Asking for Leave

On the quiet street, House drove the carriage back, his expression a mix of barely concealed excitement and extreme restraint.

During his brief eye contact with Cyril earlier, his Eye of Secret Seer had allowed him to glimpse a corner of Cyril's soul. Even though it was a soul that possessed only the status but no power, the essence—which was at or even beyond the level of an Old One—inevitably left him corrupted.

Through a combination of coincidence and inevitability, he had become the first believer of Cyril in this world, and a fanatic at that.

The mere thought that he could accidentally encounter such a great existence within his lifetime made him unable to control himself; he felt incredibly, incredibly, incredibly lucky.

If the scene and timing hadn't been inappropriate, he would have prostrated himself on the ground right then and there, approaching that great being in the most pious and humble posture to lick the dust from His shoes and offer Him everything he had.

It was a pity he couldn't expose himself so directly. After all, this world had been ruled by false gods for too long. Once his abnormality was discovered by Max and Carlson nearby, he would inevitably be killed on the spot or dragged to the church's tribunal, eventually becoming a lump of Beyonder characteristic waiting to be enjoyed by others.

He still had to go and pay homage to the great being—no, he couldn't just go like that. He had to prepare a gift, a gift of sufficient weight. Although such a great being might not care, he could not afford not to prepare one; this was his sincerity.

While House was agonizing over what kind of gift to prepare for his first audience with the great being, Max and Carlson were discussing Cyril inside the carriage behind him.

Carlson: "Captain, this Cyril doesn't seem as simple as he looks on the surface, does he?"

"He doesn't look sick at all, and I always feel like he recognized our identities."

"Hmm." Max nodded slightly, though his expression remained unchanged:

"Don't worry about it. Since he knows Archbishop Horamick and is able to attend classes and conduct experiments for his younger brother with the Archbishop's tacit approval, there shouldn't be any major problems."

"He probably isn't completely ignorant of the mystical world, and having been in contact with the Archbishop, it's not surprising he could guess our identities. After all, the equipment of the Heart of Mechanics squad is still too conspicuous."

"I will go to find His Excellency the Archbishop tomorrow to verify his information. If nothing goes wrong, the focus afterward should be on the suddenly missing Welch Stams."

"Judging from Cyril's previous words, he most likely came into contact with people from the Gnosis Society. That is also a group of lunatics who love to create bloody incidents."

Carlson nodded with a solemn expression, then continued: "He isn't sick, and he didn't perform that ritual. Could it be that he knew beforehand that the ritual provided by Welch was problematic?"

"If he knew the ritual was problematic early on, why didn't he warn others? Was it that he didn't want to, or has he already colluded with Welch?"

Max shook his head slightly: "Perhaps he didn't know, or perhaps he warned them but it was of no use."

"They are all around the same age. You should be very familiar with young people like them who have some knowledge, are very young, and come from decent families."

"It is the rebellious age where they are more stubborn than an ox; they won't change their minds because of someone else's dissuasion. Even Emperor Roselle once said that such people would rather hit a city wall with their heads than choose to turn back."

"As for the investigation into Cyril regarding this incident, we still need some divination."

As soon as he finished speaking, the voice of House, who was driving the carriage outside, suddenly rang out:

"Captain, I already performed a divination while you were inside asking questions. There is no problem."

"He was unaware of this incident, and he himself was also a target of Welch, only the plan to hold the ritual was abandoned due to an accident."

Carlson asked with a hint of curiosity: "Eh, House, when did your divination become so detailed?"

Outside the carriage, a bead of sweat the size of a bean slid down the forehead of House, who was driving. He hadn't expected his overly eager defense to make Carlson suspicious of him.

He tried his best to maintain his tone, which was relaxed and tinged with a bit of banter, and chuckled: "You weren't inside for a short time; it was enough for me to perform multiple divinations on the target with different questions."

"You can't just treat me as a mere coachman because I'm always responsible for driving the carriage. I am a professional when it comes to divination."

Max nodded slightly, having no reason to doubt him: "Well done. As for the rest, I'll wait until dawn to ask Archbishop Horamick for guidance."

Outside the carriage, House let out a silent sigh of relief. Thank goodness, he had bluffed his way through it. He had almost caused unnecessary trouble for that supreme, strongest, and great existence due to his own carelessness.

Although it might not be trouble for such a great existence, it was an error that was absolutely intolerable to him.

The next day, in the office of a professor in the History Department at Backlund University.

Cyril stood side-by-side with a young man with short brown hair, azure eyes, and a face that still carried some immaturity, accepting the oppressive gaze of the old professor opposite them.

The old professor pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and said in a tone that was half-questioning and half-helpless:

"So, you two are asking for leave again, and you're even using the same reason?"

"Do you know that you are graduating next month?"

Cyril looked up at the ceiling, his mood particularly complex. He never expected that asking for leave would lead to an accident; he had just finished making up a reason to ask the professor for leave, and the next moment, someone else walked in to ask for leave with the same reason.

Sighing silently in his heart, he organized his words to explain to the old professor in front of him:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fells. Three people in the club died in succession over the weekend, and a police inspector even came to question me last night. I feel that I might not be able to calm down and study during this period."

"If I had been more vigilant at the time and discovered that the ritual shared by Welch was problematic in advance, perhaps Morn, Icarus, and the others wouldn't have died."

As he spoke, his face revealed just the right amount of sadness and remorse, and his whole person was filled with a sense of depression and despondency.

Seeing this situation, Professor Fells was clearly stunned for a moment, but he quickly reacted to what Cyril was talking about. As a professor at the school, although he didn't know the specifics, he generally knew what had happened over the weekend, but he hadn't expected it to be related to the student in front of him.

Immediately, the expression on his face became gentle, filled with the care of an elder:

"Cyril, this is not your fault. You don't need to blame yourself for everything. Although I am not a professor of psychology, I know that this is not conducive to your mental health."

"Perhaps you need to go for a walk outside of Backlund and bask in the sun. The weather in Backlund is too oppressive for you."

"Let me see, your leave request only has one week of vacation. Is this enough? Do you need me to add a few more days? Don't worry about the graduation issue; there isn't a student who hasn't graduated under me, Fells."

Cyril nodded at Fells with a look of gratitude: "Thank you, Professor."

Fells smiled kindly: "Don't be so polite. As your teacher, caring for the physical and mental health of students is also part of the job."

The brown-haired, blue-eyed boy beside him looked at the professor in front of them with a stunned expression, then turned his head to look at Cyril, his clear eyes filled with a giant question mark, as if asking: Is that even allowed?

After a brief moment of shock, he wore the same expression of sorrow and dejection as Cyril: "Professor..."

The expression on old Professor Fells's face stiffened: "Are you also a member of that... Truth Society?"

The boy corrected him in a low voice: "It's the World Truth Society."

Seeing old Professor Fells look at him, Cyril nodded slightly in agreement: "We are both vice-presidents."

The expression on old Professor Fells's face visibly stiffened and darkened, but he forced himself to hold it back.

The next second, he firmly lowered his head, signed both leave requests, and then waved his hand to signal that the two could leave.

Outside the teaching building, the black-haired, blue-eyed young man patted Cyril on the shoulder and praised him:

"Cyril, you really are a genius. You actually got old Fells to agree to our leave so easily, and he even took the initiative to extend our break."

"He's afraid we'll drop dead in his classroom."

Cyril turned his head and scanned the boy beside him with a serious gaze, not expecting to encounter another member of the World Truth Society so soon, and one who was, besides himself, the only other survivor: Owen Garcia.