Forge

In the room, the gas lamp swayed gently.

Dim yellow light fell upon the floor.

On the bed, Ryan had been stripped down to his underwear.

His forehead was drenched in sweat, his face flushed red with fever. He looked utterly miserable.

By the bedside, Alvin sat cross-legged on the floor, holding the silver florin in his hand. He mumbled under his breath, tapping the silver coin against the floorboards from time to time.

The sound echoed through the room.

If an ordinary person were to see this, they would most likely think they had stumbled upon some cult ritual.

As for the other side of the room, the situation was even more absurd.

Simon, his face dark as soot, stood in the center of the ritual circle, taking slow steps.

Raise hand, turn, step.

His movements were incredibly bizarre, resembling some primitive tribal sacrifice, or perhaps a drunkard's wild ravings. In short, he looked nothing like a sane person.

Alvin looked up and nearly burst out laughing.

Suppressing a powerful urge to beat the man to death, Simon adjusted his posture and kept dancing.

Honestly, he would rather fight another Edge-man. He didn't want to do this at all, especially with Alvin staring at him the entire time. The feeling was far more agonizing than any physical wound.

Alvin continued tapping the coin.

He kept chanting the record entries.

“Ryan Harold.”

“Archive clerk.”

“Twenty years old.”

“East End resident.”

“Graduate of St. Blaise.”

“Salary of five pounds.”

“Behind on rent once.”

“Owed the archive lunch money three times.”

Simon suddenly paused his movements. “Is it really necessary to chant those last parts?”

Alvin replied with absolute seriousness, “The records must be precise.”

“...”

Alvin resumed tapping the silver coin, continuously repeating the details of Ryan's life.

His name.

His identity.

His work.

His residence.

His friends.

His experiences.

To the Lantern, these things were anchors. And for someone trapped in a Moth dream, the more anchors they had, the easier it was to return.

Right then, Ryan frowned on the bed, his fingers twitching slightly.

Alvin immediately sat up straight. “Keep going.”

Simon's face darkened. “I didn't stop.”

“Make the movements bigger.”

“Piss off.”

Though he cursed under his breath, he still complied.

And so, a man nearly six foot three, covered in bandages, faced a semi-naked, unconscious patient. He began to perform the Heart ritual dance with even greater effort.

The scene was absurdly ridiculous. Even the hotel owner, who sneaked a peek through the crack in the door, silently shut the door again. He quickly drew a cross over his chest, clearly mistaking them for cultists.

Inside the room, Alvin continued.

The silver coin vibrated continuously, the patterns on its surface growing brighter and brighter.

At the same time, the greyish-white mark near Ryan's ribs began to wriggle, shifting outward millimeter by millimeter.

Alvin's eyes instantly sharpened. “Something is coming out.”

Simon paused. “What?”

“Keep dancing. Don't stop.”

Simon's face was dark, but he kept going.

Meanwhile, Alvin stared intently at the mark. As the power of the Heart Principle continued to spread and the silver coin resonated, the thing finally began to yield.

The greyish-white lines gradually bulged. It looked as if some insect were burrowing beneath his skin, slowly squirming. Bit by bit, it crept toward the surface.

Alvin's eyes grew brighter and brighter. “Almost there. Hold on a little longer.”

Simon was drenched in sweat, the wound on his shoulder beginning to bleed through the bandages. He couldn't help but curse, “I threw away my dignity just to save this kid.”

Alvin actually nodded in agreement, a rare occurrence. “Indeed. Remember to tell him when he wakes up. Make sure he knows he owes you one.”

Simon sneered. “I'm planning to slap him twenty times first.”

Right then, Ryan suddenly shuddered violently on the bed. His chest heaved dramatically, as if he had heard a sound.

Deep within the dream.

The silver coin on the nightstand gradually turned illusory, while the copper coin grew solid.

Lin Yuan, still in front of his computer studying Cultist Simulator, suddenly felt a familiar roar echoing in his ears. It was faint and intermittent, as if muffled by a layer of water, yet still audible.

“You motherfucker—”

“Get the hell up—”

“Don't play dead—”

The voice grew clearer and clearer, drawing closer.

Ryan twitched violently on the bed.

In the next second, his eyes flew open.

The entire world instantly lit up—not metaphorically, but literally. Everything in his field of vision turned a blinding white.

The gas lamp.

The daylight seeping through the cracks of the window.

The reflection on the surface of the silver coin.

Even the faint lines of light reflecting off the edge of the wooden table.

Everything magnified wildly, like countless steel needles stabbing into his eyeballs all at once.

Ryan let out a low groan, instinctively raising his hand to cover his face. He curled his body inward, his breathing suddenly turning rapid and shallow.

“Fuck—”

His voice was incredibly hoarse.

Simon's movements ground to a halt. He almost fell flat on his backside. After performing the Heart ritual dance for so long, he had finally dragged this bastard back.

Alvin stood up instantly, taking quick strides to the bedside. “Ryan. Can you hear me?”

Ryan opened his mouth, but didn't answer immediately. Because right now, he couldn't see a thing. His entire world was nothing but a canvas of pure white. Countless piercing lights burned before his eyes.

Only after a dozen seconds did he manage to squeeze out a response.

“It's too bright...”

“What?”

“Turn off the lamp...”

Simon glanced back at the gas lamp, then at the window obscured by the heavy curtains. The room was actually already very dark, gloomy even, but he still turned off the lamp.

Then, his brow furrowed. “Alvin.”

Alvin nodded, already understanding the situation. The Lantern's glow had spiraled out of control. Or rather, it had grown.

Since last night, Ryan had been operating his Lantern aspect at an extreme overload. First, fighting the Edge-man. Then, forcing himself to absorb the dawn. And finally, being contaminated by the Moth. Although he had survived, his eyes had clearly suffered.

Alvin reached out, gently prying open Ryan's left eyelid. In the next second, the room fell silent for a moment. Deep within his pupil, an extremely faint gold was flowing.

Simon saw it too, his expression turning peculiar. “This is the first time I've seen a Lantern aspect grow this quickly.”

Alvin fell silent for a moment. “Me too.”

Ryan on the bed finally regained some of his composure, speaking with difficulty. “Am I blind?”

Simon sneered. “No. You're just stupid.”

“...”

Ryan had only just woken up, and his mind was still in a muddle. Lin Yuan in the dream, Ryan in reality—the two sets of memories were overlapping once more. But it felt as if a portion of his memory was missing. His head throbbed as if it were about to split open.

Alvin wasted no words and began his examination. A few minutes later, he finally reached a conclusion.

“You're not blind. You've just become too sensitive.”

“What do you mean?”

“The light you see now,” Alvin pondered for a moment, “is different from what ordinary people see. A gas lamp in someone else's eyes might look like a searchlight to you. When others see a candle flame, you see a torch. And if others see the sun, you'll probably wish you were dead.”

The room fell quiet. Ryan immediately understood. No wonder he couldn't see anything. It was all blinding white light.

Alvin continued, “We must make a filter. Otherwise, you won't be able to live a normal life.”

Simon spoke up immediately. “Glasses?”

Alvin nodded. “Something like that.”

With that, his gaze fell upon the pile of discarded clothes by the bed—Ryan's coat, shirt, and waistcoat, the lens in his pocket, and the heavily worn, dark-colored glasses.

Alvin walked over, picked up the lens, and examined it in his palm. He nodded in satisfaction. “The material is quite good.”

Ryan was taken aback. “What are you planning to do?”

Alvin didn't answer. He simply pulled out the silver florin from his coat. Not much aspect remained inside, but there was still a little left. Then, he took out a small hammer, a thin steel needle, and several metal fragments.

Seeing this, Simon already knew what he was about to do. “Forge?”

Alvin nodded. “Forge.”

This was the first time Ryan had witnessed Alvin truly using his aspect up close. All the materials before him began to shift, returning to their raw states.

Ryan watched in a daze. For throughout the entire process, there was no furnace, no workbench, and not even any melting. Yet, the metal was truly changing shape.

Alvin's expression remained calm, his fingers continuously adjusting the angles. Forging was not creation out of nothing. It was the bestowing of form, making an object become what it was meant to be.

Ten minutes later, the original scrap metal had completely vanished. In its place was a pair of thin-framed glasses with silver-grey frames and clean, simple lines. In the center of the lenses, Ryan's original lens was embedded, but it was not entirely the same—numerous fine, intricate patterns had appeared around the edges of the lenses.

Finally, Alvin gave it a light tap.

The silver coin let out a crisp ring, and the glasses were completely finished.

Silence returned to the room.

Simon took the glasses, looked them over, and couldn't help but whistle. “Much better than his old pair.”

Alvin said flatly, “No shit. His old pair was factory-made. This one isn't.”

He turned and walked back to the bedside, handing the glasses to Ryan. “Put them on.”

Ryan took them and slowly put them on. In the next second, his world fell quiet. The blinding white light rapidly receded, and outlines began to re-emerge.

The gas lamp, the ceiling, the table and chairs, the curtains, Simon's punchable face, and Alvin's eternally expressionless face all became clear once again.

Although his vision was still brighter than an ordinary person's, it was now tolerable.

Ryan stared blankly at everything before him. After a long time, he finally let out a slow breath. “I can finally see.”

Simon sat back down in his chair, the wound on his shoulder having torn open further due to the ritual dance just now. (Wounds inflicted by Edge were difficult to heal.) His face was dark as soot.

“Congratulations,” Simon said. “Since you're not blind, we can settle our accounts now.”

Ryan instantly had a bad feeling. Meanwhile, Alvin had already silently taken a step back, pulling his chair a bit further away in the process.