Chapter 127 | I Transmigrated into Cultist Simulator

“Damn, it's freezing.”

Simon pulled up the collar of his trench coat, burying his face in it. He turned to look at Alvin. “Alvin, are you sure you won't join us at the White Oak? My treat. We can get some rye beer, hot offal stew, and grilled sausages.”

Alvin shook his head in the rain.

“No. I want to look for some materials and do some smithing. You guys go ahead and drink.”

“You really are a block of iron.”

Simon shrugged and didn't press further, simply reaching out to pat Alvin's broad shoulder. “Alright, see you then. Make sure to send me off when the time comes.”

Alvin grunted in response, then turned and strode away, plunging into London's grey curtain of rain and yellowish-brown fog. His heavy leather boots left a trail of deep footprints in the muddy street.

Simon threw an arm around Ryan, guiding him into a narrow alleyway that led deeper into the district.

Simon pushed the door open with force.

The tavern was bustling and noisy, the already cramped space packed with sailors and idle men in ragged cotton coats. Crude curses, loud laughter, and the clinking of thick glass mugs echoed throughout the hall.

A small fireplace in the corner burned low-grade coal, emitting a slightly choking but sufficiently warm heat.

“You two! Have a seat over here!”

A fat tavern keeper wearing a filthy apron and sporting a scar on his face bellowed over the din, pointing toward an empty table against the wall.

Simon and Ryan walked over and sat down. Simon slumped onto the hardwood chair, groaning in comfort, before slapping the table hard.

“Keeper! Give us two of your largest mugs of rye beer, and make them warm! Also, a plate of grilled sausages, a plate of beef offal stew, and some rye bread—make sure the bread is fresh out of the oven and hot!”

“Coming right up!” The tavern keeper wiped his hands on his apron and roared toward the kitchen in the back.

Ryan sat in his chair, hands shoved somewhat nervously into his coat pockets.

His left eyelid was still twitching slightly.

“What's on your mind, Ryan?”

Simon waved a hand in front of Ryan's eyes, interrupting his train of thought.

“Your eyes are still as red as a rabbit's. Still haven't processed everything? Let me tell you, you shouldn't take that old geezer Morton's words too seriously. St. Blaise Royal Academy is a great place, but if you do go, don't put too much pressure on yourself. Just secure a comfortable position, enjoy the perks, and make as much money as you can. That's what really matters. Don't end up losing your life before you even get to enjoy the cash.”

Just then, the tavern keeper walked over carrying a large tray, thumping two large mugs of steaming, dark rye beer topped with white foam onto the table.

“Here's your drinks! The food will be ready in a moment!”

Simon picked up one of the mugs, handed it to Ryan, and clinked it against his own, making a crisp, dull thud.

“To staying alive. Cheers,” Simon said.

Ryan looked at the warm, dark liquid in his mug, which wafted a rich aroma of malt. The comforting presence of warm food and ordinary life finally pierced through the lingering chill in his mind. He raised his mug and took a long, deep gulp.

The warm, slightly tart and sweet liquid slid down his throat and into his stomach like a small flame, instantly dispersing the remaining cold and fatigue from deep within his body.

“Ah...”

Ryan let out a long breath and set his half-empty mug back on the table. A hint of color finally returned to his pale face.

“Simon,” Ryan said, looking at his friend. “Have you really decided to go to New Salem?”

“Of course. Why would I lie?”

Simon tore off a piece of the hot, freshly served rye bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and spoke muffle-mouthed as he chewed:

“I've had enough of this godforsaken place London. It rains for more than half the year, and the winters are cold enough to freeze your ears off. New Salem, on the other hand, is paradise. I've heard all about it—it's one of the Empire's southern hemisphere colonies. Sandy beaches, coastlines, and sunshine.”

He took a large gulp of beer, a look of longing appearing on his face.

“Once I'm there, I'll just hold a nominal title as an archive liaison. In a place like New Salem, how many files could there possibly be to process in a year? How many people would need to register? I'll wake up every morning to go fishing by the sea, bask in the sun on the balcony in the afternoon, and hit the local taverns to dance with the native girls at night. Isn't that ten thousand times better than waiting to die in a moldy archive here in London?”

Ryan seeing Simon's genuine happiness, Ryan felt his own heavy mood lighten slightly.

“Good luck, Simon. I hope the fishing there is better than in the River Thames.” Ryan raised his mug.

“Absolutely. The fish in the River Thames are all poisoned anyway, hahaha.” Simon grinned.

In the corner, a gramophone hissed as it played an old waltz.

Simon had already downed his second mug of rye beer, and a clear flush of alcohol had risen to his cheeks.

Ryan had just used his fork to cut into a piece of tender, slow-cooked beef offal.

Suddenly, a familiar, slightly teasing voice came from beside them.

“I knew that back looked familiar.”

Simon froze. He raised his head and looked up.

“...Winona?”

The woman standing by the table wore a slightly faded dark blue dress.

She was wrapped tightly in an old woolen shawl, and her auburn hair was neatly tied up behind her head.

Compared to the allure she displayed when singing on the stage of the White Oak last time, today she had less of that illusory spotlight charm and more of a gentle, down-to-earth warmth suited to the bustling streets of London.

“What's wrong? You don't recognize me after just a few days?”

“No... I just didn't expect to run into you here.”

Winona rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“You must be drunk. I'm the head waitress here. Where else would I be?”

“As for you, you haven't been here for a drink in ages.”

Simon let out a dry laugh, his gaze wandering.

“Work's been busy. Running back and forth to the docks every day, sorting through those moldy old ledgers, you know how it is.”

She pulled out an adjacent wooden chair and sat down.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.”

Ryan suddenly felt a bit like a third wheel sitting at this narrow square table.

Only then did Winona turn her gaze to Ryan.

“Ryan, we meet again.”

Ryan set down his mug and nodded politely. “Good evening, Miss Winona.”

“The last time we met, you looked so pale you seemed on the verge of death.” Winona winked playfully. “You look much better today.”

Ryan smiled but didn't say anything.

The three of them chatted casually.

For the most part, it was Simon and Winona doing the talking. Ryan only chimed in occasionally, spending most of his time holding his mug and acting as a polite listener.

After about half an hour of chatting, Winona adjusted her shawl and asked casually:

“By the way, how are things at the docks lately? Still the same?”

Simon shrugged, his tone nonchalant.

“How else could they be? Dirty and messy. Breathe in enough of that coal smoke and you'll cough up a lump of charcoal.”

He paused, swirling the foam in his mug, and spoke in a light, casual tone, trying to make it sound like a joke:

“But... I might be leaving London soon.”

Winona paused mid-peel of her sausage.

“Leaving? Where to?”

Simon took a large gulp of his drink and grinned.

“An assignment from the Archive. I'll probably be spending a few years in a colony in the southern hemisphere, helping the Empire sort through their old records.”