Chapter 131 | I Transmigrated into Cultist Simulator

Standing on the steps, he was about to brave the wind and snow to walk toward the omnibus station when he spotted a familiar figure in the blizzard.

Irene was standing under the eaves of the post office at the edge of St. Paul's Square, wrapped in a half-worn plaid shawl. Spotting Ryan coming out, she quickly walked over to meet him and pulled a cooked meat pie wrapped in greaseproof paper from her coat. It still held a faint trace of warmth.

“Finished with the exams? Take this. It takes an hour and a half to ride the carriage back. Don't starve on the way.”

Ryan took the meat pie and looked at her with surprise. “Why are you here? Aren't you on duty at the archive today?”

“I came to the West End to help an older clerk deliver an official letter, so I decided to wait for you on the way.” Irene brushed the fallen snow from her shoulders, her eyes carrying a sense of relief and security she couldn't hide. “Also, Morton has promoted me to apprentice clerk. The director specifically looked out for the old clerk training me and said I was recommended by you, that my background is clean and orderly. Ryan, I really have to thank you for that recommendation letter. If Director Morton hadn't spoken up, who knows how many people would be lining up for this position.”

“That's because your background is good.” Ryan took a bite of the meat pie. The cold grease and savory aroma of the crust spread across his tongue.

“Come on, don't flatter me. There are plenty of people in the East End with good backgrounds. What they lack is a single word from Director Morton.” Irene flashed a bright smile, one that felt exceptionally genuine amidst the cold, snowy curtain of the West End.

After returning to the East End, life reverted to its moldy, quiet routine.

It would take half a month for the exam results to be released. During this time, Ryan continued to show up for work at the archive on time every day.

Irene had now changed into the archive's uniform. With a steady salary and the stable rental income from her tenement building, she could even occasionally buy a slice of Black Forest cake with a bit of cream after work.

“Ryan, I have to go to Warehouse Three this afternoon to renumber the accounts from 1885.”

During their lunch break, Irene sat at the opposite desk. As she sharpened a pencil with her pocketknife, she spoke in a perfectly casual tone, “Claire scolded me again this morning. She said if I make another mistake with a serial number, she'll dock me two pence. If you really get into that university in the West End and become a big shot, don't forget to treat me to a good meal when you come back to the East End.”

“Alright.” Ryan watched her efficient movements and smiled faintly.

During those late nights of waiting for the results, Simon's letter crossed half of the English Channel and was dropped into the mailbox by the postman.

The letter smelled strongly of pungent sea salt, and the handwriting was as crooked as ever:

“Dear Ryan,

This damned ocean liner is practically a floating cemetery! The waves out at sea are so massive it feels like a devil is flipping tables. I threw up so much that even yesterday's rye bread came out. The salted beef on board is as hard as the iron Alvin forged. I'm starting to suspect those Indian cooks made the soup out of leather shoes.

The gentlemen from the New Salem Civil Service gather to drink brandy all day and won't speak a word to me. But it doesn't matter. Once I arrive and become the director, I'll definitely spend every day in the taverns. If you didn't pass the exam for St. Blaise, remember to write back and tell me, so I can have something to laugh about in my boring life in the Southern Hemisphere.

—Your faithful, seasick friend, Simon.”

Ryan finished reading the letter by the dim light of the kerosene lamp, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his drawer.

Lying on his bed, he finally drifted into a rare sleep—he hadn't slept in days.

In his dream, he lost his anatomically human limbs and torso, transforming instead into a massive, grotesque insect.

It was an incredibly viscous experience, saturated with a sense of detachment and misalignment. He could clearly feel a cold, hard chitinous shell growing from his back, while dozens of hairy legs paddled frantically and mechanically in the slime-filled darkness, making a grating, skin-crawling scraping sound.

The world in his dream degenerated into countless chaotic, distorted, and grotesque compound-eye fragments. Within this vision woven from endless compound eyes, everything was stretched into clusters of frantically writhing threads.

...

Half a month later, at the St. Blaise Royal Academy, it was the day the results were posted.

The first heavy snow of winter began to fall. The swirling snowflakes blanketed the ancient granite buildings of the West End in a thick layer of pale white.

Around the massive bulletin board in front of the black iron gates, private carriages and gentlemen wearing top hats had already gathered to check the results. Newspaper reporters braved the biting wind, recording the names of the top ten young noble masters in their notebooks.

Ryan and Irene stood in the snow at the outermost edge of the crowd, sharing a black cloth umbrella.

“The overall rankings are out.”

Irene pointed her thick woolen-gloved finger toward the middle-to-lower section of the list.

Overall Rank: 31st—Ryan.

It was a completely unremarkable rank—one that wouldn't cause a stir, yet was sufficient to get him past the admission threshold and into the academy. After all, the vast blank spaces he had left on 《Basic Arithmetic and Natural Sciences》 and 《Basic Geography and History》 had dragged his overall score down significantly.

Around them, the noble parents and public school geniuses were still raising toasts and chatting, celebrating the glory of the top ten.

Looking at the number, Ryan shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and exhaled a calm puff of white mist. “Looks like my luck in mathematics wasn't too bad.”

Irene turned her head to look at him. The snow on the umbrella slid off the edge, leaving a white streak on the shoulder of her uniform. She smiled from the bottom of her heart, her grey eyes sparkling.

“I knew you'd pass. Congratulations! Thirty-first is great. There's still a batch of old bills to calculate in the warehouse today, so I have to rush back. If I'm late, the team leader really will dock my pay.”

With that, she waved to Ryan, leaving the umbrella with him, and lowered her head as she quickly plunged into the snowy streets.

At the same time, in the somewhat dim grading room on the first floor of the academic affairs office, where a fireplace crackled.

Professor Harold, the old-fashioned history professor, pressed a withered finger firmly against a grade sheet, his brow furrowed into deep lines.

“This isn't right, Richard.” Professor Harold took off his reading glasses, pointed to the individual subject column, and turned to look at the academic secretary beside him.

“This candidate named Ryan. Although his overall rank is only thirty-first, look at his individual subject scores.”

The secretary leaned in to take a look, and his expression shifted slightly as well.

Within the dense matrix of numbers, two lines stood out glaringly:

《English Composition》: First place (surpassing all public school graduates).

《Classical Greek》: Third place.

“His math and science are a total mess. He even got the most basic mechanical transmission ratios wrong.” The old professor tapped his knuckles against the desk, muttering under his breath. “But this composition... this level of subtle bureaucratic rhetoric and grasp of the Cabinet's style is simply not something a student could write.”

“No matter how you look at him... he seems like an old scribe who has worked in an imperial government department for a full twenty years.”

The grading room fell quiet, save for the occasional crackle of wood in the fireplace.

“Who is his sponsor?” the old professor asked.

“According to the records, it's Morton from the East End Archive,” the secretary replied.

The moment he heard that name, Professor Harold's hand, which was about to pick up his teacup, froze abruptly in midair for two seconds.

The once-warm grading room seemed to grow eerily cold with the mention of that name. The old professor's cloudy eyes, hidden deep within his dark sockets, narrowed slightly, but he offered no explanation to the secretary.