Director Morton arrived.
He inspected each workstation along the way, finally stopping in front of Ryan's desk.
Ryan stood up.
The director looked down, flipping through the files Ryan had recently organized, and glanced at his handwriting. He fell silent for a few seconds.
“Not bad,” he said, putting the files back on the desk. “Keep it up.”
He then left immediately. The office area instantly came back to life, and someone nearby let out a low whistle.
Simon looked up at Ryan, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. Everyone knew that a man like the director rarely bothered to praise anyone.
Around three in the afternoon, the office area was quiet as everyone transcribed records. Suddenly, a formal clerk came downstairs.
“Ryan. The director wants you to go upstairs.”
Quite a few people in the office looked up. Even Simon raised an eyebrow.
Ryan put down his fountain pen. “Now?”
“Yes.” The man left after saying that.
Ryan's heart stirred slightly. He stood up and straightened his clothes.
Walking upstairs, the second floor was noticeably quieter. The floorboards were much cleaner, clocks and bulletin boards hung on the walls, and there was a faint smell of tobacco in the air.
Ryan walked to the director's office and knocked gently on the door.
“Come in.”
He pushed the door open and entered.
The office wasn't large, but it was much more decent than the workspace below. A coal stove sat by the window, along with two rows of filing cabinets.
The director was sitting behind his desk, reviewing documents. He didn't even look up.
“Sit.”
After Ryan sat down, the director flipped through a few pages of documents before finally looking up.
“You've been performing well lately. Your handwriting is steady, and there are few mistakes. Did you also fill in that batch of death registrations last month?”
“Yes.”
The director nodded, then took a small booklet from his drawer. It had a black hard cover with copper wire pressed along the edges.
“A temporary pass. Starting today, you can handle some field work.”
Ryan took the booklet. Opening it, he saw it had already been stamped with the archive's seal, along with his name. Although it wasn't a formal status, it already set him apart from ordinary temporary clerks.
The director continued, “Originally, you still had a two-month probation period. But that won't be necessary now. You're being promoted to a formal clerk ahead of schedule.”
Ryan's expression didn't change, but he felt a sigh of relief in his heart.
The treatment of a formal clerk was much better than that of a temporary clerk. Most importantly, it was stable. Nowadays, people in the East End were being laid off every day. A formal status meant he wouldn't lose his job anytime soon.
The director leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Also, I have a task for you.”
As he spoke, he took out two documents from the side.
“City Hall recently gave us a quota. The archive is short-handed. People at the bottom are dying fast, and those at the top are running away even faster. We need to recruit new people.”
Ryan looked down at the documents. The names of two schools were written on them.
The first one was St. Blaise Boys' Public School.
Ryan's gaze paused slightly. That was the school his body's original owner had attended. It was also one of the few commoner schools in the East End that could still function. Many poor children went there.
The second one was Harrington Girls' Academy.
A school in the North End. The name even had a gold border printed behind it, clearly in a completely different class from the East End. If he remembered correctly, this was the school Irene's family had sacrificed everything to send her to.
Ryan looked up. “You want me to do a presentation?”
“Yes.” The director tapped his cigarette ash. “To put it simply, it's to recruit people for the archive. Tell them that this place is stable, has permanent positions, and pays well. Anyone willing to endure hardship can sign up.”
At this point, the director suddenly smiled. “There will always be people coming anyway.”
Ryan understood this in his heart as well. In London's current climate, as long as one could receive a stable salary, it was attractive enough, especially for poor students. After graduation, most of them would still have to go to factories or docks. The archive was at least a bit more decent.
The director continued, “You're at the right age, and you don't look like a cynical old-timer. It makes you easier for students to accept.”
After saying that, he glanced at the dark glasses on Ryan's face again. “But those glasses of yours... Forget it, do as you please.”
Ryan explained casually, “My eyes can't handle bright light lately.”
The director didn't mind. He just waved his hand. “Go to the boys' school on Wednesday. Go to the girls' academy on Friday. Write a report when you return. If you do well, I'll raise your salary by one grade next year.”
Ryan nodded. “Understood.”
He then stood up and left the office.
After walking out the door, he looked down at the document in his hand. It was a black hardback booklet with copper wire pressed along the edges, stamped with a formal seal inside.
Ryan stood in the corridor and flipped through a few pages. Aside from his personal information, there was a list of permissions attached at the back.
【Formal Clerk】
【Permitted to enter the second-floor office area】
【Permitted to apply for access to public archives below level three】
【Permitted to participate in field registration】
【Permitted to enter the Third Archive Floor】
Ryan's gaze paused.
The Third Archive Floor.
He had been at the archive for so long, and he had always been curious about that place.
The entire archive building had four floors. One basement floor, the first floor was the general office area, the second floor was the office area for the director and formal clerks, and the third floor was the special archive floor.
It was kept locked at all times. Only those with the rank of formal clerk or higher could apply to enter.
It was said that it stored older records that still had preservation value. Missing persons cases, death investigations, old district demolition records, files transferred from the police station, municipal investigation reports, and even files on major cases from decades ago.
Ryan had seen them once. It was on a night he worked overtime. Two formal clerks had carried down a box of old files from upstairs.
One of them accidentally dropped to the floor. Its cover was already yellowed with age. Written on it was:
《The Whitechapel Serial Disappearances》
The date: 1888.
Before Ryan could get a clear look, the file was taken away again. Since then, he had never had another chance to touch those things.
But now, he finally had the authority to apply.
Ryan put the document into his inner pocket, then headed back down the stairs to the office area.
As soon as he walked down, someone noticed him immediately.
“He's back!”
“How did it go?”
“The director didn't yell at you, did he?”
Several clerks looked up at the same time. Before Ryan could even sit down, a young man next to him leaned his head over.
“Say something. What happened?”
Ryan placed the black document on the desk.
Clack.
The copper edge reflected a faint gleam under the lamplight.
The entire office fell silent for a second. Then, it instantly erupted.
“Damn!”
“A formal clerk?”
“Promoted ahead of schedule?”
“Are you serious?”
“Let me see!”
A curly-haired youth reached out and snatched it away. He flipped it open and took a look, his eyes widening instantly.
“It's actually stamped!”
“Is Morton out of his mind?”
The office instantly burst into laughter. Someone nearby whistled.
“Ryan's buying!”
“You have to treat us!”
“It's unacceptable to get promoted without buying drinks!”
“At least buy us a round!”
“Yes! To the tavern!”
“I second that!”
The group immediately began to clamor. Some were already discussing what to drink.
Ryan's mouth twitched. “I can't afford it. I just got paid, and the money hasn't even warmed up in my pocket yet.”
“Bullshit. Your salary jumps once you're a formal clerk!”
“You're a man of status now!”
“The archive's rising star!”
Everyone laughed even harder. Even the few old staff members who usually kept their heads down in work couldn't help but look up, watching the scene with amusement.
At this moment, Simon, who had been quiet the whole time, finally put down his pen. He looked up and scanned the crowd.
“Quiet down.”
His voice wasn't loud, but the office instantly quieted down quite a bit. After all, Simon was a veteran clerk, and his seniority carried weight.
He looked at Ryan, fell silent for two seconds, and then nodded. “Congratulations.”
Ryan was slightly taken aback. “Thank you.”
Simon said nothing more, lowering his head to organize files again. But there was a clear trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Just then, heavy footsteps suddenly echoed from the stairwell. Two field clerks walked in carrying a wooden crate.
Thud.
The wooden crate hit the floor heavily.
The laughter in the office died instantly. Because everyone recognized that kind of box. A specialized box for death records.
One of the field clerks looked utterly exhausted, with sweat still hanging on his forehead.
“The third batch,” he said.
Someone's expression changed slightly. “Another one?”
The field clerk didn't say anything. He simply opened the lid. Inside, documents were stacked neatly, and the very top ones were all covered in red labels.
An old clerk walked over and flipped through them, his movements suddenly freezing.
“How many?” someone nearby asked.
The old clerk remained silent for a moment. “Seventy-one.”
The office fell into a dead silence.
Seventy-one death registrations. In just five days.
Even the sound of pens scratching against paper vanished.
Someone couldn't help but curse in a low voice. “Damn it...”
Simon slowly lit a cigarette. Looking at the pile of files, his gaze was somewhat gloomy.
Over the past month, there had been more and more boxes like this. The dock district, Whitechapel, the factory district—the death toll was steadily rising. And the cause of death for most of them was very vague: high fever, lung infection, acute failure.
The door to the director's office suddenly opened, and Morton walked out. He swept a glance over the wooden crate, his face completely expressionless.
“What are you looking at? Dead people won't register themselves. Get to work.”
Everyone immediately lowered their heads. The rustling sound of writing echoed in the office once more.
Ryan also picked up a new file. With his current Lantern perception, he could vaguely sense that a faint trace of something remained on the newly delivered death files.
Cold.
Grayish-white.
Rate on N.U.
