Mr. Slone leisurely pulled an oilpaper packet from his pocket, pinched out a few strands of tobacco, filled the bowl of his pipe, and lit it with a match.
But the impatience on his face had almost solidified into something tangible.
He bit down on the pipe, his brow furrowed, and was about to say something harsh to send Lein away—Lein was all too familiar with that expression; every time he asked about something he shouldn’t, the old man put on that exact face.
The tobacco in the pipe crackled, and murky smoke leaked from the corners of his mouth, making his wrinkled face look even gloomier.
But the next second, Mr. Slone’s expression changed.
That impatience seemed to be abruptly snuffed out by something, replaced by a cunning look.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stacked together.
His whole face suddenly turned shrewd and mercenary, the spitting image of an old fox who had caught the scent of money.
Slone took the pipe from his mouth and gave Lein a smile that made one’s skin crawl.
“Dear Mr. Collin.”
Mr. Slone laughed dryly, his voice carrying the eager warmth of a merchant striking a deal.
“You should understand that knowledge has weight and value.”
Lein looked at him expressionlessly.
“If you are willing to pay a small price for this knowledge,” Mr. Slone extended his thumb and forefinger, indicating a very, very small gap, “then I wouldn’t mind answering some of your questions.”
Lein sighed inwardly.
He didn’t know whether to curse the old man for being money-grubbing, a complete miser, or to say he was generous, since he was willing to “share” knowledge that clearly touched on the supernatural.
“I don’t have any money right now,” Lein said honestly.
Mr. Slone’s face immediately fell, the smile on his lips fading faster than it had appeared.
“But…” Lein added before he could speak, “I can owe it to you.
I’m willing to pay, uh… one gold pound for this knowledge?”
“One gold pound?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Mr. Slone’s expression changed.
He looked Lein up and down, his gaze sweeping from the boy’s worn-out coat to the scuffed tips of his boots, then back up to his face.
That look was like appraising the authenticity of a piece of goods, with undisguised suspicion.
“One gold pound!”
Mr. Slone finally bit the words and swallowed them down, barely managing to keep his face steady.
“I suppose so.
A brat like you can’t have much to spare.”
He snorted through his nose, settled back into his chair, and crossed his legs.
“But don’t you think about backing out!”
Mr. Slone pointed the stem of his pipe at Lein from a distance, his tone suddenly turning several degrees darker.
“Otherwise…”
Lein didn’t let him finish and quickly cut in.
“Don’t you know me by now?”
Lein really never welched on a debt, but he wasn’t sure if he could scrape together one gold pound in a short time.
That was a considerable sum.
But the most important thing now was to pry information out of the old man; as for the money, he’d deal with it later.
Mr. Slone tugged at his beard, seemingly barely satisfied with the answer.
He put the pipe back in his mouth, took a deep drag, and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.
The smoke swirled and rolled in the dim light for a good while before slowly dispersing.
“Alright, alright.”
Mr. Slone stood up, walked over to Lein, and put his hands behind his back, striking a lecturing pose.
“Since you’re so sincere, I’ll reluctantly give you a lesson.”
He paced a few steps in front of Lein and cleared his throat.
“Before I explain what ‘Starfire’ is, you first need to understand the concept of the Arcane Rite.”
“Arcane Rite,” Mr. Slone bit out the two words as if chewing on something unpleasant.
“It is a kind of knowledge, and also a ritual that shouldn’t exist.
Some also consider it a challenge—overcoming this challenge is ascension.”
He paused, as if weighing his words.
“The Arcane Rite either teaches, compels, or forces us to become non-human.
It leads mortals down an irreversible path, strewn with thorns and abysses, but at the end of the path…”
He didn’t finish, just shook his head.
“Never mind.
Those things are still too far off for you now.
You only need to know one thing: the Arcane Rite is not knowledge created by humans.
Its roots come from a higher place.”
Mr. Slone raised one hand and pointed vaguely toward the ceiling.
“Emanation from above to below,” he said.
“That is the foundation of all supernatural.”
Lein frowned.
“Emanation?”
“You can think of it as a waterfall,” Mr. Slone said, using a rare, relatively simple analogy.
“Water pours down from the highest mountain peak, passing through layer upon layer of rock, eventually reaching the streams at the foot of the mountain.
The Arcane Rite is the same—its source is at the highest point, then it seeps downward layer by layer until it flows into the hands of mortals.”
“And the root at the very top of the emanation,” Mr. Slone’s voice dropped even lower, so low that Lein had to focus completely to hear, “naturally, is the Upper Beings.”
Upper Beings.
Lein repeated the word in his mind.
“What are Upper Beings?” he pressed.
Mr. Slone suddenly laughed, a laugh devoid of any warmth, carrying an indescribable irony instead.
“Who knows?”
He spread his hands.
“You can call them gods, or any title you can imagine.
Some believe they are the root of everything, the creator and first cause of the universe, or the beginning and end of fate and things.
You can even pray to them, kneel before them, but don’t expect such actions to receive feedback.”
“In short, they are non-real and non-existent beings.
They dwell eternally in Dreamland.
What is called the Mystic Rite is merely a leakage of their influence at the cosmic level.”
Lein was silent for a moment.
Non-real and non-existent beings, eternally dwelling in Dreamland—he recognized every word, but together they became obscure and difficult to understand.
Upper Beings, gods, non-existent beings—what kind of thing was Mr. Slone describing with these words?
“What about Dreamland?
What is Dreamland?”
This time, Mr. Slone didn’t answer immediately.
He stared at Lein for a long moment, his lips moving slightly several times, as if weighing how much to say.
Then he suddenly asked a question Lein had never expected.
“After you completed the Mystic Rite, you saw that tree, right?”
Lein was slightly startled.
Of course he had seen it.
It was at the moment the ritual was completed, his consciousness was pulled by some indescribable force, rising to a place that words couldn’t describe.
There, he saw a massive tree rooted in the void.
It grew in reverse, its roots facing the sky, its branches drooping toward the endless abyss.
That tree was unimaginably huge, so large that Lein couldn’t see its entirety even when straining his eyes.
He had thought it was a dream at the time.
After all, a tree rooted in the void, growing in reverse, of such incredible size—it was too surreal.
After waking up, he had categorized the memory as a dream and didn’t think about it anymore.
“I saw it,” Lein answered honestly.