Elias had no idea that he had once again landed on the high-priority watch list of the Seventh Agency’s Hastings Port Branch.
However.
Even if he knew now, it probably wouldn’t matter.
After all, times were different.
He now possessed a formal, official identity: he was the exclusive informant for the Seventh Agency’s Landon envoy, Ms. Ivy Cecil.
Though this identity sounded like a temporary worker, its weight was shockingly high.
At least on the surface, it could help him settle many mundane and mystical troubles.
With friends in high places, he was slacking off by royal decree.
Therefore.
At this moment, Elias only wanted to focus all his attention on the secret documents in Ophelia’s hands.
The atmosphere between the two of them as they walked from the Wayland Shipping office had been eerily quiet.
However, Elias’s dream demon curse was gradually beginning to improve.
After a period of distortion in the wind, those hallucinations transformed back into the world he recognized.
They hailed a public carriage.
As the wheels rattled continuously over the uneven cobblestones, the public carriage made its way toward the hotel.
Sitting opposite him, Ophelia’s emotions and state of mind slowly recovered during the journey.
The mental fortitude of a famous Landon Post reporter was, in the end, much tougher than that of an ordinary person.
Though her face was still somewhat pale, at least her gaze was no longer unfocused.
Her hands were no longer death-gripping her own thighs, either.
By the time the carriage came to a smooth stop in front of the Golden Rose Hotel, the girl was already able to hop down on her own.
As soon as they returned to the hotel.
Ophelia went straight back to her room.
She spent a full twenty minutes fussing about in the washroom.
When she pushed the door open and stepped out again, she had completely changed back into her previous efficient attire.
Wearing a well-tailored wool suit, she had reclaimed the dignity of a high-level intellectual.
She tightly and neatly clutched a cloth bundle in her hand as she headed straight for Elias’s room, bringing a gust of fragrant air with her.
The door wasn’t locked.
Elias was sitting on the sofa, slowly and methodically whittling a piece of wood with a small knife. Hearing the movement, he didn’t even bother to lift his eyelids.
He watched Ophelia enter and casually hang her shawl and lady’s hat on the coat rack by the door.
The movement was as natural as if she were returning to her own home.
Elias’s hands paused, and he couldn’t help but furrow his brows deeply.
“You’ve gotten quite used to coming here lately, haven’t you?”
He pointed his chin at the coat rack, which was already stuffed full.
His tone carried undisguised disdain.
Did this girl have some modern misunderstanding of the phrase “propriety between men and women”?
“Heh.”
Ophelia, knowing she was in the wrong, gave him an embarrassed smile.
Heh my foot, Elias grumbled to himself.
If it were some eccentric Scale Three transcendent, you wouldn’t even have the chance to giggle; you’d be tossed into a cauldron as alchemical material.
He didn’t feel like continuing to bicker with the girl.
He simply put away his knife and held out his right hand, palm up.
“The documents?”
His voice was devoid of emotion.
“Right here, don’t be in such a rush!”
Ophelia gave him a sidelong glance.
She pulled that old man’s shirt from her bundle.
This garment was clearly not hers.
Ophelia reached into her bag and produced a pair of sharp scissors.
Snip.
With a focused expression, she used the fastest speed possible to pick apart the stitching of what looked like a massive patch on the inside of the shirt.
With the sound of breaking threads, the originally thick fabric was completely sliced open.
A folder wrapped tightly in waterproof oilpaper was placed inside, and she carefully pulled it out.
“Here, take it.”
Ophelia handed the folder over, a hint of pride she couldn't hide on her face.
“Inside this is the employment list of all lighthouse keepers for the past twenty-five years.”
“All of Wayland Shipping’s dark history is right here.”
Twenty-five years?!
Elias looked at the thin folder in Ophelia’s hand with surprise.
A flash of doubt crossed his eyes.
The size of this folder was roughly similar to a modern tabloid newspaper.
It was as thin as a children’s picture book.
Could such a small space really hold all the names that had changed over twenty-five years?!
In twenty-five years, how many keepers must have di—no, how many must have been replaced?
With this doubt in mind.
He curiously took it and reached out to peel back the top layer of moisture-proof oilpaper.
However, the second his gaze fell upon the paper.
Elias fell silent.
He saw tiny characters packed densely together, like a colony of ants on the move.
The handwriting was arranged very tightly.
What the hell?! Elias ranted inwardly.
Wayland is such a massive, multinational capital enterprise with wealth rivaling nations.
Just how short on paper and ink are they?!
Looking at it almost triggered his cluster phobia on the spot!
There were only four documents in total.
The format was uniform.
There was nothing written about the keepers’ lives, origins, or family members.
On each document, there was only the year of replacement, the lighthouse sequence number, and a cold, clinical name.
It was like a heartless slaughterhouse ledger.
“Tsk, tsk.”
“That’s quite a lot of people!”
Deep in his mind, Old Ed’s raspy voice suddenly rang out, letting out a long sigh.
The old man had also seen this register built from countless lives.
“At least when I was alive, the situation wasn’t this grim.”
Old Ed smacked his lips, his tone carrying a hint of nostalgia for the ancient era.
“I heard back then that there were keepers who stayed settled at fixed lighthouses for many years.”
“Everyone was a bit lonely at sea, but at least they could reach retirement safely.”
“Looking at the rate of turnover in this register now...”
The old man sighed, sounding somewhat desolate.
“The world is going to the dogs!”
“Sigh!”
“This Wayland company truly seems bastardly to the extreme.”
Often, behind a lighthouse sequence number, several different names would be swapped in within a single year.
Any fool knew where the predecessors had gone.
“That’s how capitalists are,” Elias replied casually in his mind.
His long fingers roughly flipped through the yellowed pages.
As he flipped, his movements suddenly jerked to a halt.
His gaze locked onto the very last page of the register, in the bottom corner.
There, he saw his own name.
“Oh?”
Old Ed had clearly noticed as well, letting out a sound of surprise.
“You’re on the list too, kid?”
“Seems so.”
Elias curled his lips, a self-deprecating arc appearing on his face.
He too had become a fresh consumable on Wayland’s register.
However, what drew his attention more than the names were the strange alteration marks on the register.
He noticed that behind the names in the register, markers made with different colored inks frequently appeared.
Behind the vast majority of names, a piercing red cross (X) was drawn in bright red ink.
And behind a very small number of names, a circle (O) was drawn in deep blue ink.
Except, behind Elias’s own name.
It was currently blank, with no such symbols or markings.
He made a rough guess.
This red cross was, in a physical sense, likely “deceased” or “completely scrapped.”
Just like those unlucky souls on White Tower Island whose very souls had been devoured clean by an evil god.
As for that extremely rare blue circle...
It likely represented that this person had not only survived the pollution but had also crossed the boundary between the mundane and the supernatural.
They had transformed and awakened into a transcendent like Old Crowley.
They were reclaimed by Wayland and switched to a higher-level, more dangerous contract.
“My brother’s name is here.”
Ophelia had no idea what kind of mystical deduction was going on in Elias’s head at this moment.
She reached out a trembling, slender finger and pointed firmly at a name on the third page of the register.
Ryan Moore.
Elias looked in the direction she pointed.
Behind that name.
There was also a red cross (X) marked just the same.
The color was as bright as blood, shocking to the eye.
“Didn’t they tell you your brother was missing?”
Elias withdrew his gaze and leaned back against the sofa, asking nonchalantly.
“Yeah...”
Ophelia gave a self-deprecating smile, the rims of her eyes turning a bit red.
“But now it seems ‘missing’ was just a brush-off from those suited-and-booted managers at Wayland.”
“With one sentence, they wiped a human life clean.”
Elias listened to her words but did not speak to puncture her final illusion.
But thinking about it, it made sense.
In a hellish place like a lighthouse that directly faced the pollution of the deep sea and ancient gods.
Missing was basically synonymous with being unable to survive.
Being able to leave behind a complete corpse would already be considered a miracle of divine mercy.
Just then.
Elias’s gaze shifted slightly to the side.
He noticed.
In the column representing the position before the name Ryan Moore.
A piece of information was clearly recorded in black ink.
Ryan Moore was dispatched to the Seventh Lighthouse.
The Seventh Lighthouse.
Elias silently repeated this cold serial number in his mind.
Hmm?!
He flipped forward a few pages.
He looked at the lighthouse location where his own name was listed.
The Seventh!
In other words, Ryan Moore had come to the lighthouse where he was stationed three years ago!
And died there!
Wayland really has done every evil deed!
Rate on N.U.
