The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

"The pursuit of knowledge may not be very dignified, especially in our field, which is despised by the mainstream academic community as 'prison guards'."

"But as seekers of the soul, we need to understand them, George."

"It's not just about healing, it's about 'understanding'..."

Although George got his wish and his leave request was readily approved.

Even after leaving the dean's office, the eerie feeling emanating from the dean's seemingly casual conversation still lingered.

He strode back to his small, quiet office and locked the door behind him.

Outside the window, the autumn sunlight from the outskirts of London shone lazily in, but it couldn't dispel the chill in his heart.

His gaze fell on the huge drawer at the very bottom of the desk—it was filled with patient interview records left behind by the original owner.

George took a deep breath and opened the drawer.

The smell of old paper and ink was overwhelming.

He randomly picked up several notebooks from different periods, quickly flipped through them, and glanced at the slightly messy handwriting:

Mr. Burns (born blind, paranoid schizophrenia, July 1858):

"The sky has frozen into blue crystal... I can see... They're coming! Why is my shadow so cold...?"

Mrs. Miller (hysteria with hallucinations, March 1858):

"...I dreamt of a garden? Or a palace?...This building looks just like the one I had when I was a child...The inhabitants were invisible, it was terrifying..."

Miss Maurice (adolescent nervous breakdown? December 1857):

"...Under the cobalt blue sky, invisible shadows are singing...They want to invite me in, to the house of my memories...Should I accept...?"

Different times, different patients, different symptoms, yet all paint a similar picture in the mad valley.

Distorted reality, a cobalt blue sky, writhing shadows...

George knew very well that the recurring images could not be simply explained by "collective delusion".

The original owner, a high-achieving graduate of the University of Edinburgh, obsessively recorded all these delirious ramblings and even drew illustrations of the patients' expressions.

Was this truly driven by the dean's academic aspirations? Or had he already sensed something?

Even his disappearance and his own time travel...

The afternoon rounds and shifts became exceptionally long, and every patient's mutterings seemed like a source of danger.

George forced himself to remain calm, but his thoughts had already drifted to London.

Finally, it was time to leave work, and George returned to his residence.

He took a notebook with him back, intending to study it one last time before leaving the sanatorium.

After an hour of fruitless effort, as expected, George fell asleep again.

On the high table in the dream, a new card with a notebook drawn on it has appeared.

Dr. De La Porte's Notebook

[Nature/Appearance: Abyss, Literature]

[A notebook filled with the delirious ramblings of madmen. Its owner, a brilliant graduate of the University of Edinburgh, stubbornly collected every single delirious utterance from the patients he treated, driven by some strange demand.]

Next to the notebook card, there is also a "Use" option.

After use, a new card seems to emerge from the shadows.

[The Madman Remains Silent]

[Sexual Appearance: Abyss 2, Secret Transmission]

[The souls of the insane are broken and even collapsed; what is active within their bodies? The methods for exploring this question are often extremely cruel.]

George noticed that the small icon in the "Sex" section was clickable.

[Secret Transmission: Knowledge that lies beneath the surface of the world and returns to the principles can be used to perform rituals, open paths, change one's own nature, and even ascend to a higher level]

[The Abyss: The wise do not enter the abyss of darkness. [The Abyss represents the unknown, the ancient, and the mad principle.]]

When George clicked on the "Abyss" criterion icon, a dark shadow suddenly appeared in front of him.

George was startled by the shadow, his consciousness snapping out of his reverie and returning to normal.

There was only dim starlight outside the window at the foot of the bed; reality remained unchanged.

"Madmen, sexuality, secret traditions, ancient madness..."

George seemed to have grasped the crux of the problem.

The dean's intention in having him collect those notes was clearly malicious; they likely contain secrets about dark knowledge.

He decided that in addition to sending the telegram, he would also try to find the bookseller mentioned in the information given at the card table.

This might be the most reliable lead available now.

-----------------

The next morning, George boarded a public carriage bound for London.

After getting off the train, at the telegraph office, he carefully chose his words and sent a telegram to his home in Yorkshire, inquiring about his father's well-being and probing about returning home.

After completing this task, he followed the route he had obtained in his dream and hurried through the crowded and noisy streets of the lower Tamesis River.

The buildings on both sides of the road are tall and dense, with dark walls and mostly dim windows.

The carriages along the way kicked up clouds of dust, which mingled with the cries of newsboys.

As he ventured deeper into the area, the scene became increasingly appalling.

Ragged children chased and shouted on the uneven stone road; dockworkers gathered in small groups, some resting against the wall, others heading towards the dock.

Women carrying vegetable baskets walked through the narrow alleyways, occasionally catching glimpses of even more destitute figures huddled in the dark doorways.

This scene has its own unique charm compared to the atmosphere inside the sanatorium walls.

If the latter is hysteria, then this is psoriasis—spread nakedly on the city's skin, noisy and numb.

However, the suffering of others cannot outweigh the shadow that looms over him, and George's instinctive reaction to suffering is now suppressed by a sense of urgency.

It took him some effort to find the door at the end of a dead-end alley that was almost sandwiched between two rows of crooked houses.

A faint, murky yellow light shone from behind the dusty bookstore window, like a tired eye.

A weathered wooden plaque hangs above the door, engraved with the letters "MORAN".

As the door was pushed open, a brass bell rang.

George immediately noticed a woman looking up from behind the counter.

It must be the shop owner, Ms. Moran.

The person was thin, with dark brown hair casually tied into a bun, and wearing an old-fashioned wool dress.

Her almost transparent gray eyes looked at people with a distant, detached air.

Before George could speak, the woman abruptly cut off any potential self-introduction: "I never ask for a client's name."

Those pale gray eyes scanned him up and down, their gaze lingering briefly on the spot in his breast pocket—where the letter lay.

"What do you want? Or rather, what has found you?"

George tried his best to make his voice sound with just the right amount of confusion.

"I've been doing some research lately on certain types of psychotic phenomena. Patients repeatedly mention images like: a cobalt blue sky, a distorted reality, writhing shadows, you see..."

He spoke while observing Miss Moran's reaction.

Miss Moran raised an eyebrow and slightly lifted her chin before turning and walking deeper into the bookstore—where more books were piled up in a corner swallowed by shadows.

She seemed to bend down and rummage through a mountain of books for a moment.

After a rustling sound, she pulled out a hardcover book, turned back, and placed it in front of George.

The book is titled "Night Wanderings," with "Volume One" marked on the dark hardcover, and the author is named Iliopoli.

"This might answer some of your questions, or lead you to more," she said calmly. "Ten pounds, no bargaining."

Ten pounds!

This is almost equivalent to George's monthly salary.

But George decisively counted out two five-pound notes from his wallet and placed them on the counter.

He can still distinguish between the king and the queen.

Miss Moran didn't say anything extra, but quickly put the two banknotes into her apron pocket as if the money had never been there.

"A wise choice. But remember, knowledge comes at a price."

After she finished speaking, she lowered her head again, her intention to see the guest out was self-evident.

George carefully tucked "Night Wanderings" into the inside pocket of his coat, then turned and walked out of the bookstore.

Leaving the alley where the bookstore was located, George quickly turned into a street with a slightly larger flow of people.

He was planning to find a quiet coffee shop to explore the mysteries of the book when he suddenly sensed something unusual beside him—

A very slight tugging sensation came from the outside of the pocket.

George turned sharply and precisely grabbed a hand that had just slipped from his coat pocket.

The edge of the wallet was already exposed between the little middle finger and the ring finger.

"Hey!" he hissed, suddenly exerting force with his wrist.

The short pickpocket was pulled off balance and stumbled to the ground, but he still held onto the wallet tightly.

George could see clearly now that it was a thin boy with a panicked face.

But in an instant, the boy sprang up from the ground like a startled hare and desperately darted into the depths of a dark, narrow alleyway beside him.