Over the next few weeks, life settled back into a routine.
Every morning around seven, Ryan would come down from his attic right on time, buy the cheapest black bread and hot tea at the corner, and then take the old East End carriage to the archive.
The weather was getting colder and colder.
London in November was shrouded in grey fog almost every day. Sometimes a bit of sun could be seen in the morning, but by the afternoon, nothing remained but coal smoke and dampness.
Work at the archive hadn't changed much either.
Organizing, transcribing, filing, and occasionally helping the formal clerks check the census records of the old city districts.
Working on the first floor was much easier than in the basement. At least he didn't have to constantly smell the musty odor, nor did he have to carry boxes of old files all day long.
Simon would occasionally help him correct a few formatting errors in passing.
“Put the date first.”
“Clip the death records separately.”
“Recopy this one.”
His tone was the same as always—not warm, but not cold either.
After what happened in the alley that night, Simon never brought up the extraordinary again, not even once, nor did he take Ryan to the tavern anymore.
Sometimes Ryan even wondered if everything that happened that night had just been a dream.
But every time he saw the tiny silver button on Simon's cuff, he would remember the silhouette of the man blocking the alley.
The people in the archive were still about the same as before.
Some smoked, some complained about the price of coal, and some secretly read newspapers during work hours.
No one knew that this young clerk, who quietly transcribed files every day, went to the Wood at night.
Ryan didn't actively reach out to anyone related to the extraordinary either.
He knew very well now that he was still too weak.
A First Stage Grail aspect user like Winona could have easily played him to death, let alone a true extraordinary practitioner.
So, he started saving money.
Three shillings fixed rent every week, about ten pence for food every day, and kerosene, hot water, and the occasional painkiller were another expense.
But a formal clerk's salary was indeed much higher. Five pounds a month was considered a stable income in the East End, at least enough that he didn't have to worry about suddenly starving to death.
Ryan even began to separate his coins, putting some toward daily expenses and saving some to buy a lens in the future.
He had gone to look at that old maritime lens twice more; it was still there.
Fourteen shillings.
The shopkeeper hadn't lowered the price even once.
Ryan could only give up on it for the time being.
However, the thing that had changed the most was actually the Wood.
During the first few days, Ryan didn't dare enter again.
Last time, the white figure had nearly burned his brain, to the point where he had almost been unable to wake up in reality.
He forced himself to wait for several days until that faint, lingering Grail aspect had completely dissipated and his mental state had stabilized before trying to enter the Wood again.
That night, Ryan lay on his attic bed. He didn't drink too much laudanum, only taking a tiny sip as his consciousness slowly sank.
The familiar grey-white woods appeared once more.
The air was cold and quiet, with faint glows of Glory floating in the distance.
Ryan immediately looked into the depths.
The white figure wasn't there.
Or rather, at least not nearby.
He let out a sigh of relief, then began to slowly walk deeper into the Wood.
This time, he didn't touch anything recklessly. He only carefully approached the floating glimmers, then tried to “absorb” them.
The process was very strange.
When those points of light touched his consciousness, they didn't actually enter his body. It was more like something melting into his mind.
It was warm, tingling, and brought a very slight sensation of clarity, like splashing cold water on one's face after a long period of exhaustion.
At first, the effect wasn't very obvious.
But after several consecutive days, changes began to slowly manifest.
Ryan found that his mental energy had improved. He slept less, and his memory grew stronger and stronger.
He could memorize the formats of those complex registration forms in the archive with a single glance, and he could even occasionally catch a faint, blurry glimpse of residual aspects on other people.
Although it was only for an instant and very blurry, it definitely happened.
The most obvious change was in his eyes.
He could now see things clearly in very dark environments at night.
Once on his way home from work, the gas lamp in the alley was broken. While others could only grope their way through the dark, Ryan could still clearly see the reflection in a puddle by the wall.
Of course, none of this had concrete standards.
There were no levels, no numerical values, and no sudden notification popping up to say “Lantern aspect +3.”
This wasn't a game.
He could only judge by his senses.
Sometimes his mind was more stable, sometimes his physical reflexes were faster, and sometimes when looking at things, he would instinctively sense certain “incongruities.”
For instance, if someone's mood was off, if an object was stained with an aspect, or even if a certain street was too quiet.
These changes were subtle, but they were becoming increasingly distinct.
And Ryan gradually discovered one thing.
The Glory in the Wood seemed to be “observing” him as well.
Sometimes, when he absorbed the glimmers for too long, the depths of the forest would suddenly fall silent, and even the wind would stop.
Then, a white silhouette would slowly emerge from the fog in the distance.
Whenever that happened, Ryan would leave immediately.
He didn't dare linger for even a second.
In the latter half of November, London began to truly grow cold.
The fog in the East End grew heavier by the day.
When he went out in the morning, a thin layer of frost could already be seen along the edges of the gutters.
Factory chimneys spewed black smoke all day, and the smell of coal hung heavily over the entire district.
Lately, Ryan stayed outside less and less, heading almost straight back to St. Blaise Street after work.
Not out of fear.
But because it got dark too quickly.
By a little after four in the afternoon, the streets already looked like dusk. The gas lamps in many alleys were still broken, with only the main street being slightly brighter.
The archive had also started getting busy recently.
There was another outbreak of infection over by the docks.
At first, it was just a few dockworkers running fevers, but then people slowly started dying.
It was said to have spread from a cargo ship from the south.
Some said it was consumption.
Some said it was cholera.
Others called it the “black cough.”
The rumors changed day by day.
No one knew what was actually happening.
But the people of the East End only cared about one thing.
Would more people die?
Discussions could often be heard in the first-floor office area lately.
“I heard they carried away another two yesterday.”
“They've already started burning clothes over by the docks.”
“An entire family behind Whitechapel Street has fallen ill.”
Some chatted in low voices, while others intentionally kept their whispers hushed.
After all, in times like these, infectious diseases meant many things.
Unemployment.
Blockaded streets.
Or even the ruin of an entire neighborhood.
Simon had been smoking more often lately.
During lunch break, he leaned against the window, tapping his cigarette ash into an iron tray.
“Don't go near the docks.”
Ryan, who was organizing the registries, looked up at him.
“Is it serious?”
“People have already started dying.”
Simon's tone was very calm.
“Once the weather turns cold, all kinds of illnesses pop up.”
After saying this, he added another line.
“Don't run around at night lately.”
Ryan didn't reply, only lowering his head to continue sorting through the documents.
But he knew that what Simon meant might not just be disease.
Lately, the fog in the Wood had also grown heavier.
Sometimes, he would even hear strange noises in the grey woods, as if someone were coughing in a low voice in the distance, yet when he drew close, there was nothing.
Meanwhile, the London of reality seemed more and more like it was falling ill itself.
There were noticeably more vagrants on the streets, some factories had begun reducing work hours, and even in Irene's courtyard, a few more people had come lately to borrow coal.
Rate on N.U.
