33 Golden Rose Street.

  After parting ways with Bruce, Javon hailed a carriage and returned to the place he was renting.

  “Good day, Lord Javon. I heard you went to visit the museum today?” Mrs. Abel, the landlady, had just stepped out. When she saw Javon, a fawning look surfaced on her face.

  From her observations over the past few days, Mrs. Abel had realized that Javon was not only lavishly and impeccably dressed, but also had no need to work at all. From scattered bits of conversation, she guessed he lived off land rents and investments in infrastructure.

  His manners and speech also made it clear he had received a proper education—perhaps he was even of noble birth. So she was attentive to him at every turn.

  And Javon spent generously. Unlike those laborers who rented a single room and still expected the landlord to cover their meals, this handsome young master had rented an entire building. A wealthy heir who liked to travel—he had taken a liking to Verdant City’s scenery and planned to stay for a time. Only because he had just arrived, he hadn’t yet found a steward or servants.

  “Yes. The green banyan growing upon the castle fascinated me greatly. Another day, perhaps I’ll paint it.” Javon nodded with measured restraint. He had discovered that posing as a respectable person was indeed useful: wherever he went, he was treated politely, and trust came almost automatically. Even the patrol officers who had once noticed him now didn’t dare approach to question him; from afar, they simply removed their caps in greeting.

  Back in his bedroom, he took off his coat, lay down on the soft mattress, closed his eyes—and soon a faint snore escaped him.

  At dawn the next day, he opened his eyes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this relaxed.”

  In recent days, Javon had already discovered a problem. After falling asleep, he could no longer enter the Dreamworld automatically—nor could he sense it at all. But he didn’t panic. Javon knew the Dreamworld had to still exist; perhaps only the “lock” had been changed.

  In the morning, he washed up in the washroom. Facing himself in the mirror, he felt an emotion he hadn’t known in a long time.

  As expected, modern life is far more comfortable. Next step—I should find a steward or a maid.

  As for exploring the Dreamworld, all I need is to set up a ritual and try summoning the Spirit of Null Observance. Even if I can’t establish contact, I can still confirm many things.

  But Javon wasn’t in a rush. After this period of training with the Radiant Method, the Forged Light Essence he had accumulated had grown dense enough that he felt he could advance at any time. So he planned to become a first-stage Transcendent first, and only then attempt ritual magic—safer that way.

  He went out, hired a carriage, and headed straight to the market that introduced stewards and servants. Even if it would take only a short walk, to maintain the appearance of status, he had to ride in a carriage.

  The upper class of this era held a warped set of values. If a lady wore the same dress to two banquets, people would say her family had fallen on hard times, and she would gradually be pushed out of her circle. Even if her household had once been well-off, being excluded could cost her connections and credibility, leading to failed business, bankruptcy, and a slide into the abyss.

  Thus, the era’s upper class was meticulous—almost extreme—about travel and dress. Javon wasn’t truly used to it. Though a thousand years ago he had been a great noble, the people of Verdant City had always been regarded as “barbarians” by the southern Sheepmen. But to play his role well, he still had to do as the locals did.

  “This honorable gentleman—are you looking for servants?” The coachman was talkative. Perhaps excited to have picked up a distinguished passenger, he chattered on, sharing his opinions and experience. “Maidservants should be from the countryside—those folk are more honest. City types are all experts at shirking work, and they’ll even steal their master’s property… Best if they have a letter of recommendation from their previous employer and a guarantee from the agency, otherwise you’ll get swindled.”

  Javon only kept a polite smile, taking it as idle talk to pass the time.

  Soon they arrived at this era’s “employment market.” Javon paid the fare and was about to enter when two gentlemen approached from the opposite direction. One of them was none other than Mr. Bruce Field, whom he had met yesterday.

  “Javon? I didn’t expect to see you here again. You’re here to select servants? I have a bit of experience in that area.”

  “Bruce, and this gentleman is…?” Javon looked at the older man beside him. His hair was gray-white, a meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth. His leather shoes shone, and there was a scholar’s air about him.

  “My apologies—I forgot to introduce him. This is Mr. Clark Darth! Professor Darth teaches at the Institute of History, a respected scholar!”

  Bruce was clearly deferential toward Clark Darth. “I once studied under him for a time and benefited greatly in my research into true history and mysticism. This time, a maid in Mr. Darth’s household resigned because she’s getting married, so I brought him here to choose a new one.”

  “Hello.” Javon extended his hand and shook Clark’s. The man’s grip was strong.

  “Hello, young man.” Mr. Darth’s expression was a little strange. He studied Javon for a moment longer than courtesy required. “On you, I feel the weight and weathering of history.”

  This man… Javon narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing that the other party might not be simple.

  But Essence was hidden within the self. Without specific means of probing, he couldn’t confirm whether the man was a Transcendent.

  Bruce believes in the existence of the occult—could it be because of this Clark Darth? Compared to illiterate workers and maids, nobles and highly educated intellectuals are the most likely to come into contact with the mysterious—especially a historian like him. Though doubt stirred within him, Javon’s face remained calm. He continued speaking with Clark Darth and even received the man’s card. Seeing the address on it, he decided he would pay a visit soon.

  “I’m terribly sorry—having only just settled here, my new calling cards haven’t been printed yet.” Javon added an explanation for himself.

  “No matter. I look forward to Mr. Yuggs’s visit.” Clark Darth smiled.

  The alias Javon was using now was Javon Yuggs.

  The three chatted as they entered the agency.

  “Gentlemen, what services do you require? We have the finest stewards, the most beautiful maids, and male servants as strong as oxen.” A plump manager greeted them with a grin.

  Clark frowned, just slightly, without leaving a trace.

  Having crammed knowledge on this topic recently, Javon knew that true stewards sometimes came from upper-class households themselves and had attended specialized training schools—separate from ordinary servants. And even among ordinary male and female servants, there were distinctions: chief footmen, personal attendants, head maids, ladies’ maids, specialized maids, and at the lowest level, laundry maids and general drudges. This fat man looked thoroughly unprofessional.

  “This gentleman and I each need a maid,” Clark said.

  “No problem. I’ll fetch the files at once.” The plump manager smiled and was about to head for the stairs when his expression abruptly changed. “Sylvia! Who allowed you to come in here?”

  Javon looked over and saw a young woman in plain clothing, her cheeks hollow. She was choking back sobs as she pleaded, her voice seeming as if it might shatter into tears at any moment. “Manager Wright, please… please give me a job.”

  In that era, a weekly wage was their only lifeline. The meager money was scarcely enough to buy tomorrow’s bread. If wages were delayed, hunger crept closer like a shadow. With no savings, unemployment was a blade hanging overhead—one wrong step, and an entire family could be plunged into hardship.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I was once so kind and generous that I didn’t mind you being dismissed by your previous employer, and I introduced you to another position.” Wright shook his head and refused decisively. Then he turned to Javon and the other two. “Gentlemen, please avoid her. She’s an ill-omened woman. Misfortune clings to her. After being dismissed by her first employer, she kept running into trouble at the second as well.”

  A maid like that would not be given a third chance.

  Javon glanced at Sylvia and sensed that there truly was a touch of gloom about her.

  Bruce let out a sigh, looking at Sylvia with pity. He knew that a sweatshop—or selling her body—might be her only way out.

  “An ill omen? Interesting.” Javon spoke suddenly. “I’ve been studying a purification rite lately, and I happen to need a test subject. Perhaps I can try it on her. How much wage would it take to hire her?”

  “Kind sir… I… I can do anything!” Sylvia hurried to say. “Three shillings a week is enough.”

  A shilling was a subsidiary coin in Inves, containing a certain amount of silver, with an exchange rate of roughly twenty to one against the gold pound. Below that were copper pennies—“coppers.” One shilling could be exchanged for twelve copper pennies. In the market, in a tavern, the cheapest, worst cup of beer was often worth one penny; a sack of flour was worth eight to nine pennies. White-collar employees in companies, government clerks, stewards, and trained elite servants were often paid in pounds per week.

  Three shillings a week was indeed very little.

  “Mr. Wright, please prepare the contract.” Javon smiled at the manager.

  “Ah…” Wright glanced at Sylvia. He didn’t know whether the woman was lucky or unlucky. She had found work, but her employer—he didn’t look like a proper man.

  “Thank you, kind sir!” Sylvia was almost crying with joy.

  Recently, misfortune had been lodged in her body. Every night, she would start awake from nightmares, leaving her drained the next day. Things had gone even worse lately; at her new employer’s house she was always breaking dishes or scorching clothes while ironing, and so her reputation had become terrible. Javon hiring her was like pulling her back from the edge of a cliff.

  “A maid cursed by bad luck…” Bruce also stared at Sylvia, as though he wanted to speak but hesitated. In the end, he still asked, “Javon, may I observe your purification and exorcism ritual? I’ve studied a little of it as well.”

  “Ahem!” Clark Darth coughed heavily, and Bruce stopped, sullenly, mid-sentence.

  After that, Clark browsed the files and selected an ordinary maid at five shillings a week. After agreeing on the date she would come to his house, the three men left the agency together. When they reached a place with no one around, Clark lowered his voice. “Do not discuss mysticism in public. Bruce—if you can’t break this bad habit, you’ll lose my friendship.”

  Javon listened, and yet felt that the old scholar with the pipe was also hinting at him.

  “Why?” Javon asked, playing the novice, curiosity on his face.

  “Inves appears free, but in truth it is a country crawling with the Occult Constabulary. Those occult constables lurk in the shadows, watching everyone, scrutinizing every publication. Once they deem you guilty, they can arrest you directly—convicting you without trial! For those who publicly promote mysticism, the first time may be a warning, detention, a fine. The second time, it’s straight to prison.” Clark took a deep drag of tobacco and slowly exhaled a smoke ring.

  So strict—an Occult Constabulary system. Inves must manage unaffiliated Transcendent with extreme severity.

  This Clark likely suspects I’m a Transcendent and is testing me. And Bruce? His friend—or an apprentice still under observation? Javon thanked Clark, bid them both farewell, and returned to his residence.

  At last, I’m about to come into contact with the mysticism of the real world, developed over a thousand years. Javon felt a flicker of excitement.

  As for his own safety, he remained confident. Aside from a body at the limit of what an ordinary man could reach, even if he was only a newly initiated Transcendent, with the many curses and rituals he possessed, an ordinary first-stage Transcendent might not necessarily be his match.

  First, conduct a few rituals to strengthen myself. Then buy firearms on the black market. The power of guns in this era can already threaten low-tier Transcendent.

  Javon planned out his near-term steps carefully. Then he went to a nearby restaurant for dinner, returned home to wash up, and sank into sleep—enjoying the rare pleasure of truly restful slumber.

  The next day.

  Javon stood on the balcony, bathed in the first ray of morning sunlight. Silently reciting the incantation of the Light Method, he suddenly sensed a trace of Forged Light Essence forming again. For an instant, his eyes turned pure white.

  “I… saw the light!” Javon murmured. The fullness of Essence within him told him he had accumulated to a certain threshold—he could attempt to advance and become a true Transcendent.

  He went back into the main hall, preparing to have breakfast, when the doorbell rang. Judging by the time, it should be Sylvia arriving.

  “Mr. Yuggs, is there any housework you’d like done?” Sylvia bowed, her eyes flicking toward the sitting room.

  “Put those things aside for now. Come with me.” Javon walked toward the basement.

  Sylvia’s hand tightened at once. She thought of what other maids had told her. As a vulnerable group, being sexually harassed by a male employer was common—often one had to swallow it to keep the job. Some maids had it worse: they became pregnant, then were dismissed by the mistress of the house.

  If Mr. Yuggs intends to do that, I… I…

  Sylvia’s heart pounded—uneasy, tense, frightened—her thoughts racing as she followed Javon down into the basement.

  In the dim basement, candles were lit. On the floor was a strange ritual array.

  “Stand in the center of the rite. Ill omen clings to you—I’ll drive it out.” Javon said. “That was our agreement.”

  “Alright.” Sylvia stepped forward with some nervousness. She felt the employer might have certain strange proclivities, yet she still obeyed and moved into the center. Whether it was illusion or not, she felt as though she had passed through a thin membrane, isolating her from the outside world.

  “Radiance shines upon us.” Javon casually grabbed a handful of salt and scattered it into the ritual circle.

  Ritual arrays and tools only assist—what truly drives a rite is Essence. And Forged Light is the symbol of radiance and creation. That radiance represents the Sovereignty of purification.

  Javon watched Sylvia calmly in the ritual’s center, then saw wisps of black vapor begin to seep out of her. It was like an earthworm, stubbornly burrowing in and out of her body.

  As expected… only a trace of a resentful spirit’s taint—very weak. Javon nodded to himself and snapped his fingers.

  Snap! The candle flames flared. Javon’s eyes became white light and fell over Sylvia. The black vapor on her body vanished instantly. Sylvia jolted, feeling her body lighten considerably.

  “Alright. Come out.” Javon had Sylvia step beyond the ritual’s boundary.

  “The bad luck on you has been purified. But I don’t want you speaking of the rite’s details outside. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Young Master!” Sylvia nodded rapidly. “I swear I won’t tell anyone!”

  “Good.” A hint of a smile appeared on Javon’s face as a little Essence flowed away. At his feet, another rite—one representing secrecy—activated. It ensured Sylvia would not go outside and speak recklessly. This rite required her spoken promise.

  As long as the detailed process isn’t leaked, even if she speaks unintentionally, people will at most think I’m a mysticism enthusiast interested in studying Sylvia’s misfortune. Besides, she may not go around talking at all—revealing a master’s privacy would harm her reputation.

  Javon returned to the sitting room. “From now on, you’ll be responsible for cooking, laundry, and cleaning the rooms… By the way, which employer was it—originally—that this ill omen came from?”

  “It was Mr. Charles,” Sylvia answered softly.

  “Charles?” Javon noted the name in silence, intending to ask around later. Then he took out Clark Darth’s card.

  “Today, your first task is to go to the address above, speak to his steward or servants, convey my intent to visit, and set an appointment.”

  After Sylvia left, Javon also changed clothes—worker’s attire, a gray flat cap—and slipped out through the back door. He planned to buy a firearm on the black market.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Walking the streets like this was a different experience altogether. No hired carriage stopped to ask if he needed service. No smiling faces greeted him at every turn. Only wary eyes—as though everyone feared for their purse. Javon walked several streets, returned to the district where the pawnshop had been, and soon realized he was being followed again.

  “Really… relentless.” He shook his head and went to meet them head-on.

  “Kid, you were pretty arrogant before—robbing my Scarface’s men. Now you’re finally not hiding like a rat anymore?” A gang leader cursed as he came up to Javon, showing the firearm tucked in his coat. “Two choices: come with me, or die right here!”

  “I’ll come with you.” Javon nodded, watching the hulking men closing in from left and right.

  “You’re good at hiding. We’ve been looking for you a long time.” As they walked, Scarface complained.

  Ever since his underlings had been robbed, they’d been searching for Javon. But fooled by the laborer’s clothes he wore, they found nothing in the lower districts and the slums. In a great city of Inves, the upper streets and the slums were like two different worlds, forever without intersection.

  But today, they had finally caught the enemy they’d been waiting for.

  Before long, Javon was escorted into a warehouse in the dock district.

  “Boss, it’s him!”

  “It’s him!” Several burly men inside—still wrapped in bandages and plaster—shot to their feet the moment they saw Javon. Their eyes went red.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance to vent.” Scarface cracked his knuckles; the joints popped loudly. “Aren’t you tough? Sign this contract and become my fighter. Otherwise you’ll turn into a corpse in the gutter. Don’t think about tricks—won’t do a damn thing!”

  “I refuse.” Javon shook his head.

  Scarface let out a vicious grin. “Seems this little gentleman’s still not thinking straight. Give him a warm welcome!”

  “Nice gun. It belongs to me now.” Javon said seriously.

  His hands blurred like phantoms, hurling the two men beside him flying. Scarface tried to draw his gun—then a sudden, searing pain lanced through his fingers, as if they’d snapped. He screamed and collapsed to the floor. Then he watched as the man picked up his revolver, deftly opened it, poured out the rounds one by one, checked them, then loaded them back in.

  “Good bluing work.” Javon nodded. Then he leveled the gun at the gangsters. “Robbery. Hand over all your money.”

  He happened to be short on cash recently. The bandaged brutes looked like they were about to cry—because the scene in front of them felt painfully familiar…