Star Gall Ink

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

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

"Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. May."

Before leaving the room, May chuckled softly and asked, as if it were a casual afterthought, "I heard you have been looking for a Sanskrit tutor recently. I happen to have a candidate in mind. If you trust me, I could serve as your teacher."

Ye Yan was not surprised that May knew about this.

After all, he had not made any deliberate effort to conceal his movements; with the intelligence network of Witch Lane, his whereabouts over the past three days had likely been recorded by them in full.

He shook his head, his tone gentle yet firm: "No need, I have already found a suitable teacher."

Beyond the transaction, Ye Yan did not want any unnecessary entanglements with these witches of unknown background.

Furthermore, he trusted Dr. Watson more.

Since the doctor said he had already contacted a reliable scholar for him and even arranged for him to pay a visit tomorrow, he naturally would not abandon the near for the far to accept the "kindness" of a witch with an unknown origin.

Who knew what kind of schemes were hidden behind that seemingly elegant smile?

May did not seem surprised by Ye Yan's refusal.

She rose gracefully, wearing her mask of hypocrisy like a refined noblewoman.

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

With a satisfied smile, May left Baker Street alongside Julie. As for Ye Yan, after giving Jules a few brief instructions, he crossed the Statue Gallery and headed toward Samsara Bookstore.

The copper bell waited for another light chime.

[It is a pleasure to see you again, Administrator.]

"I am glad to see you too, Sams, Sara."

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

"Could you help me see if there is any knowledge worth collecting among these grimoires?"

[Certainly, Administrator.]

As soon as he finished speaking, a wind from nowhere swept through the bookstore. The parchment on the desk rustled, and other objects trembled slightly, the space filled with the faint, crisp sound of pages turning.

[Administrator, by organizing the grimoires you provided, I have compiled two pieces of Secret Lore.]

"Secret Lore?" Ye Yan paused, hearing this: "What is that?"

[Secret Lore is knowledge concerning the Formless Arts.

Compared to the Great Arts, the Formless Arts not only carry significant risks and uncertainties, but the fields of knowledge they cover also differ slightly.]

After listening to the bookstore's explanation, Ye Yan understood the essential difference between Secret Lore and the Formless Arts.

Unlike the systematic Great Arts, the Formless Arts were unconventional paths lacking structure and norms, while Secret Lore was the occult knowledge acquired by practitioners through them.

"Which two pieces of Secret Lore are they?"

[One is a prayer pointing to the God of Dazzling Radiance, and 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, his face filled with irrepressible excitement: "Is this the true name of an Hour?"

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

Without the slightest hesitation, Ye Yan chose to submit it.

The Formless Moon rose in his heart.

In the tranquility of the void, Ye Yan learned the true name of this God of Dazzling Radiance.

Arc Moon.

He is the God of Dazzling Radiance, the God of Full Revelation, the God of Peerless Beauty; he originates from light and is born of the moon.

Finally...

I have finally obtained knowledge of an Hour!

Ye Yan felt that he had made some progress in his study of Hour Lore. Perhaps if he submitted the other piece of Secret Lore, he would be able to master a skill related to Hour Lore.

"I want to submit the other piece of Secret Lore as well."

[Very well, Administrator.]

Ye Yan closed his eyes.

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

The burning comet dragged a long tail of flames, constantly shedding its burning shell as it fell. Accompanied by a deafening roar, it transformed into a meteorite of solid crimson iron, embedding itself deep into the earth.

The sky was like ink, the steel like fire.

The earth trembled, and gravity whispered.

At the very moment the meteorite touched the earth, the two fused together in a strange manner, slowly condensing into a pool of ink shimmering with a faint, eerie light at the center of the impact crater.

Ye Yan opened his eyes abruptly.

As he had expected, the submission of another secret manuscript allowed him to successfully comprehend a new skill.

He had acquired the recipe for Star Gall Ink.

This was an ink made from meteorite iron, and its properties were highly unique; any text written with it would be imbued with the attribute of never fading.

Even if the medium carrying the text were destroyed, as long as one could find the remnants left behind, there would still be a chance to restore it.

Ye Yan rested his chin on his hand, deep in thought.

The utility of Star Gall Ink in preserving ancient texts was truly impeccable, and it was an excellent choice as a medium for special markings. Books annotated with Star Gall Ink could last for a millennium, provided the material of the carrier was of sufficient quality.

He frowned slightly.

However, Star Gall Ink was not the most pressing priority at the moment.

The scarcity of meteorite iron went without saying, but the truly daunting part was its staggering price.

Yet, the true value of Star Gall Ink did not lie in its utility as a mere tool; as a secondary Ink of Power, it contained the potential to influence reality.

Ink of Power.

History itself was written with these inks.

A simple introductory sentence, yet it was enough to illustrate the miraculous nature of the Ink of Power.

Once upon a time, Ye Yan had thought that shaking the trajectory of history by his own hand was nothing more than a pipe dream.

But at this moment, this insane idea was taking root in his mind. If one mastered enough power, could delusions perhaps eventually become reality?

Ye Yan took a deep breath, calculating in his heart.

Once the Sinking Red Wisdom finished brewing, selling half of the liquid should be enough to raise the necessary funds.

London, Camden District.

Morning light pierced through the stained glass of St. Pancras Church, casting colorful projections onto the floor.

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

The organist pressed the pedals, simulating the dark currents of the River Thames, letting Watts' O God, Our Help in Ages Past wash over the Corinthian Colonnade: "O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, be thou our guard while troubles last..."

The believers made the sign of the cross.

Ye Yan, who had never attended a service, followed suit, mimicking the others' prayers as best he could.

"Lord, have mercy."

The old pastor's voice rang out, and the young acolyte beside him raised a sterling silver aspergillum; as the water droplets scattered, they formed fleeting rainbows in the morning light.

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

Only after the morning prayer concluded did Ye Yan finally relax.

To be honest, he really couldn't bring himself to enjoy these religious activities; the hymns had to be harmonized, the prayers had to be recited in unison, and even the posture for kneeling had specific rules.

This rigid piety made him feel incredibly constrained.

"Dr. Watson," Ye Yan quickened his pace to catch up with his companion, lowering his voice to ask, "The teacher you recommended—he wouldn't happen to be a priest of the Sanctum, would he?"

Watson turned at the question, a meaningful smile playing on his lips: "That gentleman does indeed hold holy orders, but he is far more than just a priest."

Hearing this, Ye Yan felt a surge of astonishment.

He had known from the start that the organization in charge of occult matters within the Church of England was the Sanctum, and its members were known to the outside world as Light Servants.

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

Unlike traditional religious ranks, these three had no clear hierarchical relationship within the Sanctum; there was only a distinction in duties.

Black-robed fathers often appeared at the scenes of various supernatural incidents, white-robed priests spent their days with ancient texts and alchemical instruments, while red-robed bishops maintained the operation of the entire Sanctum institution.

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

And if they did overlap, there could only be one reason...

When Ye Yan followed Watson to the graveyard behind the church, an old man in white robes was bowing his head, performing a Requiem Mass. The old man wore a red bishop's cape over his shoulders, and the black stole on his chest swayed slightly in the morning breeze.

His fingers traced the inscription on a tombstone, his movements as gentle as if he were soothing a sleeping infant.

"May the peace of the Lord be with you..." The old man's voice was low yet warm. He scooped up a handful of fresh soil, letting the grains fall slowly through his fingers.

Ye Yan stood where he was, not daring to disturb him.

A long while later, the old man turned back. Fresh mud stained his hem, but his eyes were exceptionally bright, as if a candle flame were burning within them.

"You have finally come."

He offered Ye Yan a gentle, kindly smile.

"I have waited a long time for you, Prophet."