Even worse, his mind was getting noisier.
Since last night, those words about The Glory had been lingering in his consciousness.
Sometimes, he would even suddenly think of that clearing in his dreams.
He remembered the drifting white embers.
And the white figure standing in the depths.
Ryan stood in place and remained silent for a moment.
In the end, he still reached into his coat and pulled out the laudanum.
He glanced left and right, and after confirming no one was paying attention to him, he uncorked it and took a small sip.
The sweet yet bitter taste of the medicine immediately slid down his throat.
A familiar warmth slowly spread.
The pain in his chest finally eased a bit.
His tense brain gradually relaxed.
Many people in London were like this.
Laborers, prostitutes, sailors, veterans.
Drinking.
Smoking.
Laudanum.
It was the cheapest way to relieve pain in this era.
No one would find it strange.
Ryan exhaled softly.
As his mind relaxed slightly, the surrounding world seemed to become a bit clearer.
He leaned against the damp brick wall, looking up at the street.
The halos of the gas lamps diffused gently in the fog.
At that moment, he suddenly recalled a description from Cultist Simulator.
“The Lantern is not a fire.”
“The Lantern is knowing.”
“The Lantern forcibly strips away what is hidden.”
Ryan gave a low chuckle, his laugh tinged with weariness.
When he played the game in his past life, he had only found these settings mysterious and cool.
But now that he was actually in this world, he realized.
So-called "knowing" was a danger in itself.
Especially for those at the bottom of society.
Ordinary people only needed to work, eat, and pay rent to live.
But once you came into contact with those things, there was no going back.
Ryan put the medicine bottle away again.
Then, he slowly walked deeper into the East End.
He began to actively search.
He wasn't wandering aimlessly; instead, he relied on the original owner's memories to seek out "strange" places.
In this world, true cultists did not operate openly like they did in novels.
They hid among ordinary people.
Doctors.
Priests.
Used booksellers.
It could even be an inconspicuous dockworker.
The greatest characteristic of the secret world was "concealment."
On the surface, London remained an industrial city under the Queen's rule.
But beneath the thick fog lay another layer entirely.
Ryan could now vaguely sense it.
He walked forward along the old street.
The surrounding buildings grew older and older, many of them over a century old.
The walls were blackened by soot.
Dim lights could occasionally be seen behind the windows.
Shadows flickered and quickly vanished.
Halfway down the street, Ryan suddenly stopped in his tracks.
Because he saw a shop.
To be precise, a run-down, second-hand bookstore.
It was located in a very secluded spot, squeezed between two old apartment buildings.
Its sign was almost entirely covered in soot, with only a few letters barely legible.
The display window was piled high with books, most of them yellowed with age, alongside a few rolled-up old maps.
Ryan stood on the street and watched for a moment.
He noticed something.
The shop had no religious symbols, nor any literary advertisements.
Instead, in a corner of the glass window lay a very old, worn copper sun emblem.
Ordinary people probably wouldn't pay it any mind.
But Ryan instinctively thought of the "Lantern."
The sun.
The Glory.
Illumination.
In the occult system, these things were never mere symbols.
He fell silent for two seconds, then pushed the door open and entered.
Tinkle—
The brass bell above the door chimed softly.
The bookstore was very dark, with only a single kerosene lamp lit on the counter.
The air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust.
Countless books crammed the shelves, and many were piled directly on the floor.
Sitting behind the counter was an old man in a worn vest. His hair was grey, and his head was lowered as he read a newspaper.
Hearing the sound, he looked up at Ryan, his gaze lingering for only a brief moment.
“Browse as you like.”
His voice was raspy.
Ryan nodded, then began to slowly move between the bookshelves.
He didn't ask directly.
Because he knew that in a place like this, one couldn't rush.
Especially in the occult world, actively revealing that one knew of the "Lantern" might not end well.
The books on the shelves were highly varied.
History, religion, navigation, ancient medicine, and a large number of Latin and French books.
Ryan observed silently as he browsed.
Soon, he noticed something amiss.
An entire corner of books was related to "dreams."
Cases of Somnambulism
Night Terrors and Hallucinations
Ancient Sleep Rituals
On the Separation of the Soul
There was also a thin, nameless booklet.
Ryan instinctively reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the spine, a sharp, subtle pain pricked his brain.
It was very light, like a needle pricking his temple.
His movements paused for a moment, and then he slowly pulled the book out.
The cover had no text.
But for some reason, Ryan felt that there "used to be words" on it, only they were invisible.
He stared down at the cover.
After a few seconds, his eyes began to ache, as if he hadn't slept for a long time.
At the same time, the sensation of The Glory in his mind began to slowly surface, and his vision brightened slightly.
That feeling was back, just like when he gathered The Glory in his dreams.
Ryan's breathing slowed, and he instinctively concentrated his focus.
The next second, the texture on the cover suddenly shifted.
It wasn't an illusion; it was actually moving.
Those originally messy, cracked old patterns actually began to rearrange themselves bit by bit.
It was like countless tiny insects crawling, or ink reassembling on the paper.
Ryan's pupils contracted slightly.
He immediately realized—it wasn't that he was seeing the words, but that his "eyes" were forcibly deciphering them.
Along with this deciphering, his temples began to throb with increasing pain, and his vision even blurred with slight double images.
Yet at the same time, those blurry lines finally slowly reassembled into a few distorted letters.
The Wood Pilgrimage
The moment the handwriting appeared, Ryan's head buzzed with a violent shock.
In his ears, the faint tolling of a low bell echoed.
Clang—
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing instantly turning ragged.
It took him several seconds to recover.
And when he opened his eyes again, the writing on the cover had reverted to its original blank state.
As if everything just now had been a mere illusion.
A layer of cold sweat had already broken out on Ryan's back.
He finally understood.
These extraordinary texts, ordinary people couldn't see them at all.
One had to rely on the power of the "Lantern" to decipher them, or rather, allow the eyes to briefly enter a state of contact with "The Glory."
He looked down and flipped to the first page.
The paper was heavily yellowed. At first, there was nothing but large, messy stains.
But when Ryan focused his mind once more, those stains began to squirm slowly again.
The ink flowed like a living thing, constantly piecing itself back together.
His eyes grew increasingly sore, and he even felt a faint burning sensation.
Finally, a line of crooked text slowly emerged:
“Dreams are not false.”
“Dreams are the fissures that lead to Secret Histories.”
Ryan's throat tightened slightly as he continued to read down.
With every line he read, his head throbbed a little harder.
And those words were not fixed either; they were like things forcibly "dragged" out of chaos.
He had to maintain constant concentration, or they would instantly scatter again.
This didn't feel like reading at all; it felt more like some form of decryption.
Just then, a voice suddenly came from the direction of the counter.
“That book isn't cheap.”
Ryan looked up.
The old man was looking at him through his spectacles, his face devoid of expression.
Ryan fell silent for a moment. “How much?”
The old man held up two fingers. “Two shillings.”
The corner of Ryan's mouth twitched slightly.
Highway robbery.
He didn't even have two shillings on him.
But the old man, as if having expected this, leisurely added:
“Of course, if you just want to read it, you can sit over there.”
He pointed to a small table by the window.
“Just don't take the book with you.”
Ryan was slightly taken aback, then nodded.
“Thank you.”
The old man said no more, lowering his head to read his newspaper again.
Meanwhile, Ryan slowly walked over to the window and sat down.
Rate on N.U.
