A Bountiful Harvest

Collecting his thoughts, Cyril glanced at the white parcel in Owen's hand and shook his head slightly.

"I don't need gold pounds for now."

"Could you check if we still have any lingering influence from the True Creator? If so, could you help us purify it, and then send us to the South Bridge District?"

"It would be too conspicuous to appear on the street we were just on."

High up on the swing, Bernadette lifted her hand slightly, scattering specks of clear starlight that fell upon Owen.

The starlight merged into his body as if intangible, subsequently stirring up wisps of faint black smoke.

Cyril looked at Owen, covered in starlight, then at himself, where nothing had happened. Clearly, only he had been affected by the True Creator.

This guy always seemed so unlucky; if it weren't for the fact that the Wheel of Fortune didn't exist in this world, he would have suspected that the poor man was shunned by fate itself.

While his thoughts wandered, Bernadette glanced at him and said in a low, ethereal voice:

"You originally had some residual malice and corruption on you as well, but during our conversation just now, they dissipated spontaneously."

"Uh..." Cyril opened his mouth, unable to speak for a long moment.

He didn't want to open up this topic; a Mystery Pryer who was persistent in certain aspects would surely dig deep into the secrets behind it.

Seeming to see through his thoughts, Bernadette on the swing chuckled softly, then waved her hand. The dense, interwoven green vines around them retracted rapidly, revealing the night sky outside, filled with darkness mixed with dim yellow lights.

Cyril felt the ground vanish beneath his feet, and his entire body began to plummet.

Subconsciously, he generated a strong gust of wind blowing from below, though it wasn't enough to ride the wind like a Wind-Blessed, it was enough to slightly slow his descent.

Just as the whimpering sound of the wind began, Cyril's feet touched the ground. He stumbled slightly before quickly steadying himself.

He withdrew his spirituality, ending the gust of wind, and looked up in embarrassment to see the vines, which hadn't fully receded yet, hanging only a story above the ground.

Between the constantly retracting vines, a piece of yellowed parchment drifted down, accompanied by Bernadette's voice:

"We will meet again. I hope you have more information next time. Of course, I will pay a reward that satisfies you."

Cyril raised his hand, and under the effect of Object Manipulation, the parchment landed precisely in his palm.

On it were lines of delicate, small handwriting in ink that had not yet dried:

Sequence 6: Recorder

Main ingredients: One complete Asman brain, one cursed object from an ancient vengeful spirit.

Supplementary ingredients: Three pages of a diary over twenty-two years old, 10ml of mercury, 10 drops of honeysuckle essential oil, 30ml each of seawater, lake water, and glacier water.

Cyril: ...

It wasn't useless, but it was certainly underwhelming.

Knowing full well that I am a Trickmaster, she gives me a potion formula for a Recorder. Was she doing it on purpose, or did she just happen to have a Recorder formula on hand?

Sighing with slight disappointment, he turned to look at Owen, who had just climbed up from the ground, looking at him with a resentful gaze:

"I could have landed safely, but you suddenly created a strong wind, and then I lost my balance."

Cyril looked away in embarrassment, then handed over the parchment and changed the subject:

"Have you ever considered changing your faith? The God of Steam and Machinery does not hold authority over the domain of fate; it doesn't suit you."

"Ah, why?" Owen opened his eyes in confusion, unable to keep up with the other's train of thought.

Cyril said earnestly: "Don't you think you're too unlucky? Perhaps you should consider switching to an existence that can change one's fortune."

For instance, a certain King of Yellow and Black who holds the power of good luck, or perhaps that little snake that hasn't turned into a baby yet. If all else fails, the Empress of Fear and Calamity wouldn't be a bad choice either.

After two seconds of silence, Owen glared at him: "I feel like you're shirking responsibility. Every time I get unlucky, it has something to do with you."

"Besides, although I'm not a devout believer, faith isn't something you can just pick and choose like a commodity."

Cyril nodded slightly, not arguing the point. In a world where true gods existed, faith was sacred and deeply rooted.

He scanned his surroundings, quickly confirmed his location, and said: "Let's head back first. We aren't far from Weldi Street now."

"There have been too many accidents tonight; I really don't want to run into patrolling constables again."

"Are you talking about the two walking toward us from across the street?" Owen pointed ahead.

"So unlucky..."

Muttering a quiet complaint, Cyril grabbed Owen and dashed straight into the courtyard wall beside them.

32 Weldi Street, Owen's home.

Cyril lay half-reclined on the sofa, watching the sky outside the window begin to turn a pale, fish-belly white, and sighed silently.

In just three streets, they had encountered two groups of patrolling constables in a row. If it weren't for the fact that an Apprentice could easily pass through walls, they likely would have been finished on this final stretch.

Composing himself, he looked at Owen: "Let's start splitting the loot. I still need to get back before dawn."

Owen pointed at a wall calendar nearby and added gloomily: "That's not all. Did you forget? The vacation Fells gave us is over. We have to go back to school and start classes today."

...(⊙_⊙;)...

"..." Cyril pursed his lips, then said:

"It's fine, old Fells said at the time that he guaranteed we'd be able to graduate normally."

Owen helplessly covered his forehead: "That was obviously just a casual remark to comfort you, and you actually took it seriously?"

Cyril tilted his neck back, a malicious smile appearing on his face: "Then I'll just go and tell him, Professor, you wouldn't want two more students from your class to go missing, would you?"

Owen:...

"Whether I can graduate smoothly or not depends on you."

"Are Seers even afraid of exams?" Before the other could answer, he waved his hand again:

"Let's split the money first. I still need to hurry back. If there's enough time, I might even be able to take a short nap."

Owen nodded, said nothing more, and opened the white shirt bundled into a ball, revealing several gold bars the size of ink sticks, neat stacks of gold pounds, a few gemstones, and a handgun inside.

These were all things Cyril had taken from Jacob's Wallet while the members of the Black Wolf Gang were clashing with the out-of-control Beyonder.

"Casinos are indeed a profitable industry," Cyril sighed in a low voice.

If it were any other gang, it wouldn't necessarily be easy to snatch so much cash, gemstones, and gold bars.

He estimated that the small portion they had obtained already reached a total value of about 2,000 pounds.

After the two of them finished splitting it up, Cyril looked at the two stacks of cash, one gold bar, two gemstones, and a handgun in his hands, his mood slightly rippling.

He finally experienced the feeling of getting rich overnight. Although this money might not even be enough to buy the potion ingredients for his next sequence, it was undoubtedly a huge sum for someone still in debt.

Moreover, he had unexpectedly gained a potion formula for a Recorder. Although he wasn't in urgent need of it and there were other ways to obtain it, no one would complain about an unexpected windfall.

After packing up his share of the loot, he bid farewell to Owen and took advantage of the time before dawn to rush back to his own home.

At the same time, in the Backlund Bridge area, inside the casino controlled by the Black Wolf Gang, the sounds of explosions and gunfire rose and fell continuously.

But strangely, not a single sound could be heard outside the casino, and not even the glow of fire could be seen. A single step apart, it was as if they were two different worlds.

Before long, a supernatural squad dressed in light combat armor, carrying steam backpacks, and holding steam rifles—armed to the teeth—walked out of the casino building.

Beside them were several people wearing the same style of black trench coats, looking energetic, like seasoned night owls.

These people were men and women of varying ages, but the expressions on their faces were inexplicably similar: a mix of envy and exclamation, laced with a hint of heartache, like people who were always strapped for cash suddenly seeing someone wastefully squandering money right in front of them.

The two teams of completely different styles had just walked out of the casino building and hadn't had time to separate when a gust of wind suddenly blew up around them. Then, a sturdy figure wearing a dark blue priest's robe descended from the sky.

He first glanced at the casino building filled with the smell of gunpowder smoke and blood, then scanned everyone present, and asked in a deep voice:

"What happened here?"