On a quiet street, House drove the carriage back, struggling to contain his excitement.
During his brief exchange of glances with Cyril earlier, his Eyes of Mystery Prying had let him glimpse a corner of Cyril's soul. Though it was a soul with nothing but status and no power, its essence was that of a Great Old One, or even something beyond that level. He had inevitably been corrupted.
Through a mix of coincidence and inevitability, he had become Cyril's first believer in this world—and a fanatical one at that.
The thought that he could encounter such a great being by chance in his lifetime left him overwhelmed. He was just so, so lucky.
Had the scene and timing been more suitable, he would have prostrated himself on the spot, approached that great being with the utmost devotion and humility, licked the dust from his shoes, and offered up everything he had.
Unfortunately, he couldn't reveal himself so openly. After all, this world had been ruled by false gods for far too long. If Max and Carlson, standing nearby, noticed anything strange about him, he would surely be killed on the spot or dragged before the Church's tribunal, where he would end up as a lump of Beyonder Characteristic for someone to consume.
He still had to go pay his respects to the great being. No, he couldn't go just like that. He had to prepare a gift—a gift of sufficient value. That great being might not care for it, but he still had to make preparations. It was a gesture of his sincerity.
While House fretted over what sort of gift to prepare for his first audience with the great being, Max and Carlson were discussing Cyril in the carriage behind him.
Carlson said, "Captain, Cyril doesn't seem as simple as he looks, does he?"
"He doesn't look sick at all, and I keep feeling like he recognized who we are."
"Mm." Max nodded slightly, his expression unchanged.
"Don't worry about it. Since he knows Archbishop Horamick and can teach his younger brother and conduct experiments with the Archbishop's tacit approval, there probably isn't much to worry about."
"He likely isn't entirely ignorant of the mystical world, and he's been in contact with the Archbishop. It's no surprise he could guess who we are. After all, the Machinery Hivemind team's equipment is too conspicuous."
"Tomorrow, I'll go to Archbishop Horamick and verify his information. If nothing unexpected comes up, our focus afterward should be on Welch Stams, who suddenly disappeared."
"Judging from what Cyril said earlier, he most likely came into contact with members of the Gnosis Society. They're a bunch of Lunatics who love creating bloody incidents."
Colson nodded gravely, then continued, "He wasn't sick, and he didn't perform that ritual. Could he have known all along that the ritual Welch provided was problematic?"
"If he knew the ritual was problematic, why didn't he warn the others? Was it because he didn't want to, or had he already joined forces with Welch?"
Max shook his head slightly. "Maybe he didn't know. Or maybe he warned them, but it did no good."
"They're about the same age. You should know what young people like them are like—they're educated, young, and from reasonably well-off families."
"It's an age when they're as stubborn as oxen. They won't change their minds just because someone tries to stop them. Even Emperor Roselle said that people like this would sooner smash their heads against a city wall than turn back."
"As for investigating Cyril's involvement in this incident, we'll need some Divination."
Just as he finished speaking, House's voice rang out from outside the carriage, where he was driving.
"Captain, I already performed Divination while you were inside questioning him. There's nothing wrong."
"He knew nothing about this incident. He was also one of Welch's targets; he just gave up on performing the ritual because of an accident."
Carlson asked curiously, "Huh, House, when did your Divination get so detailed?"
Outside, as he drove the carriage, a bead of sweat the size of a bean slid down House's forehead. He hadn't expected his overly eager defense to make Carlson suspicious of him.
He did his best to keep his tone light and teasing, then chuckled. "You were inside for quite a while. That was enough time for me to perform Divination on the target several times using different questions."
"Just because I'm always the one driving the carriage, don't take me for a mere coachman. I'm a professional when it comes to Divination."
Max nodded slightly, not suspecting a thing. "Well done. I'll ask Archbishop Horamick about the rest after daybreak."
Outside the carriage, House let out a silent breath. Good, he'd fooled them. He'd almost caused unnecessary trouble for that supreme, invincible great being through his own carelessness.
That might not count as trouble for such a great being, but it was an absolutely unforgivable mistake for me.
The next day, in the history professor's office at Backlund University.
Cyril stood beside a young man with short brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a still-youthful face. Together, they endured the elderly professor's stern gaze.
The old professor adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His tone was half skeptical, half helpless.
"So, you two are asking for leave again, and you're even using the same reason?"
"Do you realize you're graduating next month?"
Cyril glanced up at the ceiling, his feelings complicated. He hadn't expected asking for leave to go awry. He had just made up an excuse to ask the professor for time off, and then someone else had come in right after him with the exact same reason.
He sighed silently and gathered his thoughts before explaining to the old professor.
"I'm sorry, Professor Fells. Three people in the society died over the weekend, and a police inspector came to question me last night. I don't think I'll be able to focus on my studies for a while."
"If I'd been more alert, if I'd noticed earlier that the ritual Welch shared was problematic, then Morn and Icarus might not have died."
As he spoke, his face showed just the right amount of sorrow and regret. He looked thoroughly dejected and dispirited.
Fells clearly froze for a moment, but quickly realized what Cyril was talking about. As a professor at the university, he hadn't looked into the details, but he knew roughly what had happened over the weekend. He just hadn't expected it to involve the student standing before him.
His expression softened, filled with a senior's concern.
"Cyril, this isn't your fault. You don't need to blame yourself for everything. I'm not a psychology professor, but even I know that isn't good for your mental health."
"Perhaps you need to get out of Backlund for a while and spend some time in the sun. The weather in Backlund is far too oppressive for you."
"Let me see. Your leave request only asks for a week. Will that be enough? Would you like me to add a few more days? Don't worry about graduating. I, Fells, have never had a student who couldn't graduate."
Cyril nodded gratefully to Fells. "Thank you, Professor."
Fells smiled kindly. "No need to be so polite. Looking after my students' physical and mental health is part of my job."
The brown-haired, blue-eyed young man looked at the professor in astonishment, then turned to Cyril. His clear eyes were full of question marks, as if asking, You can do that?
After a brief moment of shock, his face took on the same sorrowful, dejected expression as Cyril's. "Professor..."
The old professor's expression stiffened. "You're also a member of that Truth Society?"
The young man quietly corrected him. "It's the World Truth Society."
When Fells looked at him, Cyril nodded in agreement. "We're both vice presidents."
The old professor's expression stiffened visibly, and darkened a little, but he forced himself not to show it.
The next moment, he firmly signed both leave requests, then waved them off.
Outside the academic building, the black-haired, blue-eyed young man patted Cyril on the shoulder and praised him.
"Cyril, you're a genius. You got old Fells to approve our leave so easily, and he even extended it for us himself."
"He was afraid we'd drop dead in his class."
Cyril turned his head and carefully studied the young man beside him. He hadn't expected to meet another member of the World Truth Society so soon—and, besides himself, the only other survivor, Owen Garcia.
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