Ryan waited patiently.
After a few seconds, the boy finally summoned his courage.
“Sir.”
“Yes?”
“If I start practicing my writing now...” His voice was a bit dry. “Is there still time?”
The boy kept his head lowered.
Ryan pushed the registry over.
“It's not too late.”
“You're only seventeen or eighteen. Starting now isn't too late.”
The boy let out a visible sigh of relief.
“Can I really get in?”
“Whether you can get in depends on you,” Ryan said calmly. “First, practice your writing well. Copy two pages of documents every day, and don't be lazy.”
“You also need to learn shorthand and statistics. The archive doesn't lack people, but it lacks people who can sit still for a long time.”
The boy nodded immediately, then lowered his head to start registering his name.
His handwriting wasn't great, but it was at least neat.
Ryan took a glance and memorized the name.
Surprisingly, three or four more people came over one after another.
Some were tempted by the five-pound salary, while others simply didn't want to go to the docks.
At twelve-thirty in the afternoon, the presentation finally came to an end.
There weren't many people—only five in total—but it was already quite good.
The principal let out a visible sigh of relief and even invited Ryan to stay for lunch.
The school cafeteria was still as terrible as ever, serving watery potato soup, black bread, and a bit of salted fish.
As Ryan ate, he even felt a sense of familiarity.
Around one in the afternoon, he left the school.
The sky was gloomy, the wind was cold, and St. Blaise Street remained damp and gray.
The carriage station was still some distance from the school.
Ryan walked forward slowly, seeing many students who had just finished school along the way.
Some were smoking on the street corner, some were chasing after newspaper boys, and a few had already put on workers' coats, clearly preparing to head straight to part-time jobs.
Winter in London was drawing closer, and the smell of coal ash in the air grew heavier.
As he walked, Ryan's pace suddenly slowed down.
The Lantern light deep within his left eye vibrated gently.
Something had passed nearby—very light, very faint. If his perception hadn't been enhanced recently, he wouldn't have even noticed it.
Ryan looked in the direction of the sensation.
A man sat by the wall at the street corner, wrapped in a worn-out overcoat, his head lowered as if asleep.
People like this were everywhere in the East End; no one would spare him a second glance.
But Ryan frowned slightly.
Because it was too quiet around the man.
Even though there were people talking, arguing, and pushing carts past on the street, once they neared that area, the sounds seemed to be muffled, and the air was unusually cold.
Ryan stood in place and watched for a moment. He didn't go over, only observing from a distance.
The man was very thin, his face gray, his hands tucked into his sleeves, and his breathing was so weak it was almost imperceptible.
But in the perception of his Lantern light, a very faint, grayish-white aura clung to the man—not like Lantern, nor like Grail, but more like a gradually dying ember.
Ryan's heart sank slightly.
Winter.
He remembered the docker coughing blood at the church entrance, the increasing number of death records recently, and the red tags in the archive.
Recently, this kind of aura seemed to be growing more and more common.
Just then, two dockers passed by.
One of them glanced at the corner and cursed under his breath.
“Another one.”
“From the docks?”
“No idea.”
“Things are getting weirder and weirder over at the East Port lately.”
The two didn't linger and quickly walked away.
Ryan's eyes flickered.
East Port.
East Port again.
This wasn't the first time he had heard this name.
Among the death registrations sent to the archive a few days ago, many of the deceased worked near East Port. He hadn't paid much attention to it then, but thinking about it now, the number seemed rather high.
A cold wind swept through the street.
The man in the corner suddenly coughed, his body twitching slightly before falling silent again.
Ryan watched for a few seconds but ultimately did not approach.
He knew very well that he knew next to nothing about the Winter aspect, and rashly contacting it might not be a good thing.
So he withdrew his gaze and continued toward the carriage station, but he made a mental note of this matter.
Something seemed to be going wrong at East Port lately.
By the time he returned to the vicinity of the archive, the sky was nearly dark.
Ryan wasn't in a hurry to go home; instead, he went straight to the alley in the back to smoke.
Simon was indeed there.
The man leaned against the wall, smoking, his black formal uniform collar unbuttoned, looking as lazy as ever.
Seeing Ryan walk over, Simon raised an eyebrow.
“Didn't you go to the school?”
Ryan looked around, and after confirming no one was there, spoke in a low voice.
“Something's happened at East Port.”
Simon's movements paused.
Smoke slowly drifted from his mouth.
“Speak.”
Ryan briefly explained what he had seen today, including the corpse and the Winter aspect.
Simon didn't speak immediately after listening, only lowering his head to smoke.
After a few seconds, he suddenly chuckled.
“You're getting bolder and bolder now.”
“You've barely just advanced, yet you dare to poke your nose into this kind of thing.”
Ryan frowned.
“I suspect someone is performing a ritual.”
“If the docks really blow up, the entire East End will be in trouble.”
Simon nodded.
“True.”
“But what do you want to do?”
Ryan was silent for two seconds.
“Should we tell the Suppression Bureau?”
Hearing this, Simon suddenly laughed, and his laugh was rather strange.
He looked up at Ryan.
“Do you really think those people are here to save lives?”
Ryan didn't speak.
Simon slowly stubbed out his cigarette, then leaned in closer, his voice dropping.
“Remember.”
“The Suppression Bureau doesn't care if you're a good person, nor do they care if you were forced into it.”
“They only look at one thing—whether you have aspect pollution on you.”
The alley was very quiet, with only the distant sound of carriages.
Simon lightly drew a finger across his neck.
“If you do.”
“It's slice.”
He spoke very casually, as if joking, but a chill slowly crept up Ryan's spine.
Simon continued, “Winter, Grail, Lantern, Knock... as long as the pollution crosses the line, whether you're a dockworker or a noble lord, the treatment is the same. Because when that stuff spreads, it's faster than the plague.”
Ryan asked in a low voice:
“Then the archive...”
Simon glanced at him and suddenly smiled.
“A place like ours is originally meant to assist them.”
“Dead people, disappearances, anomalous records, sealing files.”
“And sometimes, we have to help clean up the aftermath.”
Ryan's pupils contracted slightly.
Those previous feelings finally connected.
Why the supervisor hid his aspect, why there were extraordinary individuals among the formal clerks, why the archive was always recruiting.
Because they weren't ordinary government workers at all.
Simon lit another cigarette, the flame lighting up the dark alley for a brief moment.
“So, if you don't want to be dealt with as a source of pollution, you'd better pretend you know nothing lately.”
Ryan fell silent for a long time.
Finally, he asked in a low voice:
“Then what about East Port?”
Simon exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Wait.”
“If something big really happens, those above will naturally move.”
“As for us—”
He patted Ryan's shoulder.
“Just don't die too early.”
Rate on N.U.
