1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 157 Ascetic Training on the Cliff

The further south they went, the more treacherous the road became, until finally it disappeared altogether. They could only climb along a faint, narrow path trodden by those who had gone before them, navigating the steep cliffs. The scent of pine resin and incense in the air had long since vanished, leaving only the smell of rocks and saltwater, carried by the sea breeze for millennia.

After several more hours of arduous trekking, the young monk who had been leading the way finally pointed to a spot ahead that was almost integrated with the mountain and stopped.

"It's just ahead." After saying that, he made the sign of the cross, then turned and left in a hurry, as if staying even a second longer would be a desecration.

Constantine looked up.

It wasn't a monastery at all, not even a decent house. It was just a cluster of simple stone huts built of rough stones, clinging to the cliff face like swallows' nests. Below were rolling clouds and a bottomless abyss, above were jagged rocks. A strong sea wind suddenly rushed up from below, carrying a harsh, icy chill that could strip the last trace of warmth from one's bones, making it hard to stand.

This is the end of the world, a forbidden land for ascetic practice.

Constantine straightened his wind-blown collar and walked up the simple stone steps. Alexandros followed closely behind, his hand always on the weapon at his waist.

The wooden door of the stone house was tightly closed.

Constantine raised his hand, ready to knock, but the door creaked open a crack from the inside.

A young monk appeared behind the door. He was as thin as a bamboo pole, wearing a faded coarse cloth robe, his face expressionless, his eyes as empty as two dry wells.

"Please leave." His voice, like the rocks here, was dry and cold. "Father Kaliny is observing a forty-day period of fasting and silence, and will not see any visitors."

He paused, then added, "Even the king is no exception."

This is a wall built with faith, hard, cold, and leaving no room for compromise.

Alexandros frowned and was about to step forward when Constantine stopped him with a look.

Constantine did not argue, reveal his identity, or even show the slightest displeasure. He simply bowed deeply to the young monk.

"Excuse me." His voice was calm and humble. "We will wait here. Until the priest's retreat ends, or until the sins in our bodies are washed away by the sea breeze of this holy mountain."

Having said that, he took two steps back and sat down on the cold stone steps. Leaning against the rough rock wall and facing the vast Aegean Sea, he took out the Bible that Sophia had copied for him from his leather bag, laid it on his lap, and began to read it aloud in a low voice.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life..."

His voice was not loud and was quickly carried away by the howling sea wind, but every syllable was clear and devout.

The young cultivator glanced at him, and for the first time, a flicker of emotion appeared in his dry, well-like eyes. He said nothing more, retreated back into the room, and closed the wooden door again.

Alexandros stood like a silent statue behind Constantine, shielding him from some of the sea breeze blowing from the side. His gaze swept warily around him; he knew that in the distant mountains and rock crevices, at least five pairs of eyes were watching everything that was happening.

Time passed by, second by second.

The sun slowly moves from noon to the west.

Constantine's posture remained unchanged; he seemed to have merged with the rock beneath him, with only his hands turning the pages and his lips moving as he softly chanted sutras.

The sea breeze grew stronger, carrying a biting chill. His lips were chapped, but he didn't drink a drop of water.

In the distant mountains and forests, the eyes that were watching were filled with confusion and bewilderment.

"What is he trying to do? A prince who grew up in a Prussian military academy, with this ascetic patience? Is this some new political performance? But there are no spectators here, except us and God," one of the observers muttered to himself. He had never seen a member of the royal family like this before. They came to the Holy Mountain either to flaunt their power or to seek political asylum, but certainly not to engage in a silent self-punishment at the door of an ascetic.

As dusk falls, the last rays of the setting sun are about to sink below the horizon, turning the clouds on the horizon a tragic blood red.

On the stone steps, Constantine was still reciting the Gospel of John; his voice was a little hoarse, but still steady.

"Squeak—"

The wooden door, which had been closed all afternoon, finally opened again.

It was that same young monk. He stepped forward, his gaze lingering on Constantine for a long time, his expression complex. Finally, he spoke in an almost sighing tone:

"Come in."

"The priest said that for a crown prince to sit outside a door for an entire afternoon, it must be either a huge conspiracy or a huge crime."

"He wanted to see for himself which one it was."

Constantine closed the Bible and stood up. He stretched his somewhat stiff legs and nodded to Alexandros, indicating that he should stay outside.

Then, he went alone into the simple stone house.

We entered the lion's den.

The room was dimly lit, with only a small oil lamp flickering in the corner, emitting a faint glow. The air was filled with the damp smell of lime and a faint smell of cooking oil.

The room was completely empty; there were no tables, chairs, beds, or even a proper cross. There were only four stone walls and a gaunt figure kneeling on the cold stone floor, his back to the door.

The man was so thin that he looked as if a gust of wind could blow him over. His coarse cloth monk's robe, patched in several places, hung loosely on his skeleton.

Constantine's footsteps sounded exceptionally clear in the empty stone chamber.

The figure remained motionless.

Constantine didn't speak; he just stood there quietly, waiting.

After a long while, the figure finally moved.

He slowly, inch by inch, turned around.

At that moment, Constantine's breathing paused for half a second.

The man turned his head, revealing a face as if sculpted by a knife and axe, bathed in the glow of the oil lamp. His hair and beard were gray and matted together like a clump of withered grass. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones high, and his skin roughened by years of exposure to wind and sun, resembling the bark of an old tree.

But none of that matters.

What's important is his eyes.

When those eyes looked at Constantine, he felt as if he were facing someone else.

In the deepest darkness, two eyes burned with eerie blue flames! There was no awe, no curiosity in those eyes, only a soul-piercing scrutiny, and a beastly fervor and danger, ready to devour anyone at any moment.