Miskatonic University

The date on the newspaper was August 30, 1925.

Before the article began was a large school emblem:

A circular badge, the outermost ring a band of text split into two parts. The upper text Hope couldn't read, but it should be the university's name. The lower text was two sentences written in New Federation:

From Ignorance to Wisdom

From Light to Darkness

Surrounded by the text were some patterns:

At the center was an open book. Above the book were three stars. Below it was a burning feather. Beneath these three motifs was the founding year: 1690

Hope wasn't in a hurry to read. He took out his pocket watch—twelve thirty. The potion was almost done.

Hope brought the newspaper back up to the rooftop with him, set it down for the moment, and lifted the lid.

The contents inside had completely mixed together.

The paper dissolving during the long boil was expected.

But the Star Hemp and tricolor rose petals had also vanished. Hope poked at the pale green, slightly viscous solution with a wooden stick, unable to find a single trace of plant fiber.

The solution was uniform and clear, somewhat translucent. It gave the impression of wild grass leaves touched by morning dew, only without the veins.

The pale green didn't match any of the four ingredients either. In the primary colors Hope knew, blue and yellow made green. Even if the white roses, Star Hemp, and paper counted as colorless, the solution should have been red and yellow making orange.

This color change could only be attributed to the supernatural power of mysticism.

Regardless, it didn't look unpleasant. He sniffed it—no smell at all. It wouldn't be hard to swallow.

Hope had already decided to drink it, so he didn't hesitate now. He poured the potion from the iron pot into his water cup.

He first opened his mouth to test the taste. Finding it neither bitter, astringent, sour, nor off-flavored, he gulped it down in a few swallows.

There was a slight aftertaste of sweetness, lingering with some rose fragrance. Better than the coffee at Whateley House.

A cool sensation spread from Hope's stomach through his whole body, finally concentrating in his head, washing away the last trace of drowsiness.

There were ready-made test subjects here. Hope picked up the newspaper again and looked once more at the article about Miskatonic University's anniversary celebration...

For the first time, Hope knew what it meant to read ten lines at a glance.

He could hardly describe the feeling. The information on the newspaper, completely disregarding his comfort, almost actively drilled into his brain one after another through his eyes.

He couldn't think about anything anymore. All his resting brain cells had sprung to life, struggling to comprehend the words being devoured at lightning speed.

...The newspaper slipped from Hope's hand. He stood there dazed for a few seconds, then opened his pocket watch to see that only a dozen or so seconds had passed.

Just a dozen seconds, and he had already finished reading the entire article.

This article was lengthy, spending a great deal of space praising Miskatonic University's teaching standards. The whole piece was probably around fifteen hundred New Federation words, which would be three or four thousand in Chinese characters. Reading time wouldn't be less than five minutes.

Five minutes. Three hundred seconds.

But Hope had taken less than twenty seconds to finish reading and basically grasp the content.

The price was that Hope now felt completely drained, lying back like a dead fish staring at the sky. Just a dozen seconds had given him the same feeling of overusing his brain as after a long afternoon of high school cramming.

...The best university... Archaeology, history, psychology, and other majors had already reached the world's peak level... The school attracted a large number of talented people to study every year... A massive library... Beautiful mountains and clear waters, a place of outstanding people... The first choice for upright individuals... The world's best drill...

Hope took a sharp breath, then let it out, letting his mind return to calm.

In short, according to the article, this Miskatonic University might not be called "the best"—its title was just for grabbing attention—but it certainly wouldn't fall short of any university in the world.

Finally, to support this claim, the article specifically mentioned that the university's engineering professor had already produced the world's best drill for geological exploration.

It seemed Elizabeth was actually a top-tier university's high-achieving student, though her major appeared to be literature, which wasn't among the "world-class disciplines" listed in the article.

The article also made a passing mention of Paul's North Oak University:

"...And North Oak University can't surpass Miskatonic University in anything except sports..."

Since the article was hyping Miskatonic as "world-class," even using it as a foil was still an acknowledgment of North Oak's strength... probably.

Hope shook his head and weighed out the required herbs again.

Five grams of Star Hemp, ten grams each of dried tricolor rose petals, five hundred grams of water...

Then came the most important step: a sheet of paper with Russian writing.

Hope took out a blank sheet he'd prepared earlier, then pulled out Robert's silver fountain pen. He uncapped it—the pen still had ink, likely still in use before Robert abandoned it.

Hope couldn't write Russian, so the way to get a sheet of paper with Russian writing was to take out Number Four Hope's message and copy it stroke by stroke, "drawing" the words.

Old Williams's recipe hadn't mentioned the amount of text needed on the paper. To avoid failure, Hope decided to transcribe an entire sheet.

He hadn't used a fountain pen in a long time, but this one was exceptionally comfortable. Its size, weight, and thickness were almost perfect, making it so he didn't need to readjust to writing with a fountain pen—it felt even more natural than a gel pen or ballpoint.

By the time he finished writing the sheet, it was already one in the morning. He set up the pot, brought it to a boil, added all the ingredients, and had to fuss over it for another half hour.

Hope could only find some interesting articles from the newspaper to pass the time. This time, he didn't search for long.

Whether by fate or not, when he returned to the storage room, a gust of wind blew in through the wall torn open by the Great Night Hawk. This wind was stronger than all the previous ones, rustling the scattered newspaper pages loudly.

Then one sheet of newspaper was blown to Hope's feet. He picked it up—it was a rare Arkham GG-Man among this pile.

The wind had folded the paper somewhat, revealing a small corner in the middle. The tiny print made Hope lean in closer. The moonlight faintly shone upon it:

"The Whateley Family—A Microcosm of Dunwich's Declining Youth Physique"

Such a small column yet it came with a photograph. In the blurry image, a boy stared stiffly at the camera, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, with what looked like a ring of stubble around his mouth, his features unspeakably ugly.

A line of small text beneath the photo: The Whateley family's youngest son, Wilbur Whateley.

The newspaper's date was May 11, 1915.

Paul said Hope was a year younger than him, so Hope should be seventeen, and Wilbur was Hope's younger brother... perhaps fraternal twins, meaning they'd be the same age.

This year is 1928.

The boy in this photo was only four or five years old.