The rain fell all night.
By the time Ryan was fully awake, the sky outside the window was completely bright.
The grayish-white morning light filtered through the condensation-covered glass into the attic, making the room look cold and damp.
The air was thick with the smell of mold and the decaying scent of damp wood.
Ryan sat on the edge of the bed and dazed for a moment, the memories of his dream still lingering in his mind.
That feeling of warmth was so real it actually made him ache.
He lowered his head and rubbed his face. When his fingertips touched the corners of his eyes, there were still traces of dried tears.
“...Dammit.”
Ryan cursed under his breath, then slowly stood up.
His chest still hurt, but it was slightly better than yesterday.
The laudanum had at least let him sleep through the night.
This was the first time he had slept so well since transmigrating.
Ryan walked over to the desk, where the medicine bottle, pen, and file folder from last night still sat.
The registration form from St. Jude's Church that had been polluted by the Lantern was no longer there.
The supervisor had taken it and never returned it.
Thinking of this, Ryan's head began to throb slightly again.
He had absolutely no idea what Supervisor Morton had deduced.
But at least one thing was certain.
The man hadn't reported him, nor had he sent him to an asylum.
In this world, that was already considered fortunate.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Ryan began getting ready to go out.
He didn't have any spare clothes, so he could only put yesterday's coat back on.
The fabric was still a bit damp, and his soles were still split open.
But this was already much better than his days in the basement. At least he was now part of the formal system on the first floor.
No one would dump all the dirty work on him at whim anymore.
After a quick wash, Ryan glanced at the coins on the desk.
He took out five pence and slipped them into his pocket, stuffing the rest back into the deepest corner of the drawer.
In this era, there were no bank accounts for the poor; money had to be hidden away.
And in a place like the East End, once something was stolen, there was basically no hope of getting it back.
Before heading out, Ryan paused.
He looked down at the laudanum on the desk.
After a couple of seconds of hesitation, he decided to take it with him. His lung disease could flare up at any moment.
Especially now that the weather was getting colder, he didn't dare take any chances.
With that, Ryan pushed open the door and left the attic.
The stairwell was as dark as ever.
Puddles of water had gathered in the corners.
Someone downstairs was coughing.
The landlord's wife seemed to be arguing with someone, her voice faintly drifting up from the first floor.
Ryan didn't linger and went straight downstairs.
The moment he stepped out of the tenement building, the cold, damp air rushed onto his face.
The rain outside had stopped, but the sky remained overcast.
The entirety of London seemed wrapped in a grey shroud.
The streets were flooded with puddles, and carriage wheels splashed up large sheets of muddy water as they rolled past.
The street vendors had already begun their business.
Newsboys ran through the fog, shouting:
“The East Docks fever!”
“Seven more dead!”
“Latest news—”
Ryan walked past them with his head down.
People in the East End died every day; no one cared.
Right now, he was more concerned about whether he could make it to the end of the month.
When he passed the hot soup stall from yesterday, Ryan paused.
In the end, he just bought a loaf of the cheapest rye bread.
One penny.
The vendor tossed it to him straight from a wooden crate.
The bread was hard, but at least it was warm.
Ryan ate as he walked, his cold stomach finally feeling a bit more comfortable.
Half an hour later, he arrived at the archive.
The grey-black three-story building remained dreary, with a municipal registration plaque hanging by the entrance.
Several formal employees were entering one after another.
They wore matching dark coats, and most held document portfolios.
No one chatted.
No one lingered.
Ryan pushed the door open and went inside.
The lobby was warmer than outside, but the air still carried a heavy scent of paper and ink.
The front desk clerk looked up at him.
Upon recognizing him as the basement clerk who had just been promoted yesterday, the clerk gave a slight nod.
It served as a greeting.
Ryan nodded back in response, then walked toward the first-floor records hall.
As soon as he entered, he found people already at work.
The rustling of paper, the scratching of pens, and the opening of cabinet doors blended together.
They formed a depressing, rhythmic hum.
Simon was sitting at his desk organizing files. When he saw Ryan, he glanced up.
“Didn't die on the street today?”
Ryan hung his coat on the back of his chair.
“Almost.”
Simon chuckled.
“Don't wander around the East End at night.”
“There have been a lot of robberies lately.”
Ryan's movements paused slightly.
“How do you know?”
“Obviously.”
Simon didn't even look up.
“The patrolmen were blowing their whistles halfway down the street yesterday.”
“I heard a few thugs suddenly went mad.”
Ryan's heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained unchanged.
“Went mad?”
“Yeah.”
Simon finally looked up, lowering his voice slightly.
“Some say they were cursed.”
Another formal clerk nearby sneered.
“People in the East End get 'cursed' every single day.”
“They probably just drank too much.”
Simon shrugged.
“Either way, one of those guys clawed his own eyes out.”
Ryan's fingers tightened slightly.
That instance of pollution yesterday was even more severe than he had imagined.
The knowledge of the Lantern wasn't a mere hallucination; it could truly affect another's consciousness.
It could even directly shatter an ordinary person's mind.
At this thought, Ryan suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
He was currently holding onto something that could explode at any moment, yet he had no way of throwing it away.
Just then, Alvin walked out of the inner office with a stack of files in hand.
“Ryan.”
“Here.”
Alvin placed one of the files on his desk.
“Starting today, you'll be handling formal reviews.”
“First, learn the numbering rules.”
Ryan looked down. It was a population migration record.
It was far more complex than yesterday's work.
There were even red annotations along the margins.
Alvin pulled out a chair, sat down, and began a brief explanation.
“The basement is responsible for transcription.”
“The Formal Hall is responsible for verification.”
“And the most important part of verification is the numbering.”
He pointed at the paper as he spoke.
“Do you see this parish code?”
“Every area is different.”
“If even a single digit is wrong, the entire file will end up in the wrong archive.”
Ryan listened intently.
This was actually quite similar to database classification in his previous life.
Except it was entirely manual.
The massive cities of the nineteenth century were held together in this exact manner, supported by the sheer effort of countless clerks.
Alvin continued,
“A formal clerk doesn't just copy things down.”
“We are also responsible for identifying issues.”
“This includes fake identities, unregistered deaths, parish conflicts, and estate disputes.”
“Even the police station will request files sometimes.”
Ryan slowly began to realize.
The authority of this job was actually quite significant; they held a vast amount of demographic data.
They could even gain access to many confidential records.
No wonder the pay and treatment in the formal system were so much higher than in the basement.
Just then,
someone in the records hall suddenly called out.
“Who touched the third cabinet?”
The entire room fell silent.
A middle-aged clerk nearby frowned.
“The numbering order is messed up.”
Alvin immediately stood up and walked over. Several people began checking the cabinet.
Ryan also glanced over subconsciously.
The thick files were neatly stuffed into the wooden cabinet.
Each was affixed with a numbered label.
There didn't seem to be anything unusual.
Yet, for some reason,
the moment his gaze swept over them,
his mind throbbed with a sharp, subtle pain.
In the next second,
he could actually make out—
on the surface of one of the files, a faint flash of pale white light.
It was brief, vanishing in an instant.
Ryan's body stiffened slightly.
He immediately looked away.
His heart began to race.
It was happening again.
Rate on N.U.
