Noticing his silence, Terence continued recounting the situation when meeting the envoys of the Children of the Whiskered Tree.
"Grantham agreed to the proposal from the Children of the Whiskered Tree. He believes the risks of this matter are still within an acceptable range. Of course... all this is predicated on them offering a sufficient price."
Actually, he also thought Grantham's decision was too high-risk, but that guy possessed foresight and experience far beyond normal, and his decisions usually had deep underlying considerations.
Just like when Grantham said to everyone in the academy during the Great Plague, "The ultimate mission of a species is always continuation," then presented an evacuation plan, preparing to flee. And the then middle-aged Terence directly called him a "coward," to which Grantham just laughed it off.
Who could have thought that after most of the cult's members left Norlington, he would go alone to confront that mountain-like Plague Incarnation?
"No need to worry too much. That guy, though he likes doing dangerous things, never transfers the risk downwards. On the contrary, he prefers to bear these things alone..."
Terence put down the earring he had just finished re-etching and also took off the monocular loupe.
"Perfect timing. Your teaching assistant assessment will be held at that very ruins. We'll go together then."
"This..."
"Professor Terence, is it normal for the History Department's teaching assistant assessment to involve excavating holy site-level ruins like this? Isn't my difficulty somewhat abnormal..."
Child narrowed his eyes, momentarily unable to help but sigh over his own checkered fate.
This made it hard not to remember Dr. Fran's dream divination before, that ominous yet majestic Death card.
Ending, stagnation, harm, the inevitable—whichever interpretation was unsettling.
However... although he liked divination, he wouldn't let it deter him. Compared to elusive, intangible fate, the White Cup's Error-Purgers leaned more towards materialism.
Clearing the chaotic thoughts in his mind, Child focused intently on writing the maintenance log.
__
[S-0910. Banquet-Attending Hand]
[Source: Attilan, Monroe Dynasty Ancient Ruins]
[Status: Repaired.]
[Relic Description: This relic takes the form of a Monroe noble's bracelet ornament, made of gold, equipped with a complete gauntlet. The gauntlet covers the back of the hand and fingers, with falcon-claw-shaped fingertips. The wearer can use any Red Cup second-category, lower-tier secret arts. The cost is the emergence of cannibalistic desires.]
[Maintenance Cycle: Conduct a status inspection once every calendar month. Strictly wipe its surface in the order of bone powder, oil, blood. Residual matter will be absorbed within one minute. This procedure is named 'Feeding.']
[Note: If abnormal bleeding is observed from this relic, do not wear it again. Clean the blood promptly and let it rest in an inorganic environment for over 48 hours.]
Undoubtedly, the log described the relic Terence had just sealed.
---
North District No. 13, Fog Street Clinic.
Fran was currently wearing thin bear-patterned pajamas, lying on the soft plush bed, reflecting on her recent research.
"The difficulty of [Forbidden Alchemy] is indeed not small. Even with Sigrid and the Philosopher's Stone's help, it's hard to make further progress."
Sigrid was a product of the "Final Program." With the technology Fran currently mastered, she couldn't fully analyze its alchemical principles.
Although she had previously refined a Gate of Void within her own body to seal the Withering Crown, that relied more on her understanding of the universe and the world's essence...
"Perhaps I've been too immersed in studying profound projects, not paying attention to other branches of alchemy. Like biological alchemy or something..."
Mentioning this, she couldn't help but think of that alchemist named Conan.
After all, his experiment used humans and dogs as materials, features and elements all quite extreme. And... if that guy had actually used Haida as material back then, it might have actually succeeded.
Haida's body flowed with Meredith's Grey Wolf blood, which logically should have higher compatibility with canine fusion and lower rejection... But even so, the survival rate wouldn't exceed 15%.
Such a waste of talent. If it were me, I'd have at least an eighty or ninety percent chance...
Setting aside perverted stereotypes, biological alchemy is indeed a very interesting discipline. After brief consideration, Fran had already decided to make it her new short-term research topic.
As for the specific target product... still under conceptualization.
A trace of drowsiness quietly welled up, subtle yet persistent. It was time for the pre-sleep nightly reading. In fact, this was a habit Fran had developed after the Great Plague, to repair her missing memories.
Click.
Fran reached out and gently pressed the small bedside lamp. A clear, soft, faint light lit up.
She raised her hand, opened the ancient, weighty The Tome of a Thousand Cults, and with a flick of her fingers, began leisurely flipping through it under the dim, indistinct lamplight.
Secrets-Hunter, White Cup, Sun-Forgers, Lamp Moth.
The names of the Four Orthodox Cults had been passed down since several epochs ago, seemingly having become common knowledge. But in reality, none of these cults acknowledged the so-called "Orthodox" label.
In even more ancient records, the various cults held a certain "recognition" for each other. Even if their stances conflicted, philosophies differed, and pursued paths were vastly different... at least they all worshipped genuine deities.
True deities wouldn't fall and become evil gods because they were labeled with slander, because the former had undergone true metamorphosis and ascension, while the latter were merely evil beings falsely claiming divine names. There existed an essential difference between the two.
But... from a certain epoch onward, some indescribable "influence" tainted those lofty, celestial colossi.
Even though they were still called by their former names, still held their former authorities, still governed their former principles, some change had already occurred.
In times past, among Acolytes, High Priests, Servants, and Apostles, there existed clear hierarchies and regulations based on spiritual levels. But now, the path of ascension had been confused amidst nonsense and delusion.
What prompted all this was madness, contamination, or simply "chaos"?
The abyssal well stirred and floated beneath the icy ocean's darkness, like a breathing heartbeat.
The Red Cup wallowed in feasts of bone-and-blood-forged wine pools, indulging unrestrainedly.
The Imprinted Stone remained coldly silent, but within its shadow, eyes had grown.
The Six-Eyed Crow had lost its brightest jewel, weeping blood endlessly.
Within the perpetually unhealing crimson wound of the Mother of Swarming Ants, dark worms seemed to intertwine and churn. Perhaps, She was no longer She.
It was precisely from this point that the deity upholding order drew its blade and embarked on the eternal hunt of slaughtering its own kind—the "War of Withering."
And He was the later "God-Hunting God."
...
In fact, reading obscure mythological stories before bed was indeed quite sleep-inducing.
At some point, The Tome of a Thousand Cults had been closed and placed beside the pillow. The room held only the sound of Fran's even, gentle breathing.
---
The next day, early morning.
As the melodious ringtone of the Pokémon Flute rang out, a pair of amber eyes slowly opened.
Fran raised her hand, pushed aside the soft plush quilt still retaining body heat, her gaze carrying a trace of soft drowsiness. She sat dazedly for a while, seeming to still be savoring the fur texture of Luyala from last night's dream that was highly praised.
That mythical creature that had inexplicably intruded into Fog Street seemed to have already regarded this place as a sanctuary. Apart from necessary foraging, Luyala would hide within Fran's dreams.
She could somewhat improve the sleeper's mental state through dreams, which to some extent mended the spiritual damage Fran sustained during the annual house call. Not everyone could integrate twenty years' worth of accumulated delusions into their mind and not go mad...
And even if not mad, it didn't mean no other price would be paid.
Fran yawned and turned to get out of bed, entering the bathroom.
The sound of pattering shower spray followed.
A short while later, after completing today's grooming, she dried her pale, frost-like hair and changed into her signature physician's white coat.
Fran's actions today were quite hurried; she didn't even put on shoes, leaving behind a trail of footprints on the wooden bedroom floor that dissipated threads of misty vapor and felt damp and warm.
According to her usual habit, she would call Sigrid at this time to help comb her hair and tidy up the braid that inexplicably tangled together after sleep.
But today was different... The January monthly house call had just been triggered. Although time was still ample, contacting the patient earlier could also improve the completion rating.
She had to set off immediately.
[Dear Dr. Fran, the January monthly house call has been triggered. The consultation target is a girl from the 'Royce Family' collateral branch, 'Elsa Royce.' Preliminary diagnosis is 'Panphobia' (Fear of All Things). The patient is not currently in life-threatening danger, but please make contact with her within today.]
The Royce family rose to prominence thanks to the technological revolution initiated by the White Cup Cult, accumulating substantial assets and fame within the past fifty years.
Though sometimes called "nouveau riche" by the truly old-line clans, they were considered Norlington's social elite nonetheless.
When clan groups control vast amounts of social resources, they often develop strange pursuits. Supermundane power, endless life, even spying on the currents of fate...
Although mystical knowledge itself has a very high talent threshold and is controlled by various cults, there are always more solutions than difficulties. In this world, studying secret arts isn't the only way to touch the extraordinary.
Relics, alchemy, rituals, even coupling with alien species.
As long as one doesn't mind touching taboos, losing humanity... "the extraordinary" is actually not distant.
Fran gently stroked the brass handle and pushed open her bedroom door.
Sigrid was already standing by the corridor at some point. She tilted her head, slightly opening her molten-gold eyes, somewhat surprised at the doctor's punctual waking today.
Through her months of service, Sigrid had gained a relatively deep understanding of this doctor's habits.
Fran's schedule was healthy when not in research mode: early to bed, early to rise, meals on schedule. But she generally lingered in bed for tens of minutes after the alarm woke her, then called her in to help tidy the easily disheveled braid.
But today Dr. Fran was so punctual in dressing and leaving the bedroom... presumably there was urgent business.
Thinking of this, Sigrid inquired about Fran's schedule for the day.
"Dr. Fran, preparing for a house call?"
"Correct. Today's patient is at the Royce family mansion. Might require infiltration."
Fran nodded, confirming her assumption.
Then she took out two white bread sandwiches with bacon slices from the built-in fridge beside her and casually stuffed one into the maid's mouth.
Although somewhat rushed, breakfast shouldn't be skipped.
"If Sigrid wants to come with me, you might have to put up with some inconvenience... Are you mentally prepared?"
"Mmf, I can."
Sigrid promptly agreed, though her voice was somewhat muffled with the sandwich in her mouth.
The Fog Street Clinic possessed a vast library and forging materials that shouldn't exist in this era, so Sigrid wouldn't feel bored even staying at the clinic.
But Dr. Fran obviously cared quite a bit about the maid's mental state, often taking her out.
After receiving Sigrid's consent, Fran picked up her medical kit, flipped the hanging sign on the door to the "Closed" side, and stepped out of the clinic.
The maid followed closely behind. Footsteps gradually faded, and the two figures were soon engulfed by the ashen-white of the misty sea.
---
South District No. 11 Outskirts, Royce Mansion.
This was a manor near the city boundary, so it had no block division. The manor's area wasn't large and lacked expensive, ornate decorations like fountains or statues. However, the flower pruning beside the mansion was quite exquisite.
After all, the owner here, "Eugene Royce," was only from the family's collateral branch, and the assets he held weren't the highly profitable type, completely unlike shipping or mechanical industry which were thriving and had considerable income.
For his few carriage rental companies, merely maintaining no losses in recent years had been extremely strenuous.
And in these past few months, something occurred that greatly troubled Eugene. It concerned his daughter Elsa, who was studying at Norlington Central University.
That child experienced a disappearance... Though extremely fortunately rescued and not suffering any violation, it left very severe psychological scars.
The girl who originally majored in natural history and loved all unknown things had become gloomy and self-isolated, no longer even possessing the courage to step outside her home. Every shadow at a street corner, every glance from a passerby could trigger a terrifying response in her heart.
Out of love for his daughter, Eugene had to apply for a half-year leave of absence for her, hoping time would dilute her psychological trauma.
Of course, the White Cup's Error-Purgers had also come for psychological counseling. Though it had some effect... it only brought Elsa from completely closed-off to barely able to communicate with others.
Snip, snip.
Eugene somewhat irritably trimmed the yellow leaves of the tulips in the garden, his tightly knit brows full of worry.
Inside the mansion.
Elsa, wearing a thin white nightgown, sat hugging her knees, curled up on the bed. Her gaze was fixed tightly on the empty wall, as if afraid something would crawl out from the wall's shadow.
"Hah..."
She was resisting the constantly growing fear in her mind.
Elsa dared not wrap herself in the quilt; that would make her recall the feeling of being trapped within the flesh-and-blood womb. Warm, soft, familiar, as if returning to the womb at the moment of birth, enveloped by boundless peace of mind.
What was she afraid of?
She was afraid of utterly sinking into those pleasurable memories...
After basic psychological therapy from the White Cup's Error-Purgers, Elsa had gradually forgotten what happened in the Birth-Feast Hall. Her memory stopped at the day before being abducted into the sewer.
She had just attended some secret gathering sharing mystical knowledge in the West District, and on her way back, a terrifying figure in a red leather robe appeared…
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T/N: Hey readers~! New Translator here! Before I say anything, I'd first like to thank the original author for creating this wonderful story. Without them, I wouldn't have the chance to share this adventure with you. I hope my translation does justice to their work, and that together, we can enjoy this story.
With that said, I'm happy to let you know I'll be uploading daily chapters. And for those who wish to support my work and gain early access, I've set up a Patreon where advanced chapters will be available.
[email protected]/PeakTL