Chapter 146 | I Transmigrated into Cultist Simulator

The brick alleyway outside the back door of the old blacksmith shop was narrow and damp.

It was three-thirty in the morning in the Lower End. The air was as heavy as a wet cloth soaked in industrial waste and aged coal ash. A thick morning mist crept silently along the uneven flagstone path like a heavy grey wool blanket, tightly enveloping the entire alley.

Ryan pulled down the brim of his black top hat. His boots made no sound as they stepped on the slippery, moss-covered stones.

He did not look back once at the old blacksmith shop that hid a secret compartment and the smell of blood. The moment he stepped out of that back door, he had completely severed all ties with those ruins.

After walking through two blocks, near an abandoned open drainage canal at the edge of the West End, a four-wheeled, two-horse enclosed wooden carriage bearing the insignia of the "Hampton Post Office" stood quietly under a black iron streetlamp.

The old man driving the carriage wore a coarse linen cloak and tattered leather gloves, huddled in the driver's seat like a withered corpse.

Ryan walked up to the carriage. The old man's jaundiced eyes moved slightly, and he reached out to tap on the carriage wall.

Click.

The carriage door was pushed open just a crack.

The narrow interior was empty. Ryan lowered his head and slid smoothly inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

The sharp crack of a whip echoed through the mist. The wheels rolled over gravel and puddles, their rumbling sound particularly lonely amidst the pervasive morning fog.

Ryan took out Alvin's box. Inside was a thick stack of complete customs transit documents, offshore certificates, and five hundred New World gold pounds. His new identity was "Joshua Adams," a botanical researcher under the Imperial Royal Geographical Society.

At the very bottom of the bag, alongside these prepared items, lay an unsealed letter.

The recipient's name was written on the envelope in elegant gold script: Ryan.

The signature was from Chris.

Ryan pulled out the letter and examined it by the faint gaslight filtering through the cracks in the carriage. The handwriting was somewhat hurried, clearly written in a state of extreme haste and secrecy:

“When you see this letter, it means this carriage has successfully picked you up.

Alvin cannot come to see you. The senses of the Academic Committee and the Suppression Bureau are sharper than we imagined; he has already been taken by Suppression Bureau agents for interrogation. But please rest assured, he does not know the final destination of this carriage. All leads have been severed here.

Things at the academy have turned upside down. Our ambush at Black Stone Bridge killed seventeen investigators, and the weathered corpse of ‘Ryan’ in the water cell has left the Trier family and the Academic Committee in a complete deadlock of mutual distrust.

The waves of the New World are more treacherous than the River Thames. Good luck, Mr. Adams. Do not return to this decaying old world.”

Your dear friend—Morris.

Ryan finished reading the letter in silence, his fingertips exerting a slight pressure.

Whoosh—

A wisp of secret grey flame rose out of thin air from between his fingers, instantly reducing the letter to ash, which then scattered into the dark mud through the cracks of the carriage window.

The carriage avoided all major thoroughfares, traveling quickly along the abandoned drainage canals and canal corridors of the Lower End. The wheels rolled over gravel and puddles, their rumbling sound particularly lonely in the pervasive morning fog.

About two hours later.

The rumbling of the carriage was gradually replaced by the vast, thick, and metallic vibration of steam whistles. The pungent sourness and musty air began to fade, replaced by a salty, cold sea breeze mixed with a high concentration of heavy oil and the smell of fish.

Plymouth Harbor had arrived.

The carriage slowly stopped in the shadow of a secluded freight dock pier.

The old man knocked on the door and rasped two words: “We’re here.”

Ryan pushed open the black door and stepped out of the carriage, carrying his leather bag.

In an instant, a violent and salty sea breeze rushed at him, making his grey trench coat flap loudly.

His field of vision suddenly opened up, yet he was immersed in an overwhelming sense of industrial oppression.

It was four-thirty in the morning.

A thick fog hung over the mouth of the River Thames. In the distance, a giant iron-cast lighthouse spat out a jaundiced beam of light, slowly sweeping across the surging, pitch-black water and illuminating the frothing waves.

A massive steam ocean liner was moored at a deep-water berth.

The colossal dark-brown steel hull resembled an ancient beast slumbering in the biting morning wind. The riveted iron walls, four stories high, were covered in rust from seawater corrosion and industrial grease. Towering chimneys continuously spat rolling white smoke into the dark night sky, accompanied by a dull, thunderous roar from inside the boilers that made the entire dock seem to tremble slightly.

Hundreds of coolies in filthy, coarse linen clothes carried heavy wooden crates and iron barrels on their backs, scurrying across the slanted wooden piers like a swarm of ants.

“Tighten the winch! Open hatch number three!”

“Damn it, don't drop those heavy oil barrels! Do you want to blow us all up?!”

“Watch the ropes! Stay away from the chains!”

Rough shouts, the piercing screech of chains rubbing against gears at high speed, and the rhythmic hiss of steam valves releasing pressure blended together, echoing across the cold river.

This clamor, unique to the night before a long voyage, carried a primitive, coarse, and violent vitality—completely different from the elegant yet sinister aura of death at St. Blaise Academy.

Ryan stood in the shadows at the edge of the crowd.

He pressed down his black top hat, lightly clutching the steamship ticket with its slightly curled edges that smelled of aged paper.

On both sides of the pier, customs inspectors and ordinary police sentries in heavy wool coats held routine runic detection plates, wearily checking the passengers' passes.

When Ryan walked past them alone in his trench coat, the inspector only glanced at the stamped documents he handed over before casually pressing a heavy black stamp onto the pass.

“Mr. Joshua Adams?” the customs official yawned, handing back the ticket. “First-class cabin 302. I wish you a pleasant academic stay in the New World.”

“Thank you.”

Ryan took back the ticket, his fingertips feeling the uneven ink marks on it.

He stepped onto the heavy metal gangway and followed the crowded flow of people, step by step, toward the spacious deck of the giant ship.

...

He did not immediately walk into the corridor of the first-class cabins.

Instead, he crossed the wind-swept deck to the edge of the iron railing on the third level.

He stood there quietly, turned around, and looked into the distance.

He looked at London.

The sun had not yet risen, and the entire vast capital of the industrial empire was completely covered in deep, viscous fog. Only the black smoke spat out by countless factories and workshop chimneys rose and spread slowly at the edge of the skyline, weaving into a massive, cold, and oppressive grey forest.

There, the spires of St. Blaise Academy, made of black granite, were hidden deep in the clouds like the remains of a lofty god.

There was the coal ash of the East End that never dissipated, the mud, and the rotting corpses in the sewers.

There were the parchment scrolls in the forbidden archives that smelled of mold and blood.

And there was every struggle, scheme, despair, and bloodshed he had experienced since transmigrating into this bizarre world.

Looking at that fog, Ryan suddenly felt a bit dazed.

He raised his hands and looked at his palms.

Just a few hours ago, these hands had been tightly clamped by steel magic-suppressing shackles. His fingernails had pierced his own chest, allowing his blood and life to drain away bit by bit in that cold water cell.

In a legal sense, in the metal file boxes of the Suppression Bureau, in the records of the high-level divination rituals of the Academic Committee, and even in the eyes of everyone who knew him—the commoner youth named "Ryan" was, in fact, dead.

Dead in the cold water cell on the third underground level.

Dead in the interrogation room torn by various interests.

Dead in the blood-soaked deadlock where the old and new nobility crushed each other.

The person now standing at the edge of this dock, breathing the salty sea air, no longer belonged there. His soul had washed away all the shackles of the old world.

“Wooooo—!!!!”

The heavy steam whistle suddenly blasted again!

A low, powerful wave of sound, like the roar of a giant beast, instantly pierced the thick morning fog on the river and resonated violently throughout the harbor.

From above the deck came the rough shouts of the crew:

“Prepare to set sail!”

“Retract the first wooden ladder! Final boarding!”

The noise on the pier reached its peak. Chains were pulled taut by winches, making a tooth-grinding creak. The crowd began to stir, and travelers carrying suitcases quickened their pace, desperately pouring into the ship's cabins.

Ryan slowly came back to his senses.

He glanced down at the ticket in his hand, then set off to walk into the ship.

Just as the sole of his shoe was about to step onto the carpet of the corridor, he suddenly stopped.

As if possessed, he took one last look back.

London behind him remained hidden in the pervasive fog. The towering buildings and the vast city silhouette were blurred and indistinct, appearing precarious under the dismal gaslight.

But for some reason, faces suddenly flashed through his mind.

Alvin, who had been taken for questioning by the Suppression Bureau, his fate unknown.

The director, who was always stern.

Strong-willed Irene.

The Soul-Stitcher he had killed with Simon for the first time.

That “friend” Chris, who was always up to no good.

The old monsters who sat high above, treating commoners as insects and expendables.

Violet, who put on a black lace veil and used an elegant mask to hide her venomous heart, believing she had manipulated the entire blood-soaked game.

And Professor Adrian, whose eyes flashed with fanatical academic light behind his monocle, wanting to peel away his brain and soul for research.

Even that arrogant noble brat Charles, who ultimately died at his hands.

Those people... would perhaps continue to fight within that massive and decaying steel machine.

They would continue to bite, fight, bleed, and perish in the sunless water cells and luxurious banquet halls for the sake of the ethereal sequences of the high-dimensional ladder, for seats on the Academic Committee, for family glory, and for the interests of the Lower End.

But that was their story now.

That massive imperial capital was nothing more than a giant tomb draped in the cloak of steam and high-dimensional extraordinarity. The people inside were fighting for the most comfortable spot in the grave, while he had already crawled out of it.

Ryan withdrew his gaze.

He no longer hesitated, lifted his foot, and stepped into the deep corridor of the ship.

This time, he did not look back.

Behind him, the morning fog grew thicker, completely obscuring and swallowing the ancient old continent.

Ahead, the violent sea breeze, carrying the scent of salt and freedom, blew back the black hair on his forehead, revealing those bottomless, pitch-black eyes as calm as water.

Clack! Clack! Boom!

Giant chains were forcibly pulled up by steam winches, bringing up large splashes of black mud and water.

The massive steel hull vibrated violently, and the giant twin propellers in the deep water began to roar and rotate! The violent mechanical power churned the dark river water, completely shattering it into countless rolling, roaring white waves.

The massive “Sea Serpent” cut through the waves, slowly pulling away from the stone-paved dock berth and sailing toward the vast, boundless ocean.

...

First-class cabin 302.

The room was not large, but it was kept extremely clean. The brass ornaments shimmered with a warm luster under the faint light. A round, brass-rimmed porthole faced the vast sea.

Ryan entered the room and casually placed his leather bag on the table.

He walked to the round porthole, leaning against the cold metal edge, allowing the roar of the wind and waves outside to filter in.

Deep within his body, the intense backlash and weakness originally caused by the disintegration of the 【Lantern】 were being slowly repaired at an extremely covert speed under the nourishment of the 【Moth】. With every breath, he could feel the cool sea breeze rushing into his lungs—pure air without coal ash or the smell of saltpeter.

After a long, long time.

Ryan finally closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

That breath, which had been pent up in his chest like a scroll, carrying the musty smell of the underground water cell, the scent of blood, and the suffocating feeling of being schemed against, finally scattered completely into the vast ocean storm.

This was not a glorious victory.

Nor was it some heroic epic worthy of boasting to the world.

This was merely... an outlander transmigrator who had nothing, relying on his own ruthlessness, calculation, and resolve to personally strangle his past self in this bizarre and mad world, just to survive.

...

Knock, knock, knock.

After an unknown amount of time, a polite knock came from the waiter outside the room:

“Mr. Adams, the Sea Serpent has sailed out of the mouth of the River Thames and entered the high seas. May I prepare dinner for you?”

Outside the porthole, the silhouette of London had long since vanished completely into the fog at the end of the horizon.

And ahead on the sea level, the purple-red clouds were torn apart by a violent force. The first sliver of golden morning light was piercing through the gloom, spilling over the vast and wild sea.

Ryan slowly opened his eyes.

He straightened the collar of his trench coat and responded in a calm, hoarse voice:

“Bring it in.”

From this moment on.

In the water cell of St. Blaise Academy, there was one more weathered corpse. In the file boxes of the Suppression Bureau, there was one more cold death report.