Chapter 4523: The Blackest Night (58)

"No one knows how long the cliff standing at the edge of the City of Darkness has been eroded by the waves; even the reefs appear exceptionally sharp. Up there, I clearly saw how time shapes the wilderness. The wind came at the wrong time; I caught a faint scent of something primordial in it. The steaming seawater rose along my nasal cavity to my eye sockets, making my eyes itch. That is how the Indians retreated from the coast, never to step foot there again, just as they had thousands of years ago. But I have nowhere left to retreat, like a gymnosperm swallowed by lava. Before the volcanic ash could bury me, I had already turned into a withered fossil.

The total solar eclipse of 1873 was not an astronomical phenomenon at all. At this moment, I understand this more profoundly. They are the more terrifying cyclical laws hidden behind nature. All disasters are not their original intent, just like the ordinary rising and setting of the sun and moon. In the eyes of some, it is a common natural disaster in a gray, terrifying world. Perhaps, I am about to become one of them.

I, along with several other investigators, walked toward the cliff together. No one expected that the ordinary Heliopolis Theology Seminar would eventually lead us here. It seems we were forced into this vortex, but every heavy footstep of ours tells the story that we voluntarily stood at the edge of the cliff. Just like this very moment—the birds on the skyline have begun to fall.

——"The Mystery of Ra," John Constantine."

"You really know how to keep people in suspense," Victor said, holding the manuscript. "You spent so much time on the setup—researching Egyptian mythology, tracking the Hidden Ones—and then, at the cliff, you add another long string of buildup. Aren't you afraid readers will curse you for being too long-winded?"

"My readers love this stuff," Constantine said, leaning back in his recliner with his feet crossed on the footrest. "I'm not like you novice writers. I have a stable reader base. They just love a large amount of dark, mysterious descriptions. 'The Haze of Faraines' became a huge success precisely because of that."

"Then what do you think of mine?" Victor asked. "Is what I wrote a bit too brief?"

"I haven't read the cliff part yet," Constantine said. "To be honest, you have too much internal monologue in the beginning. You could delete some. Also, I have to say, your filter for Shiler is really too thick. I don't even know how you could come up with so many descriptions."

"We are friends," Victor said. "Of course I know him very well."

"80% is pure fabrication," Jason commented from the side. "Look at this paragraph; I don't even know what to say. You can expand those two sentences you said in the car into something this long? You should charge by the word; that way you'd make a fortune."

"When we got in the car, Rodriguez still had damp water vapor on him. Rainy days in Blüdhaven are not common. But once it starts, it's like being caught in a rain that doesn't exist. I often use this metaphor to describe Rodriguez's temperament—like a tequila mixed with lead gray and rust. The dampness didn't make him softer than before; it just added a layer of gloom, like the misty rain of Cat Getan.

The old car's windows didn't seal tightly, and the water vapor seeping through the cracks left white fog on the edges of his lenses. When he took off his glasses to wipe them, I tried to joke with him: 'You should be warned, Mr. Rodriguez. Our fuel tank might also stall because of your gaze.' He has always appreciated my humor, so he responded: 'I thought a Doctor of Physics would know that the engine is more important.'

Then we discussed the case. 'Unusual, Fries.' I certainly believe his judgment. 'Mass hysteria? Perhaps we should consider the possibility of poisoning.' And the result was predictably what he called the best reasoning of a mechanical brain: 'I'm talking about mysticism, Fries. A living, breathing magician is sitting right here.'

'No clue,' perhaps I said it out loud. He turned to look at me, then just pointed at the gun at my waist. I knew what I had to do—when that group of guys in black cloaks appeared abruptly under the cliff, I began to fulfill my mission. I had to say to myself: 'Good job, Fries. Let these mystics know that messing with you was the wrong choice.' I fired—the sound startled the birds in the sky, but they fell into the sea as if struck, like a late death storm.

——"The Rodriguez Case Files," Victor Fries."

"You have the nerve to talk about him?" Jason commented. "You two are the best definition of the word 'suspense'."

"What are you talking about? I have one more paragraph than him," Victor pointed to the manuscript and said, "I wrote up to the appearance of the mystics."

"But you still haven't introduced them. Or did you leave foreshadowing earlier that I didn't see?" Jason flipped through the previous manuscript.

Victor lost some patience; he grabbed the manuscript, flipped to that page, and said: "Here, see? When the detective visited the apartment at night, he found unusual traces of someone, and then we were attacked during the day. This is the foreshadowing."

"But there's still no introduction at all."

"Keep reading, there's more later," Victor flipped to the back again and said, "After firing, I added an interlude—I knew long ago that shooting wouldn't kill them. Doesn't this connect to the results of the mystical research?"

"Which is still my research result," Jason said.

Victor stood up, picked up the manuscript in front of Jason, and said: "You make it sound easy. I'm afraid no one wouldn't be interested in the diary of a librarian at Cat Getan University."

"Standing on the cliff, seeing those people in black cloaks rushing out from below, I suddenly remembered the night three months after I became a librarian at Cat Getan University. It was one of the few experiences that made even me feel a chill. As always, I will attach the original diary entry here.

It is too cold today. I don't know why the fireplace just won't light; perhaps it is because it rained this morning. Today I organized six volumes of poetry. There are two I like very much. The rest lack a certain literary quality, being overly passionate during their creation. But I didn't hold much hope to begin with. Being able to unearth these hidden gems makes this job worthwhile.

The person who borrowed books a couple of days ago came to return them. I recognized him just as the sky was darkening. His condition is worse; his breathing is very heavy when he gasps for air. That thing is eroding him deeper and deeper. I gave him a little of the medicine Blue Tentacle left me, though I don't know if it will be of any use. The book was also stained with some mucus. I could tell he felt very sorry. I knew I couldn't refuse to let him return it. Otherwise, this book might bring him even greater disaster.

I don't know for what purpose he borrowed this "Book of Eibon." I wanted to ask him, but I was afraid he would bring up certain things that would worsen his condition. In the end, I agreed to the return. But I regretted it the moment I started cleaning the mucus. Damn it, this stuff is too hard to wipe off.

Just as I was struggling with those sticky black substances, a sound rang out. I looked up. A person even harder to deal with than this mucus was leaning against the counter.

Out of consideration for privacy, I have omitted this person's name here. All I can say is that he was once a world-renowned magician, but he was also notorious in the magical community, or, for that matter, in hell as well.

I didn't expect him to recognize the book in my hand and ask to borrow it, but I could only refuse. Because the stuff on the book hadn't been cleaned off yet, lending it out again might lead to the book being damaged, which wouldn't be good. Although I only took this job as a librarian to think about my life plans, I have to work since I'm getting paid.

When he started chatting with me about this book, he mentioned something I was somewhat interested in. This book seems to be just an appendix to another book, and the Greek manuscript of that book is currently hidden in the British Museum. According to him, it is a very terrifying book of curses. If I have the chance to go to England, I will go and see it for myself.

Obviously, I didn't realize at the time what kind of vortex this conversation would drag me into. Just as I was cleaning the "Book of Eibon" overnight, in the middle of the night, while I was resting in the lounge, a noise suddenly appeared in the book section. I grabbed the shotgun nearby.

However, the previous librarian had warned me not to go out no matter what sounds I heard after one o'clock at night. He followed these rules strictly, which is how he lived until retirement. I had already started considering studying abroad in Europe; there was no need to look for trouble at this time.

After about ten minutes, the noise outside stopped. I thought they had left, so I walked to the door, wanting to listen carefully for any movement. Just as I approached the door, the lounge window was pushed open.

When that old creaking sound came from behind me, I used all my strength to keep myself from turning around. I gripped the shotgun tightly, but from the reflection on the metal barrel, I saw a large, blue-black hand—I think it was four feet long—grab the "Book of Eibon" that hadn't been cleaned yet, and *whoosh*, it disappeared.

I stood frozen by the door, unable to recover for a long time. What that guy said during the day rushed back into my mind. There is a group of people who have been collecting cursed classics from all over the world, including the Greek manuscript he mentioned that is hidden in the British Museum. So the appendix to that book should also be within their hunting range. I should have been more vigilant.

I know the rules here. The librarian has the responsibility to protect every book here. If someone borrows a book and doesn't return it, or steals a classic, the librarian must also go and retrieve the stolen goods. Otherwise, I won't live to retire.

Gripping the shotgun again, I pondered the matter of the "Hidden Ones." It must be them, this notorious occult group, daring to set their sights on Cat Getan. And there is an iron rule in Cat Getan—how much you can get back depends entirely on how many bullets you have in your gun. I will make them regret this decision.

— "Cat Getan University Librarian's Diary," Jason Todd.