Sickness

Monday.

8:40 AM.

The London Archive.

The gloomy sky cast its light through the high windows into the hall.

The air was still thick with the familiar scent of paper, ink, and old wooden cabinets.

Alvin walked into the office holding a stack of files.

He glanced at the wall clock.

Ten minutes had passed since work was supposed to start.

Yet, Simon's desk was still empty.

Ryan's desk was empty as well.

Their chairs were neatly tucked in.

No one had been here at all.

Alvin frowned.

This wasn't like them.

Yesterday's census work at the East Port wasn't finished yet.

They were supposed to continue verifying the documents today.

Especially Simon.

Though the man usually slacked off, he was never late for work, much less disappearing without a word.

Alvin placed the documents on his desk.

He waited another ten minutes.

Still, no one showed up.

The other clerks nearby noticed this as well.

Blair looked up.

“Where's Simon?”

“I don't know,” Alvin shook his head. “Ryan didn't come either.”

“Could they have gone straight to the docks?” someone muttered.

Alvin thought about it.

It was highly possible.

The East Port was currently in utter chaos.

The police station was hounding them for documents every day.

It wouldn't be surprising if they went ahead to help.

With that in mind, he gathered his documents, deciding to report to the director first.

...

The third floor.

The director's office.

The door was slightly ajar.

Alvin knocked.

A voice called out from inside.

“Come in.”

The office was as messy as ever.

Files were piled everywhere, leaving barely any empty space on the desk.

The director was looking down, flipping through a report.

He didn't even look up.

“What is it?”

Alvin walked in.

“Simon and Ryan didn't come in today.”

The director paused mid-flip.

“They didn't?”

“Yes.”

“I suspect they might have gone straight to the East Port, or perhaps something came up on the way.”

The director finally looked up.

His face was expressionless.

He simply held out his hand.

“Give me the attendance sheet.”

Alvin handed over today's attendance sheet.

The director scanned it, his gaze landing on two names.

Simon Edwin.

Ryan Harold.

The air fell silent for a brief moment.

For some reason, Alvin felt a little uneasy.

The director was staring at the names for far too long.

After a few seconds, the director suddenly set the sheet down.

His tone was calm.

“I see.”

Alvin blinked.

“Do we need to send someone to look for them?”

“No.”

“They've taken leave.”

Alvin was taken aback.

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

The director looked back down, resuming his reading.

“A temporary leave.”

“I approved it.”

Alvin grew even more puzzled.

“But I wasn't notified.”

Without looking up, the director replied, “You are now.”

The blunt response shut Alvin down completely.

Alvin opened his mouth, but decided against pushing further.

After all, if the director said it was approved, then it was approved.

“Understood.”

“Then, as for the staff at the East Port...”

“Have Blair fill in.”

“Alright.”

Alvin nodded, turning to leave the office.

The door closed behind him.

His footsteps gradually faded away.

Quiet returned to the office once more.

After a dozen seconds, the director's hand slowly stopped flipping through the documents.

He raised his head, his gaze drifting out the window.

The gloomy sky hung heavily over London.

After a long while, he let out a soft sigh.

He pulled a silver coin from his drawer.

He studied it for a moment, falling into a brief silence.

Ultimately, he put the coin back into the drawer.

He locked it, and returned to his paperwork.

Meanwhile, back to Ryan's side.

...

After leaving the East Port, they did not return to the archive, nor did they go to a hospital.

Simon knew very well that last night's battle could never see the light of day.

Whether it was his own injuries or Ryan's current condition, stepping foot into a hospital would surely bring unwanted visitors knocking on their door by nightfall.

Thus, Simon left the port district with the unconscious Ryan in tow.

Taking a detour around several main roads, they finally arrived at an inconspicuous little hotel on the edge of the South End.

The hotel was very old.

The paint on its sign was peeling, and the gas lamp hanging by the door remained lit even during the day.

The owner was a bald elderly man who was reading a newspaper behind the counter.

Hearing the door open, he looked up.

First, he saw Simon, who was covered in blood, and then he saw Ryan, who was being supported.

The old man's expression shifted slightly, but he asked no questions.

He simply handed over a key in silence.

In a place like this, the greatest advantage was that nobody poked their nose into other people's business.

As long as you had money, they didn't care.

The third floor.

The room at the very end of the hall.

The door was pushed open, and a damp, musty odor rushed out to greet them.

The room was small, containing only two beds, a table, and a fireplace.

The curtains were tightly drawn, keeping the room in dim shadow.

Simon laid Ryan down on the bed.

Only then did he finally let go.

Stumbling back two steps, he collapsed heavily into a nearby chair, cold sweat instantly breaking out on his forehead.

Now that he had calmed down, his injuries became all the more glaring.

The wound on his shoulder had torn completely open, blood soaking through his shirt.

There was also a deep gash across his abdomen.

If he hadn't relied on his Heart aspect to push through last night, any ordinary man would have died several times over.

Simon lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag.

Only then did he feel his mind start to function again.

The room was deathly quiet.

The only sound was the soft crackling of firewood in the fireplace and Ryan's heavy, labored breathing.

Simon turned his head to look at him, his brow gradually furrowing.

Something was wrong.

Extremely wrong.

When they had left last night, though Ryan was mentally exhausted, his mind had still been relatively clear.

The real issue had only manifested after they left the scene.

Within less than half an hour, his body temperature had begun to skyrocket.

First came the chills, followed by a burning fever, and finally, a complete loss of consciousness.

It was as if some disease had suddenly erupted within him.

Simon stood up and walked to the bedside.

He reached out to touch Ryan's forehead.

It was scalding hot.

On the bed, Ryan was deathly pale, sweat continuously drenching his brow.

His lips had lost all color, and his breathing was erratic, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Occasionally, his body would twitch slightly.

Simon's expression grew increasingly grim.

This didn't look like simple overexertion.

It felt more like an infection.

Or a curse.

That thing last night...

He suddenly thought of the East Port.

He thought of the rising number of sick people, the growing list of missing persons lately, and that stitched monster.

A dark premonition slowly began to dawn on him.

Perhaps last night's attack hadn't been a simple assassination attempt at all.

It was a death trap.

First, they used the Edge-man to wear them down, and then they infected Ryan with something.

No matter who won or lost the battle, death would be the ultimate result.

Simon's face darkened.

Such methods were far beyond what a common rogue extraordinary being could orchestrate.

There was definitely someone behind this.

And they had been planning this for a very long time.

He stubbed out his cigarette, then began to examine Ryan's body.

There were no new external injuries.

No stab wounds.

No obvious signs of poison.

Yet, the more he examined, the more uneasy Simon became.

Because two forces were clashing inside Ryan's body.

The Lantern's glow was active, constantly trying to expel something.

Meanwhile, another power lay dormant deep within his flesh—cold, slow, and stubborn.

The two sides were locked in a tug-of-war, neither able to overpower the other.

Time ticked away.

Morning.

Noon.

Afternoon.

Ryan showed no signs of waking.

Occasionally, the sound of passing carriages drifted in from outside.

Footsteps would occasionally echo in the hotel corridor.

But the room itself remained perfectly quiet.

Simon changed the cold compress several times, and even bought some medicine to break the fever.

But it had little to no effect.

The temperature would drop slightly, only to shoot right back up.

By evening, the situation grew even worse.

Ryan began to mutter in his sleep.

His voice was broken and slurred, as if he were holding a conversation with someone.

Sometimes his brow would furrow suddenly.

At other times, he seemed to be witnessing something terrifying.

His body thrashed about, soaking the sheets in sweat.

Simon sat beside him, watching in silence.

His expression grew heavier by the minute.

He knew that Ryan's consciousness might no longer be here.

His body lay in the hotel room, but his mind was elsewhere.

Dreams.

The Wood.

Moth.

Sickness.

These concepts were beginning to connect piece by piece.

The sick people at the East Port... could they be suffering from the same thing?

First, a fever.

Then, a coma.

And finally, slipping into a state from which they could never wake.

At this thought, Simon felt a sudden wave of irritation.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Last night's battle was supposed to be a mere ambush.

But now, it seemed there was something far greater looming behind it.

Just then, Ryan began to cough violently on the bed, his body arching sharply.

Simon sprang up immediately.

In the next second, Ryan opened his eyes.

But they were completely out of focus, his pupils dilated.

He stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering something inaudible under his breath, before collapsing heavily back onto the bed.