Adeline carefully examined the card.
She really wanted to let Lane try it out right now, but the environment and conditions didn’t allow it.
Besides, the card didn’t say what would happen if the ritual failed, let alone specify what this so-called Initial Secret Ritual would turn a person into.
‘At the very least, I need to prepare properly.’
Adeline put away the Initial Secret Ritual card and picked up Lane’s card again.
Before ending this exploration, she would make one last check of this place.
Adeline manipulated Lane’s card and conducted a final inspection of the ancient mansion.
The study’s bookshelves, the living room’s closet, the kitchen’s stove, the servant’s room’s corners—she didn’t miss a single spot.
The ink-black footprints meandered across the indoor map but found nothing.
After confirming there was nothing else worth scavenging in the house, she had Lane leave the building.
Lane left the house.
He stood in the cold wind of the alley for a moment, flexing his fingers.
The feeling of restraint had vanished the moment he climbed out the window and landed, disappearing cleanly.
He glanced back at the ancient mansion behind him.
It stood quietly in the shadow of the alley, as if waiting for a visitor who might come at any time.
He didn’t look long.
He turned and walked away.
It was still early.
The morning Ash Lane was waking up.
A vendor with a breakfast cart set up his stove by the roadside.
A few dockworkers squatted under the wall, gnawing on black bread.
The factory whistle in the distance rang out on time.
Lane walked through these familiar sights, but his mind was still on the diary he had just read.
Heber Rost had spent years pursuing it, visited an isolated northern town three times, and only pieced together the mysterious ritual from the words of a disaster survivor.
Lane had lived in Ash Lane for seventeen years and heard plenty of rumors about witchcraft and evil curses.
The old sailors in the Port Area would claim, when drunk, that they’d seen fish with countless eyes at sea.
Mrs. Miller from the laundry was convinced her deceased mother had come back to knock on her window one rainy night.
Most of these stories were absurd, and Lane usually let them go in one ear and out the other.
But this was different.
That being controlling him—whatever it was—had guided him all the way to this two-hundred-year-old mansion, searched the entire house, and finally pressed his eyes against the diary in the study, making him read it over and over countless times.
All of this was clearly not aimless wandering.
It was after this ritual.
That thing was definitely no ridiculous joke.
This realization made a corner of Lane’s heart grow warm.
He hadn’t never considered that extraordinary powers might exist in this world.
The stories Old Walter told, the bizarre magazines of dubious authenticity on Mr. Slone’s bookshelf, the incredible rumors that occasionally spread through Ash Lane—all these signs pointed in the same direction.
He just had never seen them with his own eyes, never touched them with his own hands.
Now, a diary had placed this kind of thing right in front of him.
But attempting a ritual of unknown origin and consequences alone was too reckless.
Lane wasn’t lacking in adventurous spirit, but his adventurous spirit was built on risk assessment.
He needed more information.
And in Ash Lane, the people who could provide him with information were few.
Coleman might know something, but Lane didn’t want to owe him too many favors.
Mrs. Grace was already exhausted from running the orphanage; she couldn’t possibly know about this.
‘That leaves only Mr. Slone.’
Lane really didn’t want to go to that old liar voluntarily.
But he had to admit, Slone was the most knowledgeable person he knew.
He had been at Kingdom University—at least, that’s what he said.
He had read books Lane had never even seen, and when he was in a good mood, he would casually drop things that made Lane want to ask more.
‘And tonight the night school opens.’
Lane made up his mind.
Go see Slone.
Feel him out about those “advanced studies.”
The old man was stubborn, but if he found the right angle to pry, he could usually get something out.
‘Better to use something from a book as a lead-in, or pretend to casually mention a rumor I heard.
Anyway, as long as Mr. Slone starts showing off his knowledge, he often can’t stop talking.’
He also needed to prepare a suitable book.
It couldn’t be too thick, or it would be easy to make mistakes when copying, but it couldn’t be too thin either—the diary clearly stated it had to be a book of a certain thickness and depth.
Popular novels and magazines obviously wouldn’t meet the requirements.
Lane mentally ran through the books he had read at Slone’s, but didn’t have a definite target yet.
He also needed to prepare paper for copying.
His rented room only had a few pencil stubs and scraps of paper; he had to buy a proper stack of writing paper, plus a dip pen and a bottle of ink.
These things weren’t cheap in Ash Lane, but the silver coins he had lifted from the Sharp Hook Gang yesterday would come in handy.
Additionally, he needed a white candle—not the cheap kind mixed with impurities sold at the general store.
With these thoughts in his mind, Lane turned into the alley leading to his rented room.
Then he stopped.
Two young men were squatting on the steps below his building.
Both wore gray newsboy caps pulled low.
One had a half-extinguished cigarette dangling from his mouth, and the other was picking dirt from under his nails with a small knife.
They wore patched coarse cloth jackets, hunched their shoulders, and looked idle.
Gray hats.
The term flashed through Lane’s mind.
Back when the Gray Rat Gang didn’t yet have a specific name, those guys identified themselves by wearing such gray newsboy caps, and were called “the gray-hatted ones” in fear or disdain.
Now the gang’s name had changed, but the hats remained, as a sign of recognition among Gray Rat members.
Lane walked up and stopped in front of the two young men.
“What are you doing here?”
The two young men clearly hadn’t expected him to appear suddenly.
They both shot up from the steps with a start.
The one with the cigarette fumbled to pull it out of his mouth, and the one picking his nails almost dropped his knife.
They exchanged glances and stammered for a long time, neither willing to speak.
Lane didn’t urge them.
He just stood there watching.
These two looked young, probably new recruits who hadn’t yet learned how to slickly deal with people.
“It’s like this,” the one with the cigarette finally couldn’t hold it in.
“Boss Coleman sent us to find you.
He said he has something to discuss with you.”
“What is it?”
Lane asked.
They exchanged glances again.
The one who had been picking his nails swallowed.
“We don’t know.
The boss didn’t say.
He just told us to wait for you here.
Said you’ve been ignoring his messages lately.”
Lane frowned.
Ever since Coleman had done things behind his back that he didn’t agree with in order to expand territory, their interactions had dropped to a minimum.
He still ran errands for the Gray Rat Gang, but only took jobs that were marginal enough and didn’t harm anyone.
Everything else he turned down.
Coleman knew that and rarely sought him out.
Coleman wasn’t the type to send people to wait for him over nothing.
If he said it was important, it really was.
“I got it.
I’ll go.”
Lane finished and walked past them toward his door.
The two young men looked relieved and disappeared around the alley corner.