dealing with—and that required getting a message out.
Unfortunately, after the explosion, Sardinson Castle had sealed the Church delegation's movements. Roberto hadn't even had the chance to send a warning to the cardinal who'd stayed behind. His top priority now was getting the message out.
Even with Sean's confession, their freedom remained restricted. Neither Pope John nor Cardinal Umberto objected to this—they even supported the decision. No matter how many times Roberto protested, nothing changed.
Umberto had even smiled as he told him, "Don't worry. I've already informed the others of His Holiness's condition. They won't be alarmed."
Who cared about whether people were alarmed? John's injury was minor—he'd recover in days. Roberto just wanted someone to silence that bishop before he became a liability.
But with Felix secretly tipping the scales, Umberto's message had already been sent far earlier—and Pope John's injury had been deliberately kept quiet for several days, just to buy time.
While Felix played politics, Weiwei was busy caring for the injured.
Pope John had a background in medicine and had once served as the papal physician for a previous Pope. In this era, that meant his medical knowledge was well above average.
He knew what to expect from his injuries. He figured he'd be bedridden for at least a week. But after two days of Weiwei's herbal decoctions, the headaches were gone and he could get up.
Faster than expected—and that naturally piqued his interest in her medical skills.
Alchemy had been a hobby for him, with a particular focus on the fabled "universal cure." With his lab time on hold, chatting about medicine with Weiwei became his new passion.
Weiwei welcomed it. Her Western medical knowledge was mostly self-taught, but with her innate talent, it hadn't been too difficult to pick up. Having someone well-versed in medieval medicine to talk to was surprisingly helpful.
Still, Western medicine in this period was rudimentary. Much of it would later be proven false—and many techniques bordered on superstition. So in truth, the one gaining the most from these discussions was the Pope.
And Raymond? He had become their living case study.
With a fresh surgical subject right there, of course, they used him.
Raymond barely had time to worry about whether his leg would get worse. Every day, Weiwei and Pope John would sit by his bed, muttering and pointing and discussing his condition in hushed, excited tones.
At first, Raymond had no idea what they were talking about. But since Pope John also couldn't understand Weiwei's terminology, she had to simplify everything—which meant Raymond slowly began to grasp his medical situation.
To prevent infection, his wound needed a dressing change every three days.
That first change was nerve-wracking. Despite the painkillers Weiwei had prescribed, the discomfort was still intense. The leg had been wrapped so thoroughly he couldn't even see the wound—so late at night, he'd lie in bed imagining the worst.
What if it had already festered? What if the flesh was rotting under there? What if maggots were crawling around? Summer heat… tightly wrapped bandages…
The visions were horrifying. He thought of raw meat left out in summer and barely slept, even with the sedative herbs. He'd already lost weight from stress alone.
But all his fears vanished with that first dressing change.
Once the plaster was removed, the incision was revealed—a long surgical scar, but smooth and clean. The stitches were neat and tight. Aside from some redness, there were no signs of infection at all.
Raymond finally let go of his fear.
At this point, it didn't matter how well the leg healed—as long as he didn't need an amputation, he was grateful.
Since he'd mentally prepared for worse, the realization that he'd "only" be limping made him feel lighthearted. He even started thinking about getting a stylish cane.
Happiness, it seemed, was all about expectations.
Weiwei was satisfied, too. No signs of infection was a very good outcome.
She cleaned the wound with a saline solution made from distilled water and salt, then applied fresh herbs and wrapped it in clean bandages—all while calmly answering the Pope's endless questions.
"Incredible," Pope John marveled. "When we operate, infections are almost inevitable. Even when we avoid them, the scars are awful and healing takes forever."
In this period, people often died of tetanus from small wounds. What Weiwei had achieved was practically a miracle.
She patiently explained hygiene, sterilization, and aftercare—while plugging her saline solution, alcohol, and herbal ointment.
"All tools must be sterilized. After the wound is closed, it must be kept clean and germ-free. That's how you avoid complications."
She'd mentioned these things before, but Pope John had remained skeptical. In an era when most people didn't even bathe, the idea of "hygiene" was foreign. Some even believed being too clean invited bad luck.
But seeing Raymond's wound convinced him.
He became obsessed with the three miracle medicines.
Alcohol had to be distilled multiple times from wine—expensive and labor-intensive. For now, they only made it for perfume production. Felix had stockpiled some in the castle as military medical supplies.
Saline was made fresh by Weiwei. Distilled water was a byproduct of her cosmetics factory, but high-quality salt had to be purified before use—it almost felt like magic.
As for the herbal wound powder, it was developed for Felix and his men to use on hunts. Supplies were limited.
Yet Pope John was relentless. He begged Weiwei to sell him some, so he could supply Church infirmaries.
These weren't hospitals in the modern sense—just spaces in churches set aside for the sick.
Even the word "hospital" had been picked up by Raymond, after overhearing Weiwei mention it.
Had the Pope asked for anything else, Weiwei might've refused. But when it came to treating patients, she couldn't turn a blind eye.
Perhaps it was her body's instinct as a healer—though she'd never formally been a doctor, she couldn't ignore suffering.
"I don't have enough on hand to give you now," she said reluctantly.
Seeing her waver, the Pope pressed his advantage. "Is it difficult to produce in large quantities? If you need help, I'd be happy to offer it."
He already wanted to improve relations with Sardinson. If they could cooperate on this, even better. Gaining public favor by distributing miracle medicine? A win for the Dove faction.
He was all for it.
But Weiwei wasn't swayed so easily. She didn't like the Church, and Pope John was just a guest. They weren't close.
So she didn't give a clear answer. "I'll have to discuss it with Felix. As you know, we're short on manpower. Even if we start production, it wouldn't be until next year."
"That's fine," the Pope said eagerly. "As long as it's possible."
That was already a soft yes.
Still, he added, "Since large-scale production isn't possible now, could I get a small sample?"
He wanted to see the effects for himself.
"Alcohol and saline, I can prepare a little for you," Weiwei agreed. "But the wound ointment—I can only give you two jars."
Two jars were more than enough. He'd seen Weiwei use just a pinch at a time on Raymond. Two jars could last quite a while.
He was already eager to find someone to test it on.
Unfortunately, he was still a patient himself.
After watching Raymond's dressing change, Pope John was herded back to his room.
"Your medicine should be ready," Weiwei said. "Go drink it while it's hot, then get some sleep—or you'll get another headache."
He could walk a little now, but too much activity still triggered migraines.
At the mention of the medicine, the Pope groaned. "I always knew herbal decoctions tasted awful, but the Countess's brew is the worst I've ever had."
Raymond gave him a thumbs-up. "Agreed."
Nothing defeated him—except those foul-tasting potions.
Weiwei smiled sweetly behind them.
Saying that in front of the person who made it? They clearly didn't understand how terrifying Chinese medicine could be.
There was a reason people preferred injections to drinking those bitter concoctions.
She leaned toward Kama and whispered, "Looks like our patients don't need a new formula after all."
Then she calmly removed most of the flavor-enhancing herbs from the recipe… and added some equally effective but revolting alternatives—ones with a taste that rivaled bitter gourd and wormwood.
Kama, knowing just how horrible those herbs were, gave the two clueless old men a sympathetic glance.
She hoped they could handle the impending trauma.
"Should I prepare sugar cubes for them?" she asked.
"…Only if they ask for them," Weiwei replied.
Which meant: no.
After all, she'd already told them—sugar would weaken the medicine's effects.