The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

George's eyes sharpened, and without hesitation, he took off after him.

The chase unfolds in the spiderweb-like alleyways.

The child was clearly familiar with the place, but George never slacked off in his training after the journey, which, along with his calm judgment, played a crucial role.

He anticipated the child's turn and, relying on his superior physical strength and longer legs, pressed closer step by step.

Finally, in a dead end surrounded by piles of discarded wooden crates, the child was driven into a corner.

He leaned against the cold brick wall, his chest heaving violently, panting heavily, his eyes filled with despair as he looked at the tall figure blocking the exit.

George didn't go forward immediately. He glanced around at the suspicious stains on the wall, but his gaze eventually locked onto his target.

He stepped forward, his tall figure casting a heavy shadow in the narrow alley, enveloping the small child.

Without a word, George shoved the struggling child back against the wall. The action wasn't rough, but it easily demonstrated his strength.

"Let me go! Let me go!" The child struggled in vain, screaming in a hoarse voice, filled with sobs and the strains of puberty.

"Here's your wallet back! Let me go!"

The wallet slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, but George remained unmoved, merely scrutinizing him with an even calmer and sharper gaze.

"Name? Who taught you to do this?"

Perhaps it was something in those eyes—something deeper than anger—that made the child suddenly quiet down, miraculously calming him down.

"I... Oliver..."

Tears welled up unexpectedly in his bloodshot eyes, quickly sliding down his cheeks in two shallow streaks.

George looked up warily and saw two adult men staring at him suspiciously from the shadows at the alley entrance.

"Did they force you?" George asked in a low voice, understanding the implication.

The boy paused for a moment, then nodded vigorously, his voice slightly choked with emotion.

"If I don't do it, they'll beat me up..."

George squinted.

He released his grip, bent down to pick up the wallet from the ground, and stuffed it back into his pocket.

Looking at the ragged, trembling child in front of him, George took a deep breath.

Oliver

The name brought back memories of extracurricular reading from a past life—a coincidental name, a tragic situation, as if the suffering of the lower classes in the Victorian era had been thrust into view.

Before his transmigration, he was a person who loved reading and fantasizing, and he had already "rehearsed" this situation.

Now he is happy to fulfill his original vision.

George pulled the boy up, his cold gaze sweeping over the two lookouts lurking at the alley entrance.

After confirming that the two were still at a safe distance, he turned to Oliver.

"Oliver, right? Come with me to get something to eat."

The boy nodded in fear and confusion, and was then pulled along to follow.

George led Oliver, almost dragging him towards the alley entrance, judging from their vastly different physiques.

The two lookouts watched them approach, their eyes darting around, a mixture of ferocity and suspicion in them.

One of them instinctively took a step forward and reached for the bulge at his waist.

George had already drawn his lead cane from his right hand.

Having transmigrated to the present, he was not entirely unprepared—for example, based on his memories from his previous life, he modified his cane by filling it with lead.

He also sought advice from a retired military officer he knew, Lieutenant Bates, on close-quarters self-defense techniques using a cane.

"Hey, you can't take our little brother away."

The one behind spoke to George as he approached.

The thug in front sized up George's well-tailored black wool coat and added:

"Hey sir, how about leaving your wallet for the brothers to have a glass of rum?"

"Get out of the way," George said in a low voice, his eyes serious.

This indifferent attitude enraged the thugs.

The tall, thin thug in front spat and lunged forward, his dirty hand reaching straight for George's collar.

In a flash, George stepped back to the side.

He gripped the handle of his cane and twisted his wrist sharply.

The heavy cane whistled through the air as it struck precisely at the wrist joint of the thug who had grabbed it.

"Crack!" A sharp sound rang out, followed by a scream of agony. The tall, thin thug clutched his deformed wrist and rolled to the ground.

Oliver let out a cry of surprise, and another thug, seeing this, yelled and pulled a knife from his waist and pounced on him.

George's eyes narrowed, and he swung his hand back.

The cane, like a lance, slammed into the opponent's weak spot.

"Ugh!"

The thug with the knife was hit and immediately went limp as if his bones were broken, curling up and howling in pain.

After taking down the two thugs, George looked around and then calmly disappeared into the alley with Oliver.

It wasn't until the two figures had disappeared for quite some time that one of the thugs finally managed to get up.

He cursed under his breath, then pulled his companion along and stumbled away from this ominous place.

A few minutes later, at the end of another, more secluded back alley.

The tall, thin thug who had been hit by George's cane clutched his ribs and reported, grimacing:

"...Boss, we thought he was easy prey...who knew he'd be so ruthless..."

After hearing this, a man who looked like a leader in front of them slapped the thug who was giving the report across the face.

"Idiots!" he roared, looking both shocked and furious. "That store! That street! You dare touch the customers of Moran Bookstore?!"

He paced back and forth, appearing agitated and fearful.

"Damn it... I wonder if we've alerted 'that lady'..."

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

After chasing away the thugs, George gave his handkerchief to Oliver so he could wipe his face clean and avoid being kicked out of the store.

It was nearly noon when George pulled Oliver across a block and found a restaurant nearby.

Pushing open the wooden door with its decorative glass, the aroma of roasted meat mixed with the smell of greasy wood made Oliver's sobs lessen.

The two walked through the dark wood tables and chairs that had been polished to a shine. George chose a relatively quiet spot against the wall, released Oliver, and sat down, gesturing for the latter to sit next to him.

Waiters in white aprons moved among the tables, and one of them came to George's side.

The latter took the menu and specifically asked the waiter to give Oliver a copy as well.

He then ordered a steak with side dishes and a light beer.

Looking at Oliver, who seemed rather reserved, or rather, frightened, George nodded slightly encouragingly:

"This meal is on me; you have five shillings' worth of food to eat."

He added, "But if you don't order yourself, I'll have to make you order the same thing I ordered."

Only then did Oliver cautiously order some food.

George noticed that he had only ordered less than two shillings, so he added a Yorkshire pudding for him.

While waiting for his meal, George eagerly took out his copy of "Night Wanderings, Volume One".

As he was immersed in the dream realm, a strange realm beyond the material world described in the book, the waiter brought him food.

The beef glistened with oil, and the side dishes were potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and gravy, so he ate while looking at the food.

Author Eliopori claims that through specific meditations or dreams, consciousness can reach "below the surface of the world."

There, one finds a landscape defying common sense: a distorted cobalt blue sky, bizarrely shaped shadows, and a reality that feels like stepping back into the past…

George's heart began to race.

He recalled the babbling of the patients in the sanatorium—Mr. Burns, Mrs. Miller, Miss Maurice…

Their fragmented ravings surprisingly matched the descriptions in the book.

George absentmindedly pushed his empty plate aside, glanced at Oliver across from him, who looked even more natural with the food around him, and smiled slightly.

He then sipped his beer and, with the same enthusiasm he had for staying up all night reading novels in his past life, began to delve into the knowledge within the book.

The book systematically describes the delirious ramblings of various patients during their mental breakdowns, and even provides "usable" methods based on them.

This is a path of "breaking the veil and transcending the mundane".

The author mentions the "starting point" of this path and divides it into three stages: initial acquaintance, enlightenment, and yearning.

In the "Initial Understanding" stage, the apprentice discovers the truth beneath the surface of the world, and his spirituality is born, enabling him to sense and utilize it.

As spirituality grows, the apprentice will "realize" the deep connection between himself and the principles, and develop a clearer perception and desire for the principles.

This is a stage of accumulation and deepening.

Then comes the 'craving,' a strong impulse that drives apprentices to seek more knowledge and more practice in order to fully conform to the guidelines.

This is a crucial step towards the future...

He put down his book, his thoughts turning to another kind of confusion.

He thought of Dean Warren's unusual enthusiasm for the patients' specific hallucinations, the original owner's almost obsessive detailed records, and that strange statement about "understanding" rather than "healing".

Warren may have known about the existence of the "Dream Realm" for a long time, and may even have been using these mentally broken patients as a medium to explore that realm!

And those patients, their madness, may not be purely due to illness, but rather because they have come into contact with a reality they should not have come into contact with?

But further still, George struggled to determine the nature of the dream realm.

Meme pollution, dream world, or something else?

Considering Miss Moran's attitude and the descriptions in the book, it doesn't seem so sinister after all.

But one thing is certain: Saint Simeon is by no means a simple sanatorium.

Continuing to stay there and record "data" might backfire.

Just as George was planning his next move, a shout brought him back to reality.

"Dr. De Lapol?"