As evening fell, Jenkins took Chocolate ho, changed his clothes, and slipped into a crowd of dockworkers. He found the professor at a pub called the Sea Pearl, and the two set off for the Corpse Gentleman's gathering.
Just as before, they took a carriage to the city's outskirts and followed a narrow path through a field of overgrown weeds. October had set in, and the air was thick with the scent of autumn. Now and then, a rabbit would dart across their path.
The professor wore a pair of black, high-ankled leather boots and carried an umbrella that emanated a faint yellow, spiritual glow.
"Do you have so ti to go sowhere with after the gathering tonight?"
the professor asked in a low voice.
"No problem. I live alone now, and I've already fed my cat. I have plenty of ti tonight—nothing to do besides read."
Jenkins answered.
"Excellent. You truly are a model believer. It won't take long."
They scaled the wall and entered the abandoned hospital, which was shrouded in a white mist. Ivy crept up the building's facade, and by the path stood a withered little tree, its trunk little more than a thin, black skeleton.
Once inside the hospital grounds, the two fell silent. The atmosphere was unsettling. Even on his second visit, Jenkins could still feel an inexplicable pressure.
It was as if soone were watching him from a distance, but without malice—which was precisely what made it so unnerving.
They passed through a single remaining half of a door into the building, where walls that had once been white had oxidized to a pale yellow over ti. Jenkins noticed that the corridor leading to the morgue was devoid of cobwebs. In fact, within the shrouding mist, there was no trace of any other living thing, a detail that was truly chilling.
He pulled his collar tighter; the temperature here was noticeably low.
He rapped on the rusted iron door in a specific pattern, and it swung open without a sound. Jenkins and the professor descended the stairs, one after the other, and took their places quietly against the morgue wall to wait for the gathering to begin.
He glanced again at the unlit candle on the floor. Judging by its markings, it was indeed a Sealing Room Candle.
"Good evening, gentlen and ladies!"
Just as the clock struck eight, the Corpse Gentleman's voice echoed punctually from a morgue drawer. The slab slid open, and a man with a deathly pale, lifeless face sat up rigidly, a white sheet still draped over his body. At the sa mont, the candle on the floor flickered to life.
"Good evening, sir!"
The black-robed figures lining the wall responded in a scattered chorus, each voice strangely distorted and disguised.
"I am pleased that despite the recent unpleasantness in Nolan City, we have not lost a single mber. That is very good."
His eyes, which seed to hold all the vitality his body lacked, swept over each person in turn. Then he announced softly:
"Very well. Let us begin."
"Sir!"
The man nearest the door, the last to arrive, imdiately stepped forward, his voice trembling.
"Excuse ... about the demon incident... did a Saint truly appear?"
"Do not ask such questions," the Corpse Gentleman replied. "The more powerful one becos, the more one grasps the terrifying nature of the divine. I never speak of such great beings." 𝑅åŊȫВËȿ
"Of course. Thank you, sir."
The black-robed man cautiously retreated to his spot. The Corpse Gentleman's words had, in effect, confird the Saint's appearance.
Jenkins was bewildered. Wasn't that information supposed to be suppressed? Why did it feel like everyone he t already knew?
At the last gathering, soone had offered tens of thousands of pounds in shares, a display that had left a deep impression on Jenkins. He now had several thousand pounds of his own—compensation from the Church—and he'd brought it all, hoping to buy sothing useful.
Most of the attendees, however, only accepted trades in kind. The third black-robed figure to speak even produced a dagger that pulsed with a dense, black spiritual light. In the end, it was exchanged for a small piece of writhing flesh sealed in a test tube.
The test tube itself was an Extraordinary item, apparently designed specifically to contain the flesh. Jenkins didn't dare to even imagine what that thing could be.
"I need the seed of a demon's fla."
About half an hour into the trading, a black-robed figure made a request. "I know that on that night, besides the Scribes and Gravediggers, so demonic beings were also slain by Enchanters like ourselves. I'm looking for the seed of their fla. I am willing to pay a high price for it—or even for a clue!"
His voice was shrill and thin, and so of his words were nearly inaudible.
"What price are you offering?"
Jenkins considered for a mont before asking, his own voice muffled.
The man didn't seem surprised by the quick response. "A Magical Conch," he said. "I can trade a Magical Conch for it."
A silence fell over the room.
"What's that?"
Jenkins asked.
"Allow to explain."
The Corpse Gentleman's chilling voice rang out. Every ti Jenkins heard that tone, goosebumps prickled his skin.
"B-04-3-5011, the Magical Conch. It is a single-use Extraordinary item, but they are quite nurous. They appear only on coastal beaches, washed ashore by the tide. Their origin is impossible to trace, and no one has ever acquired one from any other location. The conch itself has no distinguishing features. Once held to the ear, one can hear a series of whispers like the sound of wind, similar to an ordinary seashell. Listening for thirty consecutive minutes will cause permanent damage to one's spirit. Listening for forty minutes creates a high probability of driving one mad. After fifty minutes, the color of one's blood begins to shift to a deep blue. After sixty minutes..."
He paused deliberately. Jenkins noticed that everyone had held their breath; this was clearly valuable information.
"After sixty consecutive minutes, one's faith will inevitably convert to the 'Azure Lord of the Deep Sea.' An ordinary person would simply die, while an Enchanter would gain a number of divine abilities before disappearing without a trace."
"And who is that?"
Jenkins was certain this was the question on everyone's mind. In his search for information on the Lord of Blossoms, he had familiarized himself with the nas of nearly every pseudo-god, yet this was one he had never encountered.
"The item's value lies in this: you may ask it one question. Listen, and it will provide an answer, after which the conch will shatter into worthless fragnts. As Enchanters, we are all well aware that certain knowledge carries its own weight. Therefore, be cautious..."
"Thank you for the knowledge!"
Jenkins gave a slight bow to the Corpse Gentleman, then turned his gaze to the trader, who was bowing as well.
"Demons are exceedingly rare in this epoch, whereas Magical Conches are plentiful. I'll need you to raise your offer."
"No," the man countered. "The range of questions the conch can answer is vast. It is an extrely valuable item. One conch, plus five thousand pounds."
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