“I want money, Director. I'm too poor.”
Ryan's voice was somewhat raspy, but he articulated every single word with absolute clarity.
He stared at Morton and took a deep breath of the damp, cold air. “Aside from money, I also want knowledge. I know there is a broader, more dangerous reality behind this world. I don't want to be some disposable fodder waiting to die without even knowing why. I want a path to Ascension.
“Director, I desperately want to advance.”
Hearing such raw, completely undisguised desire, even Morton was temporarily stunned.
Then, the old director's face, dry as withered tree bark, slowly softened into a highly approachable—one might even say thoroughly satisfied—smile.
He reached out and gently tapped the desktop.
“Good, very good.”
A hint of warmth finally entered Morton's voice, carrying the distinct tone of appreciation a superior shows toward a favored employee:
“This is what a good employee looks like, Ryan. You're not like Simon; you're a young man with ideas who's willing to put in the effort. The Archive needs driven talent like you.”
Morton tidied the thick stack of reports on his desk, his tone suddenly growing light:
“How convenient. Since you want to make money, and you also want knowledge and opportunities for Ascension... I happen to have an excellent opportunity in my hands right now. To be honest, this slot is usually very difficult to secure within the Archive, but since you've rendered such meritorious service this time, it's a perfect fit.”
Enduring the throbbing pain in his head, Ryan asked in a low voice, “What opportunity?”
“How about studying at a college?”
Morton looked at Ryan and said unhurriedly:
“You won't have to stay here in East Port, dealing with moldy files all day. You'll go to college, spend a year in preparatory courses to build a solid foundation in basic academic logic, rituals, and languages, and then formally enter the college to study for two years.”
“Over these three years, the Archive will fully reimburse all of your tuition, book fees, and research material expenses. Not only that, but as a reward for your current operation, I will still pay you double your salary every month. This money will be more than enough for you to rent an apartment in the most decent neighborhood and live a comfortable life.”
Full reimbursement.
A three-year program.
Double salary.
For Ryan, who previously had to count pennies just to buy a pound of bread, this was nothing short of a shortcut to heaven.
“Which college?”
Morton smiled slightly and softly uttered a name:
“St. Blaise Royal Academy.”
“St. Blaise Royal Academy possesses the longest history in the entire Empire. It houses many 'rare manuscripts' that are closed to the public, and its professors frequently handle deep-level consultations for the Suppression Bureau. As long as you can graduate successfully from there, you will be able to legitimately obtain an imperial academic post and take charge of organizing the truly core archives.”
The old director's fingers lightly tapped on the desk:
“If you want money, the research grants there are enough to last you a lifetime. If you want Ascension, the secret library there naturally holds all the 'books' you could ever want to read. Ryan... isn't this exactly the 'advancement' you desire?”
Ryan clenched his fists tightly. He understood now. So that was it...
St. Blaise Royal Academy. The bargaining chip Morton had thrown out landed precisely on all of his weaknesses and desires.
But he knew that there was no such thing as a free lunch in this world.
“Then, what is the price, Director?”
Ryan took a deep breath of the cold air brought by the winter rain, suppressing the increasingly intense throb in his head caused by the rush of memories, and asked in a low voice:
“For full reimbursement and a double salary, what do I need to do for you, or for the Archive?”
“A price?”
Morton looked at Ryan's pale face, which was tense from strain, and unhurriedly pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
“Ryan, you three have just completed an exceptionally outstanding field mission. The Archive has always been lenient and generous to those who have rendered meritorious service. You do not need to pay any extra price here, as long as you pass the exams step-by-step.”
“First subject: Classical Greek.”
“Second subject: Arithmetic.”
“Third subject: Bookkeeping.”
“Fourth subject: English Composition.”
“And the final subject: Basic Geography and History.” Morton paused. “That is all, Ryan. What you need to do over the next fortnight is study these five subjects thoroughly and pass the exams. I believe that with your knowledge, it should be an absolute breeze.”
As Ryan listened to the names of these courses, his tense body gradually relaxed.
“I understand, Director.”
Ryan's voice was somewhat raspy, but his dark eyes gleamed with unprecedented clarity. “I will pass these five exams.”
“Very well.”
A highly satisfied smile appeared on Morton's face, carrying the warmth a superior reserves for a stellar employee:
“This is the kind of person the Archive needs. Simon, Alvin, you two should really learn from Ryan on how to plan for your own futures.”
Beside them, Simon mumbled upon hearing this:
“Give me a break, Director. Someone like me just wants to go sunbathe in New Salem.”
Alvin also spoke up in a muffled voice: “Director, I just want to rest for the next few days.”
“Go on, then.”
Morton picked up his quill again, pulled over two leave slips, and swiftly signed his name on them:
“I am giving you a fortnight of leave. Until my signature officially takes effect and your transfer orders are dispatched, do not loiter around the Archive. Simon and Alvin, go rest. As for Ryan, take your advance allowance and prepare for the preparatory exams in two weeks. Do whatever you want, just don't screw this up for me.”
“Excellent, now you're talking.”
Simon grinned and somewhat roughly slung an arm around the dazed Ryan's shoulders, half-dragging and half-pulling him out of the office. “Let's go, Ryan. Tonight is on me. We're going to the White Oak. We need to wash down all those messy memories in our heads with the strongest rye beer we can find.”
Ryan cast one final look back at Director Morton, who sat bathed in the dim light of the kerosene lamp.
The old man had already lowered his head again, scribbling in the thick ledger with his slightly worn quill. Outside the window, London's fine winter rain beat against the glass, making a monotonous pattering sound.
The Archive's old, spiral wooden staircase groaned and creaked beneath the three men's feet.
As they stepped out of the front door, a blast of icy winter rain, laden with the scent of the River Thames' heavy oil and coal smoke, struck their faces, instantly clearing Ryan's somewhat muddled mind.
The gas lamps on both sides of the street had begun to light up sporadically, casting circles of dim, broken yellow halos upon the wet stone pavement.
Commoners pushing handcarts and carriage drivers clad in oilskin raincoats hurried through the mud, the horses' hooves splashing crisply through the puddles and sending up splatters of black, muddy water.
Rate on N.U.
