Inves’s royal capital—Wynchester.

  A steam train rolled slowly into the platform, and the crowd poured down like a gray-black tide.

  ‘At last—we’ve arrived. The city of cities—Wynchester!’ Javon, in a top hat and a sharply tailored black suit, stepped out of the station with Bruce.

  Beyond the station doors lay a vast square, with countless streams of people weaving through it—enough to leave any country newcomer helpless. Not far away, towering reinforced-concrete buildings rose four or five stories high; block after block stretched into the distance until the end could not be seen.

  ‘So this is Wynchester?’ It was Bruce’s first time here too. Staring at the endless square and the sea of people, his lips moved several times, but he couldn’t find the right words. In the end, he could only say, ‘It’s really… magnificent.’

  ‘It has a resident population of around five million,’ Javon said. ‘The largest city on the continent at present.’

  ‘What… what do we do?’ Bruce felt at a loss for the first time.

  ‘First, we go to Quicksilver Street in Green George District and finish what your teacher entrusted you with. Let’s go.’

  Javon gave Bruce a push. The two began to move, merging into the bustling crowd. Only after their ticket stubs were checked at the entrance did they truly step out of the station. Javon could clearly feel several scrutinizing gazes from the doorway.

  His face had not yet been disguised. It was a message to the occult world: the Immortal’s pawn had arrived in Wynchester.

  They left the station and hired a cab carriage.

  As the carriage rattled along the streets, Bruce excitedly pushed open the window to watch the scenery outside. ‘Javon, I’m telling you—I’m not avoiding the subway because I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m not afraid of getting lost. I just don’t want to miss the sights up here on the ground. We’ll pass the Parliament building, and Thronehall of Wessex where the king—’ Bruce abruptly stopped his torrent of words.

  Through the carriage window, Javon suddenly saw a huge plaza paved in white marble. At its center stood a massive platform enclosed by black iron railings, seemingly built of rain-flower stone, with two guards posted beside it.

  The Marshal’s Rostrum, where Inves’s famed commander and undefeated general—Eisen Napoleon—had once delivered his great speeches. It was also the very place Clark had emphasized when he introduced Historical Reversal.

  Caught by the scene, Bruce thought of his teacher.

  Javon’s gaze swept across the plaza. White doves rose and fell by the fountain; people sat on benches nearby, feeding them crumbs. It truly was a place for leisure.

  Silence settled in the carriage.

  Nearly an hour later, the carriage finally stopped beside a block. The driver jumped down, removed his hat, and saluted. ‘Two gentlemen—Quicksilver Street, Green George District.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Javon paid the fare and followed Bruce into the street.

  It seemed to be a commercial avenue: formalwear shops, bakeries, clock-repair stalls, midrange restaurants… neither the chaos of a flea market nor the poised elegance of high-end districts. The customers it served appeared to be primarily middle class.

  ‘Quicksilver Street No. 7?’ Before long, Javon and Bruce reached the address Clark had given them. A clock-repair shop stood before them.

  Through the shopfront glass, they could see grandfather clocks, pocket watches, pendulum clocks… each with its own design, each ticking with a different cadence.

  When the two stepped inside, it happened to be the top of the hour. Every clock in the shop struck at once. Atop an enormous redwood grandfather clock, two small doors swung open, and a spring-driven metal bird popped out, letting out a piercing call.

  Only after the din finally passed did Bruce rub his ears and look toward the counter. Behind it, a young man was busy at a workbench, wearing dark-blue suspenders stained with oil and grime. Bruce asked softly, ‘I’m looking for Mr. Cornelius Ashford. Is he here?’

  The young man looked up, revealing a nest of messy curls and a bewildered stare. ‘You’re here for my teacher? What is it? The clock prices are all on the tags…’

  ‘Like this—I’m Mr. Clark Das’s student. My teacher asked me to come find Mr. Ashford,’ Bruce replied.

  ‘Then wait a moment.’ The young man scratched his oily hair and darted through a small door at the back.

  A moment later, he returned and beckoned. ‘Teacher says you can come in!’

  Javon flicked a coin and nodded at Bruce. Together, they followed the apprentice into the shop’s interior.

  After going down a stretch, they found themselves in a much larger workshop. A bare-chested man in his thirties or forties, bald, with half his face covered in strange blue-black tattoos, turned toward them. He smiled warmly and raised a prosthetic hand—half metal, half flesh—in greeting.

  ‘Hello. I’m Cornelius Ashford. As you can see, I’m a druid!’

  ‘Surprised?’ Seeing both of them with expressions that seemed full of things they wanted to say, Cornelius Ashford laughed with irresponsible ease. ‘No matter… we’ve got plenty of time. We can talk slowly.’

  ‘Little Simon, bring three coffees. Then go mind the shop.’

  He invited Javon and Bruce to sit at a metal table, studying Bruce. ‘You must be Bruce Field. Clark mentioned you often in his letters. He worried about you most. By the way—your teacher. Is he well?’

  ‘My teacher…’ Bruce’s voice sank. ‘He’s passed away.’

  ‘Life will return to nature in the end. May the existence he believed in accept his soul…’ Cornelius Ashford traced a ritual gesture.

  ‘Mr. Ashford, you’re a druid? Does The Eye of Gumo have a druid lineage?’ Once Cornelius finished, Javon asked curiously.

  ‘You’re… Javon, aren’t you?’ Cornelius Ashford smiled. ‘Those are some beautiful violet eyes, indeed.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I belong to a druid circle—The Oak Circle. I’m not part of Clark’s school.’

  ‘Then why did my teacher tell me to come to you? And this!’ Bruce pulled out the silver necklace of The Eye of Gumo from under his collar.

  ‘I suppose…’ Cornelius took a sip of coffee, thinking. ‘Your teacher likely wanted me to take you to the druid sanctuary, complete a Historical Reversal ritual, and then bring you into The Eye of Gumo school.’

  ‘You know how it is—every secret history contains only so much power. That’s why the number of participants has to be strictly controlled. The secret-historical imprint in the druid sanctuary belongs to your teacher’s line. Now that your teacher has died, one spot has opened. He wanted you to inherit that legacy as soon as possible.’ Cornelius emphasized the words as soon as possible.

  ‘I understand. I’ll work hard and complete the ritual as soon as I can.’ Bruce clenched the necklace.

  ‘Mr. Ashford, you said you’re a dr—druid?’ Javon looked at Cornelius’s half-metal hand. ‘So you’re not a Machinery Mentor?’

  ‘Yes, though that’s not quite accurate. Druid is the name of my school’s fourth Sephiroth. I’m only at the third Sephiroth right now…’

  Cornelius laughed. ‘What—did you think druids should live in the woods, wear furs, and live like South Indenis natives—like savages?’

  ‘My thinking was narrow,’ Javon apologized.

  ‘No. In our druid circle, there really is a group of traditionalists like that. They’re stubborn—living deep in the mountains and old forests, even attacking farmers who clear new land. But The Oak Circle is the reformist faction. Existence itself is nature. This great city, these countless reinforced-concrete buildings—this too is a forest of steel. Metal and steam, gunpowder and electricity… even everything in this world is part of nature. The traditionalists’ vision is too small. They can’t grasp the truth of nature. The truth of nature lies in flesh and iron. We can’t forge arcane artifacts, but we’re skilled at transforming ourselves—perfectly fusing flesh with steel and gunpowder!’

  Cornelius displayed his metal hand. Blood threads spread across it, forming tweezers, scissors, a hammer, files, and other tools. The sight filled Bruce and Javon with amazement.

  This was different from a Machinery Mentor. It wasn’t turning the body entirely into a machine—it was a fusion of metal and flesh. Perhaps by using activated metal, liquid metal? Calling it a ‘steel druid’ might be more apt. It had a distinctly steampunk flavor.

  ‘Of course, this split doesn’t make the two factions enemies. On the contrary—we worship the same great existence. Though not a Velthyr, it possesses power comparable to one, and it embraces the elements of Sanguis and Chrysalis. But it has two faces, and sometimes issues contradictory revelations. That, too, is seen as the root of the druid schism.’

  Cornelius Ashford didn’t avoid the topic; he introduced it openly, making Javon feel as though he were looking at the bishops in the Holy Spirit Church responsible for preaching and recruiting.

  ‘Bruce, you of course believe in The Keeper of Secrets. What about you, Javon? Do you have an existence you believe in?’ Cornelius seemed to sink into a kind of fervor.

  It made Javon suspect that the madness he would gain after advancing his Sephiroth might be—evangelical obsession.

  ‘On the surface, I claim faith in The Holy Spirit. In truth… because of my path, in the future I may choose one of those with the aspect of Forged Light.’ Javon put on the look of someone torn. ‘But I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Then allow me to introduce the great existence I believe in—The Mother of Nature!’

  Cornelius’s expression grew even more fervent. ‘She is the sovereign of vitality, the guardian of forests and beasts, the ruler of the steel jungle!’

  Once Cornelius began to preach, words poured out of him in an endless stream. Javon listened earnestly—until Bruce coughed and interrupted Cornelius, who shot Bruce an annoyed glare.

  ‘Mm… sorry. I’ve always been stubborn about preaching, but I can’t pour it out to ordinary customers. Little Simon’s head is full of gears and bearings—he’s about as good as a wooden post. It’s rare to get two people who can truly listen to me.’ After half an hour of nonstop preaching, Cornelius finally seemed to regain some clarity and apologized first.

  ‘It’s nothing. I benefited a great deal as well.’ Javon smiled, the sincerity in his tone moving Cornelius deeply. ‘Preaching alone isn’t vivid enough. I have an image of my lord here—you may behold my lord’s greatness…’

  Cornelius pulled out an ancient esoteric transmission from a nearby drawer. Its title was written in Spirit Language on the cover—Whispers of Nature.

  He opened it straight to the first page. ‘Don’t worry. My lord is inclusive and benevolent. This esoteric transmission records only some introductory druid knowledge. The contamination isn’t particularly strong.’

  Javon glanced at it.

  In the next instant, his pupils tightened.

  On the frontispiece Cornelius displayed, there was an illustration of an Obscured Existence.

  Of course, an Obscured Existence’s true form is mystery—knowledge—authority and path. Any book that records its honorific and concrete image is inevitably the highest-grade esoteric transmission, and also the highest-grade contaminant.

  If a transcendent looked at it rashly, it would be no different from staring directly at a Velthyr.

  Bruce knew the danger. He immediately turned his head away, not daring to look at all. Only Javon, relying on the fact that he was not afraid of this—and that Danger Precognition gave no warning—allowed himself a single look.

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  The illustration depicted a goddess with lush, gentle lines, wrapped in countless vines and iron thorns, with four arms and a human form.

  In the forest darkness around her, countless floating shapes dotted the air, like the compound eyes of insects. Though the painting brimmed with mystery, its contamination and stimulation truly were not strong.

  It seemed the author could not accurately describe The Mother of Nature’s true mystic form, and could only personify her to create this work. Even so, this image—filled with feminine beauty—was enough to reveal a sliver of The Mother of Nature’s traits. For a druid apprentice just beginning, it was a fine guide.

  But when Javon’s gaze reached The Mother of Nature’s face, he could not hide his shock.

  Because that beautiful goddess, dressed in complex splendor and adorned with countless flowers and vines, had two faces.

  The face on the left was innocent, resembling Lynn.

  The face on the right was mature and wise—almost Irene.

  Javon could barely hold his expression. Inside him, a storm surged.

  Lynn and Irene… became an Obscured Existence? To survive until now and be honored as an Obscured Existence… that would mean at least the ninth Sephiroth or higher—the tenth Sephiroth? Or higher still, standing alongside a Velthyr? And their form—why had it become a conjoined child?

  This… this… this…

  If I force myself to say it, it’s still barely possible. After all, the Ethereal Realm had just gone through the death of the Crimson Creator. Countless new powerful existences were born, while the ancient gods of old were grievously wounded… the world teetered on the brink of ruin. It was the most chaotic time of all.

  Mortals cannot slay gods—yet there is an infinitesimal chance they might gain something from divine war. For instance, scavenging a fragment of a Velthyr’s fallen essence while the Velthyr and old gods fought. More than that, the afterglow of the sun’s fall benefited every transcendent in that world, leveling the path of advancement. With another stroke of fortune, leaping straight to the heavens was not impossible.

  My world back then was a desert of Essence, but the Dreamworld was not. So only natives of that world could do it. If I could have sent my body into the Dreamworld then, I wouldn’t have chosen to freeze myself…

  As for Ginny and the others, living in the mortal world when the tide of Essence was at its weakest—unless they, like me, found some utterly heaven-defying stroke of luck, there’s basically no way they could have lived to the present. At that thought, Javon couldn’t help feeling a little forlorn.

  ‘Javon, you don’t look so good.’ Cornelius closed the esoteric transmission and asked with concern.

  ‘I… I’m just seeing The Mother of Nature for the first time. I’m… excited.’ Javon rubbed his face and explained.

  ‘A transcendent seeing my lord’s portrait for the first time often reacts that way.’ Cornelius spoke solemnly. ‘But this is only one of my lord’s myriad forms. You cannot equate it directly with my lord…’

  Velthyr can take many forms—that was normal.

  But Javon didn’t hear any of it. His heart hammered, blood surging. He was afraid that in the next moment, a Velthyr would descend.

  A moment passed.

  Nothing happened.

  Hah…

  In his heart, Javon let out a long breath. Good. This isn’t a trap. Against those existences, these methods probably wouldn’t be enough anyway…

  He never hesitated to assume the worst. The instant he saw The Mother of Nature’s portrait, his first thought was a trap.

  Even if The Mother of Nature descended directly and betrayed the Spirit of Null Observance, it was among Javon’s bleakest possibilities.

  But now… it seems it really was an accident?

  After the end of the world, could two transcendent—at most comparable to a fourth Sephiroth—really grow step by step into an Obscured Existence on par with a Velthyr? It looks like they paid a dreadful price, too. After I fell asleep, they could no longer receive the Spirit of Null Observance’s protection… could they truly have been that lucky—surviving the conflicts among the Velthyr and gaining enormous benefit?

  Or… did some other Velthyr—even one of the old gods—discover the secret of the Light of Salvation and the Spirit of Null Observance, elevate the two of them into an Obscured Existence, and lay plans in the dark… with the final goal of plotting against me?

  Either way… I’m still relieved. At least Lynn and Irene prove that mortals can ascend into a great existence.

  But… I absolutely cannot contact them under my true identity.

  He gradually regained his composure, knowing he was thinking too far. His current identity was Javon Yuggs.

  Even if a few layers of masks were pierced, and his identity as Earl Javon Sothos was exposed—what did that have to do with the Spirit of Null Observance?

  Don’t panic… if nothing abnormal has happened, then this really was just a coincidence.

  Javon lifted the coffee cup on the table and took a sip, letting the bitterness spread through his mouth. He quickly returned to normal and discussed a few more matters of mysticism with Cornelius.

  At last, a slightly embarrassed look appeared on Javon’s face. ‘Mr. Ashford, I plan to settle in Wynchester. But I’m unfamiliar with the local transcendent circles. Could you recommend one to me?’

  ‘You want to join some secret gatherings?’

  Cornelius Ashford thought for a moment, took a slip of paper, wrote a few lines, and handed it to Javon. ‘I only know one. This has the method of entry. It doesn’t require a recommendation—enter, and you’re a guest. Of course… I don’t need to tell you how dangerous it is, do I?’

  ‘Thank you for your generosity.’

  Javon stood, put on his hat. ‘Then… I’ll be going.’

  ‘Javon… my friend…’ Bruce stood and hugged Javon tightly, reluctant.

  ‘Parting is only for the sake of meeting again. Don’t be too sad. Once I’m settled, I’ll write to you with my contact information.’

  Javon left the clock shop and vanished into the sea of people. A sense of lightness suddenly rose in his mind.

  He turned into a deserted alley, took off his coat, and tossed it into The Flesh-Eater’s Pack, rapidly changing his outfit. Then he took out a piece of human skin and put it on his face.

  When the hands stroking his cheeks lowered, his face had become completely different—deep-set features, thin lips, and wine-red eyes filled with the vitality unique to youth, shimmering in the light. Next, Javon took out a few materials and performed a crude anti-divination setup for himself.

  Finally, he flipped a coin. Only after confirming he was safe did he slowly step out from the other end of the alley, merging into the flow of people. Only then did Javon let out a long breath.

  That image of The Mother of Nature had truly frightened him.

  Was that… Lynn and Irene? Or a wholly new existence born after their fusion? From Cornelius’s description, her state is poor—possibly a split personality?

  For mortals to become an Obscured Existence—what did it cost? How much madness did they accumulate?

  Even as the Spirit of Null Observance, once worshiped by his followers as the holder of reason and redemption, Javon had no confidence at all in redeeming madness on the level of a Velthyr.

  He sighed softly, sensing the strangeness of Secret Power.

  I even suspect… that the mysterious bead that came with my transmigration already contained a complete occult system, and is merely reviving through my hands… one day, I will fully master it.

  Light flickered in Javon’s eyes, finally settling into resolve.

  Wynchester was vast. Aside from Thronehall of Wessex and the Queen’s District where the Parliament building stood, there were seven other districts: Green George, Blackgold, Jeston, Shilling, Barkindale, The Lower District, and The Derelict District.

  Among them, the Queen’s District was Inves’s political center, packed with noble estates. Blackgold and Barkindale were both financial centers and the residences of wealthy merchants.

  Shilling was the dock district, filled with piers and warehouses.

  Worst of all for public order were The Lower District and The Derelict District—adjacent to the factories, with the harshest living conditions, gangs rampant, and untold evils breeding.

  In the occult world, it was believed that beyond these eight districts there existed another region hidden in Wynchester’s shadows, controlled by the transcendent: the Black Queen District!

  In the slums of The Lower District, nearly everyone’s wish was the same—money. Earn enough money, and move up to a higher district with better security and a more beautiful environment.

  Class and opposition had never been so stark—so… despairing.

  Jeston District.

  Inside Cat’s-Eye Café.

  Javon chose a seat by the window and ordered hot cocoa and cake.

  As a middle-class district, Jeston District had none of The Lower District’s ubiquitous vagrants and beggars, nor did it have the Queen’s District or Blackgold’s omnipresent gentlemen and ladies dressed in dazzling finery.

  The pedestrians here were mainly middle-class families—clothed in styles that leaned toward upper-class fashion, yet carried a freer, more unrestrained air.

  He took a sip of coffee and picked up the newspaper provided by the café:

  A Sodoma royal visits Tessago, the Martial Nation…

  The romantic capital of The Duchy of Romani will soon host the Sixth World Art Exposition…

  ‘As expected of Wynchester— even the news is international.’

  Sodoma was the royal surname of Inves. In history, the Sun King’s full name should have been Arthur·Sodoma.

  As for the current king, after ascending the throne he changed his name and styled himself—Arthur VI!

  The paper was filled with news. As Javon read, he could vaguely sense one corner of this world—competitive yet intertwined, dark yet grand, civilization advancing without pause.

  To be blunt… I had a hand in this as well. Though much of my ‘credit’ was taken by other mystics who used my name to push scientific development.

  The Omniforge requires influence—at least leaving a vivid imprint in secret history. That, I certainly don’t lack.

  Then, at the moment of advancement, I’ll need many witnesses.

  These were long-term plans.

  As Javon read and drank cocoa, he also laid out his near-term plans. ‘First, find a place to live. Not too good—places that are too good have strict security checks, and I don’t yet have truly reliable forged identification.’

  ‘Then, enter the local transcendent circles and look for leads on groups like Artisans’ Brotherhood. Sunset School would work too—I can try to join. Not for knowledge or advancement, only to understand the movements of their upper ranks. If I can find one or two madmen who dream of becoming a vessel for The Breaking Dawn—or some other Forged Light Velthyr—so much the better.’

  ‘Come to think of it, the National Bureau of Occult Affairs isn’t impossible to consider. From the look of Jacob, they don’t lack high-tier Forged Light talismans, and they have The Spear of the Sun King—which means they must have an appropriate channel.’

  That was what puzzled Javon.

  From the intelligence and secret history he had gathered, the Kingdom of Inves should have completely broken with The Breaking Dawn. If those talismans were merely hoarded from an earlier ‘honeymoon’ period, there were far too many. That was why Javon felt the relationship between the Sodoma royal house and the Velthyr The Breaking Dawn was subtle.

  It doesn’t have to be The Breaking Dawn. Perhaps Inves later gained the support of another Forged Light Velthyr—The Unmelting One, for instance?

  From what I’ve seen, the Bureau’s agents’ paths are concentrated in Veil, Umbral, Mortis, and Forged Light.

  The Cleaners who erase memories are clearly on the Veil path—feels like they inherited quite a bit of the Fabri dynasty’s occult foundation. The upper ranks’ paths are more complex… that Xistos should be a pure Tower transcendent?

  His fifth Sephiroth remains isn’t very useful to me now. Putting it into an advancement ritual could even cause imbalance. But through him, perhaps I can grasp a lead to a Tower Beyond Mortality-grade being…

  New Calendar 1027, January 2.

  Wynchester’s shops were full of festive cheer, and Javon even watched a few grand holiday parades.

  But once night fell, the drifting traveler would discover that this city’s prosperity and wealth had nothing to do with them.

  They exhausted everything and still could not secure a foothold in Wynchester. They could only wander, enduring the contempt and expulsions of patrolmen, using old newspapers beneath bridges to fend off the cold.

  Javon had no need to become a vagrant, but gazing at the sprawling city under the night, he still felt a certain confusion.

  They say Wynchester gathers every young dreamer in Inves— the so-called dream of the metropolis. But those who truly succeed are few and far between…

  Most of them spill their toil and sweat— even blood and tears—into this city, then leave in old age or sickness… or die here outright…

  He glanced at a scavenger passing nearby. The man looked only in his thirties, yet his eyes were dull, as though all hope had drained away.

  Javon sighed and headed for a bar that spilled warm light into the street. Its sign read Hunter Bar.

  Nightlife for the transcendent was only just beginning…

  He entered. Since Inves had a holiday for the New Year, the place was still crowded. Drunkards lay sprawled across the floor, all of them far gone—but no one cared.

  Javon noticed a wall plastered with wanted notices.

  ‘Suke Hood, swindler, bounty 20 pounds, 1 pound for actionable information!’

  ‘Murphy Dyke, murderer, bounty 50 pounds, 2 pounds for actionable information!’

  ‘Savage Bafiel, surname unknown, aggravated assault, bounty 15 pounds!’

  Below the notices, some bore the seal of Wynchester’s police headquarters—commonly known as The Blackwater. Others did not; instead, there was a line of small print: If interested, please contact Mr. So-and-So.

  Sometimes the issuer of a job was a wealthy man’s butler, or a detective agency.

  Javon knew why. Wynchester’s population had surged too fast, and there were too few officers. Crime festered and went unsolved, forcing the city to seek supplementation from civilian power.

  Thus came detective firms, security companies, and the profession of bounty hunters.

  ‘Yesterday, madman Karl charged straight into the Blood Serpent Gang’s casino and dragged out Six-Finger Sosolo. He’s crazy—he’s not afraid of retaliation?’

  ‘In this line of work, if you’re not crazy, you don’t last.’

  ‘But being too crazy isn’t good either. I haven’t seen Giant Rami in ages. He’s probably been chopped up and tossed into River Dorsom.’

  River Dorsom was the largest river running through Wynchester, flowing directly into the Dark Sea.

  Many docks lined its banks.

  Of course… gangs also treated it as a perfect place to dump bodies.

  ‘A lemon water for me.’

  Javon went to the bar, letting those voices spill into his ears as he thought, Being a bounty hunter is dangerous. The moment you run into a transcendent criminal, eight out of ten times, you’re dead.

  After waiting a while, he stood and headed for the washroom.

  The bar’s washroom was large, with rows of private stalls.

  Javon counted and entered the seventh stall. Seeing the stained flush toilet, he frowned. ‘Couldn’t pick a better place.’

  He didn’t undo his belt. Instead, he took a silver-white half-mask from The Flesh-Eater’s Pack and put it on. Then he turned and looked at the back of the stall door. There, a mystic symbol had been drawn: a triangle containing a semicircle, pierced through by a line.

  In Ethereal Realm lore, it carried meanings such as ‘space,’ ‘transfer,’ ‘opening a door,’ and the like.

  Only, it was drawn crookedly, like a child’s scrawl.

  His expression unchanged, he tapped the tip of the triangle, the center of the semicircle, and the end of the line.

  In the next instant, as Javon opened the door again, what appeared before him was no longer the men’s washroom.

  It was a vast hall.

  Curtains veiled the hall’s perimeter, making it impossible to tell where it was. Along the walls, every so often, a wall-mounted lantern spilled warm light.

  Doors of all kinds lined the walls. From time to time, transcendent stepped out—some in cloaks, others showing their faces openly—nodding in greeting, or smiling with friendly ease.

  ‘Happy New Year! New here?’

  A short man passed by. Beneath a black iron mask, his mouth curled into a smile. ‘Welcome to the Black Queen District!’

  This secret gathering doesn’t look simple…

  This information, of course, came from what he had obtained from Cornelius Ashford.

  According to Cornelius, if one performed the earlier action at a fixed location, one could enter this place through a “door” and trade with other mystics.

  This is the Black Queen District—but the Black Queen District is not only this place. Transcendent collectively refer to all hidden mystic gatherings and regions within Wynchester as the Black Queen District. Ordinary people can even be seen here from time to time—mostly occult enthusiasts and folklorists.

  The method of opening the “door” required no infusion of Essence. That quietly broadened the customer base, making it possible even for ordinary people to enter.

  I have to say—the master here is ambitious, and strong. Perhaps there’s some tacit understanding with the National Bureau of Occult Affairs?

  Javon’s pupils turned pure white in an instant, his palm brushing the hall’s wall as if unconsciously.