"Taking these two cards together, my divination suggests that your current situation isn't very good, but the eventual outcome won't necessarily be terrible."
"What you need to do now is relax. Don't dwell on this matter. Just let things take their course."
How was that any different from saying nothing at all? Or was the result so bad that he didn't want to tell me? There was the Devil card, after all... Lorne's expression darkened.
"Um, could I ask you something?"
"Of course. I can answer anything related to divination. I'm also the mysticism teacher here," Hanass said confidently.
"Have you ever heard of palm reading or face reading?"
"Palm reading? Face reading?" Hanass looked puzzled. He had never heard either term before.
"They're forms of divination too. You mainly examine the lines on someone's palms or the shape of their facial features to predict their future," Lorne explained.
After a moment's thought, Hanass shook his head. "No. I've been a diviner for many years, but I've never heard of methods like those."
"Where did you hear about them?" he asked curiously.
"I happened to read about them in an old book," Lorne said, making up an excuse on the spot.
"Then it was probably one of those unreliable books on mysticism. People used to write legends and customs from other countries into their books and pass them off as mysticism, but none of that is legitimate mystical knowledge."
"Sigh..."
"All right, thank you." Lorne thanked him, took out four soli and handed them over, then quickly left the room.
Watching Lorne's retreating figure, Hanass Vincent furrowed his brow and muttered:
"Something's wrong. Something's very wrong."
Lorne didn't leave the club right away. Instead, he greeted the receptionist and had a cup of the club's black tea.
He felt thoroughly cheated today. The divination result had been vague and baffling, and he had wasted four soli.
Looking at the empty cup in his hand, Lorne made a decision.
"I'm having another cup."
Before leaving, he spent a few more soli at the club on a deck of tarot cards and a blue crystal pendulum, intending to try divining for himself when he got back to the hotel.
"I haven't had any premonitions from fate. I should be safe for now." Although the divination had left him rather uneasy, Lorne hadn't received a direct warning from fate as he had before. He figured his situation couldn't be that bad yet.
As he left, he asked the receptionist whether there was anywhere nearby worth visiting.
To his surprise, he learned that farther down the street was a place called Diagon Alley, a secondhand market.
The name "Diagon Alley" startled Lorne at first. It was far too Harry Potter.
"Could this be some transmigrator's idea of a joke?" Lorne wasn't sure.
Still, he couldn't say for certain. The entire Loen Kingdom had a distinctly British feel, after all. An alley with the same name wasn't impossible.
Recalling the duke who had once ruled the Tingen region, Lorne couldn't help thinking, Could there really have been a transmigrator?
With those thoughts in mind, Lorne made his way toward Diagon Alley.
Since it was a secondhand market, there was a chance of finding something valuable for cheap.
He planned to rely on a Monster's heightened intuition to see whether he could unearth any treasures.
The market stretched along the street, with stalls selling old goods everywhere and tarpaulin shelters piled high with secondhand objects.
A stallholder in a denim apron was polishing silver forks with an old newspaper.
The air carried a mixture of musty old leather and the roasted aroma from a coffee cart on the corner.
An elderly woman polished a silver-plated tea set with a soft cloth. In front of a stall, a white-haired old man tried on a camel-colored felt hat.
There were also a few scattered vendors hawking their wares along the street.
"This is... so ordinary."
Diagon Alley had none of the magical atmosphere Lorne had imagined. It looked like an ordinary secondhand market.
Lorne activated Spirit Vision and searched for objects that showed signs of spirituality.
In theory, having spirituality meant being valuable.
"What's this?" Something caught Lorne's eye.
He crouched in front of a rusty sheet-metal stall, his fingertips touching a strange book with a pitch-black cover. The portly proprietor in a leather cap immediately sprang up from his little stool, knocking over a stack of newspapers by his feet.
"You have a good eye, sir! This is an antique book handed down from the Fourth Epoch."
Lorne rubbed the curled edge of a page between his fingers. In the sunlight, he could see patches where the cover's gold paint had flaked away. "Never mind whether it's an antique. Look! Even the glue on the spine has come apart."
"Young man, an antique book has to show some signs of age." The proprietor's bushy beard quivered amid flying flecks of spittle.
"If you want it, how about fifty pounds?"
The portly proprietor sized Lorne up. Seeing his fair, clean-cut face and the look of a wealthy young gentleman, he decided to fleece him.
In fact, he had bought the book out of town from two people who seemed terribly flustered, and it had cost him less than ten pounds.
"Hey! That's daylight robbery. I'd say five pounds at most."
Unlike a rich young man who never bothered to bargain, Lorne went straight for a brutal price cut.
That was how you haggled: slash the price hard at the start so you had room to negotiate later.
"No, that's far too little." The portly proprietor shook his head repeatedly. He wasn't about to sell at a loss.
While bargaining with the proprietor, Lorne kept watching the old book out of the corner of his eye. Through Spirit Vision, he could see it constantly radiating faint spirituality, sending subtle ripples through even the air around it.
This book is so old, yet it still shows signs of spirituality. It must be valuable. Lorne made up his mind to get it.
But he showed no excitement. Instead, he continued bargaining at a leisurely pace, occasionally pointing out another flaw in the book.
"Twenty pounds. That's my lowest price." The portly proprietor suddenly pulled a dusty old book and a yellowed sheet of parchment from the bottom of a box. "These two are old too. For twenty pounds, you can take the lot."
"Ten pounds." Lorne halved the price again.
"Absolutely not!" The proprietor refused flatly.
"It's debatable whether any of these things are antiques. Even if they are, they can't be worth much in this condition."
"Besides, not everything old qualifies as an antique."
"How about we both compromise? Fifteen pounds?" Lorne coaxed.
"I can pay cash." Lorne
took out fifteen pounds in banknotes and waved them in front of the proprietor's eyes.
"Uh..." The portly proprietor looked at the banknotes right in front of him, then at the items that had gone unsold for so long, and nodded.
"You win."
"Zouteland Street."
Carrying a pile of purchases, Lorne eventually wandered into this neighborhood.
"It's six. I'll just find a restaurant." After opening his pocket watch and checking the time, Lorne headed straight for a restaurant by the road.
"What!"
He had only just ordered and barely settled into his seat when he saw several people dressed as policemen walk in.
!!!
Lorne immediately tensed up. The transmigration guide had said that the authorities in this world were extremely hostile toward transmigrators.
He hurriedly picked up the menu and pretended to be choosing his food.
Shielding his face with the menu, he peeked over it to watch what was happening.
"Are they just here to eat?" Watching the policemen order, Lorne breathed a sigh of relief.
"But that young policeman is far too casual. He hasn't even buttoned up his uniform. Looks like the police in this world aren't all that professional."
"Ah, the threat of fear; ah, the blessing of Evernight, the crimson moonlight; ah, O Goddess..."
What! Why was he reciting poetry now? Were all the policemen in this world this bizarre? And that poem was awful... Lorne lowered his head and pressed a hand to his forehead.
Before you continue