A poorly timed but well-placed operation had just been completed in the manor at Sigo Manor.
The lead surgeon—or, more accurately, lead chisel—claimed he needed to rest after the work was done, declined the invitation to discuss things that evening, and left the scene. He left his assistant to monitor the patient's vital signs while he slipped off to a secluded little room that had been set aside.
A monk stood guard outside the door, stopping anyone from peeking in. The neighboring room temporarily held the bodies of the martyrs who could still be found at the scene after the attack. What was kept here, meanwhile, was something wrapped in many layers of cloth, its shape the only clue that it was human.
Only a little blood had seeped out. The fatal wound to the neck had drained away most of the circulating fluid the body needed to live, killing it within seconds—a sign that human components still made up a fairly large proportion of it.
Because of a few past experiences, they had looped rope around the figure several times, securing it firmly to a heavy solid-wood table.
[As if they were afraid it might come back to life.]
That was how they had described it. What they didn't know was that this had been exactly the scenario Kraft had envisioned while handling it.
As things stood, though, such sturdy restraints seemed unnecessary and only made it harder to unwrap.
Kraft laid a hand on the tightly wrapped figure and felt for a while. Once he was sure it showed no sign of movement, he locked the door from the inside and took out a scalpel he had borrowed from the table.
There was no extra equipment. For now, even the little knife was only for cutting through the