Ryan lay on the hard bed in his dormitory. Crossing the Door had not instantly elevated him to greatness; it had merely raised his upper limit. In this world, the 【Lantern】 represented merciless cold light and absolute knowing, but a mortal's flesh and nerves ultimately had their limits.
“Meditation alone won't patch this hole.”
Ryan pressed his temples and let out a low sigh.
The ringing in his ears was sharp and piercing, and distorted double vision flashed across his sight from time to time.
He needed more “fuel.”
“I want to consume someone so badly.”
Whether it was the waste left behind after a mortal's sanity disintegrated, or the mental wreckage of fellow travelers on the same path, if he didn't consume others, he would eventually become the chewed-up dregs.
“But since I forced Arthur back last night, anyone with an agenda in the academy will be watching me.” Leaning against the headboard, the 【Lantern】 in Ryan's mind began to spin at high speed, analyzing. “An unorthodox preparatory student taking down an 【Edge】 raider is inherently unnatural. The next ones to come looking for trouble certainly won't be brainless brutes like Arthur who fight with raw muscle.”
Ryan gritted his teeth and sat up, his bare feet stepping onto the freezing cold floor.
The bathroom mirror reflected a bloodless face, with a scabbed-over bloody gash on his chin and a web of bloodshot veins deep in his pupils. He splashed ice-cold water over his face for three solid minutes, only wiping away the water once the bone-chilling cold finally suppressed the dizziness and double vision in his mind.
He took off last night's tattered coat, which was covered in stone dust and frozen blood, threw it into the residual ashes by the fireplace, and changed into an inconspicuous black robe.
“I still have that damn eight o'clock morning class today.”
Pushing open the heavy black iron door, a flurry of wind and snow rushed at his face.
Ryan kept his head down, pulling the collar of his coat extremely high to cover the wound on his chin.
As he passed the plaza and corridors along the way, he could faintly feel several gazes silently falling upon him from the towering gear clock tower and the deep shadows of the pavilions.
Sticky, cold, and carrying a strong sense of detachment.
Ryan did not look back rashly, nor did he show the slightest unease. He didn't even alter the pace of his footsteps in the slightest.
“Testing me? Then keep watching,” Ryan sneered inwardly.
Last night's war of attrition had ultimately exposed him completely.
“That Edge-man was a fool too, probably tricked by someone into testing my depth.”
...
Twelve noon.
The cold wind made the wooden windows of the old corridor groan under the strain.
Ryan dragged his exhausted body back to his dormitory. Although his dislocated right arm had undergone a rudimentary reset, every swing still brought a piercing, agonizing pain.
On the wooden table in his dormitory, a letter had appeared out of thin air.
It lay grandly right in the center of the table, in the most conspicuous spot, resting on top of his copy of 《A Comprehensive Interpretation of Ancient Languages》.
Ryan stood by the door, staring at the letter.
The windows in the room were tightly locked, and the door lock bore a secret mark he had intentionally left before heading out—an extremely tiny fiber of dust. The fiber was unbroken, and there was no sign of the lock being forced.
The other party had entered silently, left a letter, and then vanished into thin air like a ghost.
“A crack in the door of 【Knock】...?” Ryan evaluated in his mind.
He observed it carefully, and after confirming that there was no trigger-type poison or mental imprint attached to it, he slowly walked to the table.
The envelope was extremely exquisite, shimmering with a faint golden sheen. It was made of highly expensive parchment and emitted an incredibly faint yet refreshing scent of wild briar roses.
Ryan carefully slit open the envelope with a small knife. Inside, there was only a single sheet of heavy cardstock.
Written on it in extremely fluent, elegant calligraphy was a single sentence:
“You are more formidable than Arthur imagined.”
Ryan looked at the line of words, his face completely expressionless, as calm as if he were reading a breakfast menu.
“Troublesome,” he muttered under his breath.
This feeling of being completely watched was utterly loathsome.
He flipped the cardstock over. On the back, there was a small postscript added in light red ink: “But don't use the same trick next time. You'll die.”
Still no signature.
This condescending sense of superiority was as if she were terrified that others wouldn't know how amazing she was. But in all fairness, to be able to place a letter directly onto his desk, the other party indeed had the right to show off.
“First, the other party knows Arthur and I fought, and saw the process clearly.” Leaning against the table, Ryan tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wood. “Second, she didn't choose to finish me off directly, which means I possess some value she needs, or... she wants to keep using me as a pawn.”
“Third, the paper is scented, and the calligraphy is extremely standard. With such an pretentious posture, there is a high probability she holds a high status.”
Ryan did not keep the letter. He threw it directly into the residual ashes of the fireplace, struck a match, and let the faint floral scent dissolve into nothingness within the flames.
Information itself was dangerous. Keeping this letter was equivalent to leaving an anchor for the other party to locate him.
...
The afternoon's ancient language class was held in the lecture hall on the third floor.
The old lecturer gesticulated wildly on the podium as he explained.
Midway through, Ryan felt a strong wave of dizziness wash over him. He stood up to ask for permission to use the restroom, using ice-cold water to stimulate his groggy brain once more.
The restroom was empty, the faucet gurgling as it poured out freezing water.
When he finished washing his face and returned to his seat, preparing to pack up his textbooks for the end of class, his fingers suddenly froze the moment they touched the pages.
On page 42 of his heavy copy of 《An Introduction to General Occultism》, marked by a folded corner, a neatly cut, rough note had appeared.
Written on it in black ink were only a few minimalist words:
“Tonight at seven.”
“The central greenhouse.”
“It's fine if you don't come.”
Still no signature.
Ryan closed the textbook, his fingertips tapping rhythmically against the hard cover a few times.
This was already the second message he had received today.
A cold, thoughtful look flashed through Ryan's eyes.
The handwriting was different.
The elegant calligraphy on the letter from noon was smooth and fluid, carrying a strong personal style. In contrast, although the black ink handwriting on this note was neat, the strokes were stiff and mechanical at the turns, looking like some deliberately disguised script. Even the paper was the cheapest kind of draft paper.
“The person who sent the first letter and the person who sent the note... are not the same person.”
“Or rather, someone is using the first person's name to lure me out of my hole by going with the flow.”
“It's also possible that it's the same person who intentionally changed to cheap paper and handwriting, deliberately creating the illusion of a 'third party's involvement' to test my psychological resilience.”
Ryan slowly tore the note into tiny shreds, crushing them into dust in his palm.
It was both an invitation and a test.
If he didn't go, it meant he would remain in the light while the other party was in the dark, ready to launch a second fatal sneak attack like Arthur's at any moment. If he went, even if it was a trap, he could at least pull this hidden eye out into the open.
Ryan pulled the collar of his coat high, stepping into the darkness that had descended once again after dawn.
Six fifty in the evening.
The central greenhouse was located in the abandoned cultivation area on the west side of St. Blaise. In the freezing winter, it was almost completely neglected. The massive glass dome was covered in thick snow, letting not a single shred of starlight filter through.
“Creak—”
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