Galad spread a sheet of white paper across the desk and pressed his pen against it.
"Current Combat Methods:""One, Revolver (ordinary bullets and enchanted bullets)."
He paused, frowned at the words, then reluctantly added:
"My marksmanship still has a lot of room for improvement."
After a moment's thought, he continued writing:
"Two, Secrets Supplicant rituals."
Then he added a sharp warning beneath it:
"Special Note: Most are extremely vile, demanding sacrifices of life or twisted emotions. Their prayers are directed to the True Creator, and the results drive the caster into depravity and madness."
After that line, he underlined heavily: "For reference only absolutely never to be used."
The gruesome fates of Siris and Haynes still burned in his memory. Their rituals had worked at the cost of their sanity and lives.
What unnerved him more was the sheer number of such rituals he now possessed. Too many. He suspected that even ordinary Secrets Supplicants wouldn't have access to so many. It felt less like a gift and more like someone was shoving him toward the abyss.
That damned True Creator. A dog that only knew how to ruin people.
Galad muttered a curse under his breath, then moved on:
"A small handful of rituals don't target the True Creator. Their effects are weaker, but safer… can be attempted with caution."
He hesitated, then began the third point:
"Three, Hidden Sage."
"Also a dangerous, alien god. The only difference: not the True Creator. Perhaps, in a clash against the True Creator, he might…" He stopped mid-sentence, then crossed it out. "No. Still too dangerous. Unless it's life or death, do not attempt."
Putting down his pen, Galad stared at the three points, lips twisting into a bitter smile. Nearly everything he had was lethal to himself first. The rest like his revolver was little more than clumsy self-defense.
Still, he could at least see where his efforts should go.
First, he had to practice his marksmanship. Even if he couldn't hit the bullseye, at least he should be able to land a shot on target every time.
Second, he needed to study harmless rituals or auxiliary techniques—things like divination. That talisman Seeka had once used, the one tied to the Goddess, came to mind. It was worth learning.
Finally, he needed to keep as far as possible from anything dangerous.
What he wanted was stability. If he truly couldn't return home, then… this life wasn't bad. Work during the day. Face some minor trouble now and then, with Captain Dunn and the others handling the real danger while he cheered from the sidelines. Then come home in the evening, live peacefully with Cecilia, save money, and when his sister graduated settle into a stable life together.
"Hehe…"
A warped, sinister chuckle slithered into his ears.
Galad's head snapped down. In the shadow beneath the desk, a ghastly figure emerged Siris, his skull crushed and bleeding, tumors sprouting across his hand as he clutched Galad's ankle.
Shit!!!!
Galad's scalp prickled. He wrenched his leg free and kicked only to hit nothing but air.
"You're already the Lord's believer, blessed by His grace yet you still dream of an ordinary life? Don't delude yourself!"
Siris's twisted grin widened, voice dripping with malice.
Galad staggered back.
Bang! Bang!
The window rattled violently. He whipped his head up Haynes stood outside, his head smashed bloody, mouth split to his ears as he rammed his skull against the glass again and again. From under his black robe, distorted human faces writhed, shrieking like damned souls.
The world darkened. Black, wriggling lines crawled at the edges of his vision.
…Corruption from the True Creator?
Galad braced, but there was no ocean tide echo in his mind, none of that oppressive pull. Instead, dizziness swam over him a woozy, tipsy sensation.
Not outside corruption. From within?
Old Neil's lectures surfaced in his mind: when a Beyonder exhausted themselves or dulled their mind with fatigue, sleepiness, or… alcohol their mental defenses weakened. Illusions. Loss of control.
Ah.
Galad remembered the champagne on the table earlier. Alcohol had lowered his resistance. That was all.
A bitter laugh escaped him. Looks like I'll have to quit drinking.
He sat on the bed and sank into meditation. Slowly, breath by breath, his mind stilled. The warped phantoms of Siris and Haynes melted away, leaving behind only faint shadows in the corners.
At last, he exhaled in relief. Rising, he gathered the paper covered in his notes, lit it, and watched it curl into ash. He crumbled the remains into dust and scattered them into the wastebasket. Only then did he wash up and lie down.
Even as his eyes closed, faint faces of the men he had killed flickered in the dark. But they no longer fazed him. He simply turned over and drifted into sleep.
Days later, in the Blackthorn Security Company armory...
"Excellent. You've completely mastered Hermes." Klein clapped softly, smiling. "Your talent's remarkable. At this pace, even Ancient Hermes or Ancient Fusac won't be out of reach."
"It's all thanks to you being such a good teacher."
Galad grinned, setting aside the paper where he'd neatly written the script.
In truth, he didn't think himself particularly gifted. Back in his previous life, even English had been a nightmare. This time, Hermes came naturally it had to be the Secrets Supplicant potion in his body. After all, Hermes was the very language used in rituals.
"If you say so, maybe I should apply to teach languages at Tingen University," Klein chuckled, clearly joking. He probably guessed the real reason for Galad's speed, but didn't press. "Alright, Hermes lessons end here. I need to head to the Divination Club."
"May your clients be generous today." Galad smirked.
Klein, as a Seer, actually ran divinations at the club in his spare time. He barely earned a few coins, but for some reason, it delighted him.
Meanwhile, Old Neil's house had officially transferred to Galad's name. Yet he hadn't moved in the suburbs were too far from Cecilia's school. Instead, he'd asked Dunn to help rent it out for 18 Soles a week. Enough to cover his own rent at 6 Narcissus Street, with a little left over.
After Klein left, Galad didn't head upstairs. He was on armory duty today. Which, truthfully, was code for slacking off. No one ever came here. Perfect chance to grab a stack of mysticism texts from the data room next door.
Some were official Nighthawk records. Others, private collections. Skimming them aimlessly, Galad felt a strange thrill.
That was when he spotted a box labeled: "Roselle's Notes."
Supposedly a coded notebook left behind by that accursed senior transmigrator he loathed so much. To this day, no one had deciphered it.
Curious, Galad opened it
And froze.
The text inside was written in… Chinese.