Star Gall Ink

After Jules and Julie left the room, no one else knew what kind of deal Ye Yan and May had reached.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Easton."

"Likewise, Ms. May."

Before leaving the room, May gave a quiet laugh and asked as if the thought had just occurred to her, "I heard you're looking for a Sanskrit teacher. I have someone in mind. If you're comfortable with it, I could teach you myself."

Ye Yan wasn't surprised that May knew about it.

After all, he hadn't made any effort to hide his activities. With Witch Lane's intelligence network, they had probably kept track of everywhere he'd gone over the past three days.

He shook his head, his tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. "No need. I've already found a suitable teacher."

Aside from their deal, Ye Yan didn't want any unnecessary entanglements with witches whose backgrounds he knew nothing about.

Besides, he trusted Dr. Watson more.

Since the doctor had said he'd already contacted a reliable scholar for him and even arranged to take him to call on the man tomorrow, Ye Yan had no reason to go looking elsewhere and accept a mysterious witch's "kindness."

Who knew what schemes lay behind that seemingly elegant smile?

May seemed entirely unsurprised by Ye Yan's refusal.

She rose gracefully, and with her false veneer of respectability, she looked every bit the society lady.

"Then I wish you all the best, Mr. Easton."

With a satisfied smile, May left Baker Street with Julie. After giving Jules a few brief instructions, Ye Yan passed through the Statue Gallery and headed to Samsara Bookstore.

The copper bell waited to ring once more.

[It's good to see you again, Administrator.]

"I'm glad to see you too, Sam, Sara."

A relaxed smile appeared on Ye Yan's face. He carefully set the paper bag on the desk, then untied the black ribbon wrapped around it.

"Could you check whether any of the knowledge in these secret texts is worth preserving?"

[Of course, Administrator.]

As soon as the words fell, a wind with no apparent source swept through the bookstore. The parchment on the desk rustled, the other objects trembled slightly, and the soft rustle of turning pages echoed through the space.

[Administrator, after organizing the secret texts you provided, I've compiled two secret traditions.]

"Secret traditions?" Ye Yan was taken aback. "What are those?"

[Secret traditions are knowledge concerning the Formless Arts.

Unlike the Great Arts, the Formless Arts carry considerable risks and uncertainty, and cover somewhat different fields of knowledge.]

After hearing the bookstore's explanation, Ye Yan understood the fundamental difference between secret traditions and the Formless Arts.

Unlike the systematic Great Arts, the Formless Arts were an unconventional path lacking structure and rules. Secret traditions were the occult knowledge practitioners acquired through them.

"What are the two secret traditions?"

[One is a prayer to the God of Dazzling Radiance. The other is a Formless Art that can be used to summon the Spirit of Reflection.]

"The God of Dazzling Radiance?"

Ye Yan's eyes lit up, excitement barely contained on his face. "Is that the honorific name of one of the Hours?"

[Yes. You may choose to submit the prayer, and I will provide you with knowledge about this Hour.]

Without hesitation, Ye Yan chose to submit it.

The Formless Moon rose in his heart.

In a tranquil emptiness, Ye Yan learned the true name of the God of Dazzling Radiance.

Arc Moon.

They were the God of Dazzling Radiance, the God Who Reveals All, and the God of Unparalleled Beauty. They originated from light and were born of the moon.

At last...

I've finally gained the knowledge of an Hour!

Ye Yan felt he'd made some progress in his study of Hour Lore. Perhaps if he submitted one more secret tradition, he could master a skill related to Hour Lore.

"I want to submit the other secret tradition too."

[Of course, Administrator.]

Ye Yan closed his eyes.

He saw a brilliant streak of light blaze across the night sky.

The burning comet dragged a long tail of fire behind it, shedding its burning shell as it fell. Amid a deafening roar, it became a crimson meteorite that sank deep into the earth.

The sky was ink-dark, and the steel burned like fire.

The earth trembled, and gravity hummed.

The instant the meteorite touched the ground, the two strangely merged. At the center of the impact crater, they slowly gathered into a pool of ink that glimmered faintly.

Ye Yan's eyes flew open.

As he'd expected, submitting the other secret tradition had allowed him to grasp a new skill.

He'd acquired the recipe for Star Gall Ink.

It was an ink made from meteorite, and its effect was extraordinarily unusual: any words written with it would never fade.

Even if the writing's medium was destroyed, the words could still be restored if their traces could be found.

Ye Yan rested his chin on his hand and thought it over.

Star Gall Ink was undoubtedly ideal for preserving ancient books, and an excellent medium for special markings. As long as the material bearing the words was durable enough, texts annotated with Star Gall Ink could last a thousand years.

He furrowed his brow slightly.

However, Star Gall Ink was not an urgent priority at the moment.

Meteorite was rare, of course, but the more pressing problem was its staggering price.

But Star Gall Ink's true value wasn't its usefulness as a tool. As a lesser Ink of Power, it held the potential to influence reality.

Ink of Power.

All histories were written with these inks.

That simple description alone was enough to show just how extraordinary Ink of Power was.

Once, Ye Yan had thought that changing the course of history through his own efforts was nothing but a fool's dream.

But now, that wild notion was taking root in his mind. If he could just obtain enough power, could his wildest dreams—everything he wished for—become reality?

Ye Yan took a deep breath and calculated in his mind.

Once the Sinking Red Wisdom finished brewing, he should have enough money after selling half the liquor.

London, Camden District.

The morning light passed through the stained-glass windows of St. Pancras Church, casting colorful patterns across the floor.

The priest, dressed in white linen vestments, lifted the golden chalice.

The musician worked the organ pedals, imitating the dark currents of the River Thames, while Watts's "O God, Our Help in Ages Past" flowed beneath the Corinthian Colonnade: "O God, our Help in ages past, our Hope for years to come..."

The congregation crossed themselves.

Having never attended a service before, Ye Yan followed their example and tried to pray.

"Lord, have mercy."

The old pastor's voice rang out. Beside him, a young acolyte raised a silver holy-water sprinkler, and droplets scattered through the morning light, forming a fleeting rainbow.

When the organ played the final note of the Amen, the deacon struck the church bell three times.

Only when the morning prayers were over did Ye Yan finally relax.

To be honest, he couldn't stand this sort of religious activity. He had to join in the hymns, recite the prayers, and even follow the proper form when kneeling.

Such rigid piety made him feel terribly constrained.

"Dr. Watson," Ye Yan said, quickly catching up with his companion and lowering his voice. "The teacher you're introducing me to isn't a pastor at the Sanctum, is he?"

Watson turned at that, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "That gentleman does hold a holy office, but he's much more than just a pastor."

Ye Yan was a little surprised.

He already knew that the Sanctum was the Church of England's organization in charge of occult matters, and that its members were known to outsiders as Light Servants.

Black-robed priests, white-robed pastors, red-robed bishops.

They differed from the roles in traditional religious institutions.

Within the Sanctum, these three positions had no clear hierarchy. They differed only in their duties.

Black-robed priests often appeared at the scenes of supernatural incidents, white-robed pastors spent their days among ancient books and alchemical instruments, and red-robed bishops maintained the operations of the Sanctum as a whole.

Generally speaking, the three holy offices of the Light Servants did not overlap in function.

And if they did, there was only one reason...

When Ye Yan followed Watson to the cemetery behind the church, an old man in white robes was performing a requiem mass with his head bowed. A red bishop's cloak lay over his outer robe, and a black stole hung across his chest, swaying gently in the morning breeze.

His fingers traced the inscription on a gravestone, his touch as gentle as if he were comforting a sleeping infant.

"May the peace of the Lord be with you..." The old man's voice was low but warm. He lifted a handful of fresh earth and let it trickle slowly through his fingers.

Ye Yan stood still, not daring to interrupt.

After a long while, the old man turned around. Fresh mud clung to his hem, but his eyes shone brightly, as if a candle burned within them.

"You're finally here."

He gave Ye Yan a warm, kindly smile.

"I've been waiting for you a long time, Prophet."