The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered gently.
Ryan sat at the desk, flattening the paper once more.
The knowledge in his mind was still surfacing bit by bit.
He picked up his pen and began to organize the requirements for the ritual again.
The first item.
The medium.
“Undamaged Lens” and “Ancient Light Source.”
The Ancient Light Source.
This referred to the sun.
The most primitive symbol of the Lantern.
Many low-tier Lantern rituals were originally completed under direct sunlight.
But simply basking in the sun was useless; the light had to be “focused,” which meant a lens was required. Furthermore, ordinary glass would not do.
It had to be pure, complete, and without any cracks.
Ryan looked down at the small window in his room. The edges of the glass were covered in condensation and grime; such a thing was definitely out of the question.
He continued writing.
The second item.
The fuel.
“Intellectual Residue.”
The Lantern did not require flesh and blood.
It required things that had been thought upon.
Words that had been read, transcribed, and recorded over a long period of time would leave traces behind.
Ryan turned his head to look at the corner of the desk.
There was a stack of old archive ledgers there, all of which were discarded duplicates that the archive had planned to dispose of.
He had brought them back on a whim a few days ago.
The thick paper pages had already yellowed, their edges worn from prolonged handling.
Ryan reached out and flipped one open. It was packed with names and registration records.
In many places, there were corrections written in various people's handwriting.
This kind of thing should be sufficient.
He set the ledger aside, then looked down at the final item.
The solvent.
“Luminous Wormwood.”
Seeing this, Ryan frowned.
Because the content that surfaced next in his mind was far more dangerous than the first two.
The so-called Luminous Wormwood was itself just an ordinary wormwood infusion.
What truly mattered was the “aspect” contained within it.
And that aspect could only be brought out from the Wood.
To be precise, it had to be “remembered” out.
Ryan slowly closed his eyes.
The grey-white Wood surfaced in his mind.
The mist.
The trees.
The floating Glory.
And those strange things that occasionally appeared.
Some resembled fruit.
Some resembled insects.
Some were even just a mass of color.
They all carried different aspects.
Knowledge continued to surface in his mind.
Upon entering the Wood, one's consciousness had to actively search for things carrying aspects.
Then, one had to memorize it—not simply look at it, but force oneself to remember that sensation.
The color.
The smell.
The touch.
Even the mental shifts that occurred when drawing near.
For example, the “bloody berry” of the Grail aspect.
When approaching, one would smell a mixture of sweetness and blood.
Its color was bright red, and its juice was like melted wax.
As for things of the Lantern aspect, they would carry a burning, blinding sensation, along with a feeling of “being watched.”
The moment one woke from the Wood, that “sensation” lingering in the soul had to be immediately injected into the prepared solvent.
Otherwise, the memory would rapidly dissipate, just as an ordinary person forgets a dream upon waking.
The window was very short, perhaps only a few dozen seconds.
If one was too slow, the aspect would completely disperse.
Ryan reached up to rub his temples, then looked down to continue organizing.
Wormwood.
A glass bottle.
A clean container.
None of these were difficult. The real trouble was the Wood, because the white figure was guarding it.
Last time, he had only been stained with a trace of the Grail aspect, and that thing had pounced directly on him.
If he actively sought contact with manifestations of the Lantern aspect this time, it would probably be even more dangerous. The sky outside the window was already growing light.
The sound of carriages began to echo from the distant streets.
Ryan looked down, folded the paper, stuffed it into his drawer, and then stood up to walk to the window.
The grey morning mist of the East End was slowly dispersing.
The sun was hidden behind the clouds, showing only a faint, blurry white light.
He watched for a moment, then turned to tidy up the old archive ledgers on the desk before rummaging through the cabinet to put his remaining few pennies into his coat pocket.
After work today, he would have to buy some wormwood first.
Sunday morning.
When Ryan woke up, there was already activity downstairs.
Someone was chopping coal in the courtyard.
The sound of the axe hitting the wooden block drifted up, strike after strike.
He lay in bed for a few minutes.
He hadn't entered the Wood last night, and his head didn't hurt as much as before.
He could only occasionally recall those pale gold glows and the way the white figure stood in the forest.
Ryan got up, dressed, and casually counted the money by his bed once more.
He had been paid for ten and a half days of work yesterday. The salary in the formal clerk system was significantly higher than that of the basement.
Coupled with the fact that he hadn't spent much lately, he now had a total of just over one pound and fifteen shillings on him.
And today, he had to settle his back rent first.
Ryan washed his face. When he went downstairs, Irene was calculating accounts at a small table next to the kitchen.
The girl hadn't gone to school today.
She wore an old sweater, her hair tied back simply.
On the table lay coal tickets and a few loose coins.
She looked up at Ryan.
“What is it?”
“Paying rent.”
Ryan walked over and fished some coins out of his pocket.
Nine shillings.
He placed them on the table in three small stacks.
Irene was taken aback for a moment.
“Did you make a mistake?”
“No.”
“It's three shillings for this week.”
“I'm making up for the six shillings I owed from before as well.”
When the body's original owner was on the verge of death from illness, he had fallen two weeks behind on rent.
With his formal clerk salary having just been paid, Ryan decided to clear the debt all at once.
Irene looked down and counted them.
Then, she visibly let out a sigh of relief.
“My dad thought you were going to delay again.”
“My salary has stabilized recently,” Ryan replied casually.
Irene nodded and swept the money into a drawer.
“That's good then.”
“The price of coal has gone up again lately.”
Ryan didn't continue the conversation.
He now had about one pound and six shillings left in his hand.
He was finally no longer so poor that he couldn't even put food on the table.
After leaving the apartment, the East End on Sunday was a bit quieter than usual.
The factories were closed today, and most of the people on the streets were dressed in slightly more decent old clothes, heading to or from church. The air still carried the familiar smell of coal smoke. Ryan bought a piece of black bread and a cup of hot tea at the street corner before walking along Whitechapel Street toward the Old Market.
The knowledge in his mind was growing clearer and clearer.
“The luminous solvent” itself was not complicated.
What was truly important was “containment.”
An ordinary herbal infusion could serve as the base.
The problem was, it had to be sufficiently stable.
And in the lore of the Lantern aspect, the most suitable herb was not wormwood.
Instead, it was the orchid—specifically, the white orchid.
To ordinary people, this was merely a spice or an ornamental flower, but in Lantern rituals, it possessed a faint inherent “focusing” quality.
Especially dried petals, which were much better suited to containing the residue of Glory brought back from the Wood.
The trouble was, no one in the East End of London in this day and age had the leisure to grow orchids.
Ryan wandered around the edge of the market for a long time.
He finally stopped in front of a small shop selling spices and herbs.
The storefront was tiny, with many dried flowers and herbs hanging from wooden racks.
A faint fragrance lingered in the air.
The proprietor was an elderly woman, currently looking down as she sewed a cloth bag.
“What are you buying?”
“Dried orchids.”
The woman looked up at him.
“For tea?”
“Something like that.”
She turned around and rummaged for a bit before pulling a small paper packet from the cabinet.
“White orchid.”
“Shipped from the south.”
Ryan opened it and took a sniff.
The scent was very faint, but it felt cooler and crisper than ordinary flowers.
The knowledge of Glory in his mind instantly vibrated slightly.
Yes.
This was it.
“How much?”
“One shilling and four pence.”
Ryan's brow twitched slightly.
It wasn't cheap, but it was acceptable.
He paid the money anyway.
The woman rewrapped it in old newspaper and handed it to him.
“Use it sparingly.”
“Supplies have been hard to come by lately.”
Ryan nodded, slipping the paper packet into his pocket.
Next, he went to look for a lens, though he already had a good idea of what to expect.
He simply couldn't afford one right now; most of the lenses he could find in the East End were of very poor quality.
Truly complete and pure lenses were basically in the hands of watchmakers, doctors, and maritime merchants.
Sure enough, after asking at several shops, the prices became increasingly outrageous.
Cracked ones were cheap, but undamaged ones were staggeringly expensive.
It wasn't until noon that Ryan spotted a lens in an old watchmaker's shop that barely met his requirements.
The lens lay in a wooden box; its edges weren't heavily worn, and the center was quite clean.
The owner quoted fourteen shillings.
Upon hearing this, Ryan didn't even touch it again, placing it right back down.
Fourteen shillings.
If he actually bought it, he could forget about eating properly next month.
He might not even be able to afford kerosene.
Seeing him turn around, the owner added from behind, “Cheap stuff won't do for fine work.”
Ryan didn't look back, walking straight out of the watchmaker's shop.
The cold wind outside blew against him. Standing on the street corner, he slid his hands into his pockets.
His fingertips brushed against the packet of dried orchids.
Now, he had the basic material for the solvent.
But the truly critical element was still in the Wood.
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