Chapter 38 | I Transmigrated into Cultist Simulator

December 5th.

Saturday.

London was graced with a rare spell of sunshine.

When Ryan left the house in the morning, he noticed that the wind had partially dispersed the fog. Though the air remained grey, the outline of the sun was visible—a rare sight in the winter.

The archive operated as usual in the morning, though today was only a half-day.

Shortly after eleven in the morning, people in the office began packing up their things. Some complained about the cold, while others discussed the infection at the docks.

Simon leaned against the window smoking, casting a glance at the sun outside.

“Today actually feels like something,” he remarked.

Ryan didn't reply, silently organizing the last few registration forms.

Eleven forty.

He left the archive and walked briskly all the way back to St. Blaise Street.

The wind was gentle today, and the sunlight lingered. Ryan kept his eyes fixed on the sky almost the entire way back.

He knew he might not see weather like this again for weeks.

Upon returning to the attic, he locked the door first, then stood by the window to observe the position of the sun.

There was still enough time.

Only then did he begin preparing for the ritual.

He extinguished the kerosene lamp, pushed the bed and table aside, and cleared a space in the center of the attic.

Then, Ryan took a pencil from his drawer and began drawing the ritual structure on the floor, following the Lantern lore in his mind exactly.

Twenty minutes later, a circular diagram had taken shape in the center of the floor.

Ryan looked down and checked it twice. Satisfied that there were no mistakes, he began arranging the materials.

Seven old archive volumes were placed along the perimeter. These books recorded the names, lives, and deaths of countless people, containing a sufficient residue of intellect.

In the center, he placed the bottle of orchid water. The liquid inside was very pale; only upon close inspection could one discern a faint, golden hue.

Finally, Ryan took out the lens.

The old marine lens was cold and heavy.

He positioned the lens directly beneath the sunlight, adjusting the angle bit by bit until the beam of light stabilized completely.

Then, Ryan sat down in the center of the ritual.

The room fell silent.

He slowly reached out and adjusted the lens.

In the next second, the sunlight was compressed. A needle-thin beam of light fell into the glass bottle, and the orchid water inside instantly flared.

The entire attic suddenly grew warm. The moisture in the air evaporated rapidly, and the scent of orchids began to shift, taking on a strange aroma.

Ryan's eyes began to ache. The Lantern lore in his mind surfaced on its own, and the previously obscure concepts grew increasingly clear.

He knew.

The ritual had begun.

So, Ryan reached out and pressed his hand against one of the old archives.

In the next second, the pages began to turn on their own.

Rustle.

First page, second page, third page... The pages flipped faster and faster. The ink faded, and faint golden traces emerged along the edges of the paper, beginning to flow along the lines drawn on the floor.

Page after page.

All seven archives began to flip, leaving only the rustling of paper echoing through the attic.

The orchid water grew brighter, and a tiny point of white light slowly appeared at the center of the lens.

It was no larger than a pinprick, yet it made Ryan's eyes sting sharply.

His breathing quickened as more and more information flooded his mind.

The movement of Glory, the focusing of aspects, the paths within the Wood, and the Lantern scripts he once couldn't comprehend—a massive torrent of knowledge was pouring into his brain.

Sweat began to bead on Ryan's forehead.

But he did not stop.

The Lantern ritual of the First Stage was, by nature, about “acceptance”—accepting knowledge, accepting Glory, and accepting the gaze of the Lantern.

He stared intently at the speck of white light in the center of the lens.

Time ticked away.

Suddenly, with a sharp snap, one of the archive volumes burst apart, scattering pages all over the floor. Right after, a second did the same, and then a third.

Simultaneously, the white light at the center of the lens expanded violently. A true beam of Glory descended from it, striking Ryan directly on the forehead.

Boom.

Ryan's vision went completely white.

Something in his mind cracked open.

As the Glory faded, Ryan's vision plunged into darkness for a brief moment.

All sounds in the attic vanished.

The rustling of paper, the whistling of the wind, the footsteps from downstairs—all of it was gone.

There was only an intensifying heat in the center of his forehead.

He sat motionless in the center of the ritual.

The white light within the lens slowly shrank, and the drained archives fell completely silent. Their pages had turned yellow and brittle, the ink on them faded beyond recognition.

After an unknown period, Ryan finally lowered his head slowly.

The lines on the floor had dimmed, and the orchid water in the glass bottle had returned to normal.

Ryan reached up to touch his forehead, and a sharp sting immediately pricked his fingertips.

He frowned, nearly losing his balance as he stood up.

His head was still throbbing.

But it was different from the previous chaos.

Now, it felt more like being “hyper-awake.”

Everything in the attic suddenly became exceptionally clear.

The cracks in the floorboards, the water stains in the corner, and even the distant sounds from the street outside—he could discern them all.

Someone was coughing downstairs.

Someone in the next room was pouring water.

Two children were arguing in the courtyard.

He could never have heard these things before.

Standing by the window, Ryan slowly looked outside.

The sun had already begun to sink.

The greyish-white fog was pressing down on the streets once more.

But in his eyes, the fog was no longer just fog; it was mingled with numerous tiny specks of Glory.

They were extremely faint, normally invisible to the naked eye.

Yet now, he could faintly perceive them.

Ryan closed his eyes, and his vision returned to normal.

A few seconds later, he opened them again.

The Glory appeared once more.

This time, he was finally certain.

He had truly completed the First Stage.

The Lantern had left its mark on him.

In the evening, Ryan went out to buy a decent meal, a rare treat for him.

A large loaf of white bread.

A large bowl of beef.

A small bottle of laudanum.

And a portion of hot soup.

It cost him two shillings.

Under normal circumstances, he would never have brought himself to spend that much.

After returning to the attic, he even boiled some hot water.

Ryan leaned against the bed and finished his food, then picked up the laudanum and took a sip.

The pungent liquid slid down his throat, and his mind gradually relaxed. Before he knew it, he had drunk too much.

When Ryan opened his eyes again, the greyish-white Wood stood before him.

The Wood was just as it had always been.

Quiet.

Cold and gloomy.

The ground was covered in white ash.

Scattered glimmers drifted in the distance.

As soon as Ryan found his footing, he noticed the Glory in the Wood was drawing closer to him. The specks of light that usually drifted aimlessly through the trees were now slowly converging around him.