Jenkins had no idea what happened after that. Everyone present who had laid eyes on the Doomsday Docunt was quarantined and would only be released after a rigorous review. They were ordered to maintain absolute secrecy. Any Enchanter who spoke of the matter would be deed a traitor to the Church.
Of course, as the third living Saint of the Church of Knowledge and Books, Jenkins was considered completely trustworthy.
After the two Keepers of Secrets briefed him on the confidentiality protocols, they let him return ho. That evening, while Jenkins was on his balcony gazing at the stars to accumulate spirit, a nudge from Chocolate drew his attention to an unexpected sight: a very familiar steam-powered airship hovering over the church.
Although Jenkins and Bincy had been the ones to discover the Doomsday Docunt, the Church of Knowledge and Books had surely paid a hefty price to claim such a crucial artifact for itself.
Just as no one knew of the Mysterious Realm he had just endured, so too was the heralded doomsday a secret known only to those who had witnessed the prophecy.
This was the ordinary life of an Enchanter. The hurried gentleman who brushed past on the street, the shuffling old woman down the lane—either might have just witnessed things an ordinary person could not imagine in a lifeti.
Wednesday morning's paper ran a missing person notice for a Mr. Robinson. It was only then that Jenkins learned the man was a small rchant from another country, dealing primarily in furs and tobacco. The report had been filed by a companion from his trade caravan. The notice would be futile, of course. Divination was useless against a Mysterious Realm, the man's body had vanished without a trace, and the three souls who knew what truly happened would never reveal the secret.
He had also taken care of another matter that day. While visiting the black market around noon to inquire about an auction, he'd been surprised to learn from the bartender that another reply had arrived from Aediran.
His stargazing complete, Jenkins stared down in anguish at the nearly one hundred letters spread out under the glow of his kerosene lamp, overco by a wave of profound self-reproach.
If he had never sent that test letter to the address on Green Avenue in Aediran, he wouldn't be in this ss, agonizing over how to bring the curtain down on this whole charade.
No word had co from the Cheslan Kingdom about their operation concluding, which ant the resident of that address remained at large. In his reply, the man had not only sent the requested two shillings and diligently completed the survey, but had also included a short letter.
In the letter, the man—calling himself Hunter Bell—expressed great concern for the fictional girl Jenkins had invented. He wrote at length about the customs of Aediran and the daily lives of its citizens, his tone suggesting a genuine interest in his female correspondent.
"Is he really a fraud?"
The question surfaced in Jenkins's mind.
He waved a hand, shooing Chocolate off the table where the cat was batting at an envelope. Before it could let out an indignant ow, Jenkins scooped it up into his arms. His gaze then fell upon the pile of money on the desk—a stack of two-shilling notes mixed with loose one-shilling notes and coins, all sent by his respondents.
"Ugh, I have to reply."
He sighed. There was nothing else for it.
Thinking it over, Jenkins realized he had overlooked several crucial factors. For one, the details in the returned surveys suggested most of his recipients were quite wealthy and probably wouldn't think twice about a shilling or two. For another, Aediran was much smaller than Nolan, aning the recipients of his first fifty letters had likely shared the curious story with their neighbors long before the next batch arrived. Finally, he had been playing a part ever since coming to this world, and his skills at deception had grown formidable. By basing his story on a real account from his previous life, he had made the young student's predicant far too convincing.
All these factors combined had led the recipients to genuinely believe his fabricated tale, and they had dutifully followed his—no, *her*—instructions to the letter.
In their replies, many had even expressed concern for the impoverished eighteen-year-old "Miss Fabry," which had, much to his surprise, reaffird Jenkins's belief that there were still good people in the world.
"You're making this very difficult for ."
He murmured, unscrewing the cap of his ink bottle. He filled his fountain pen, took a mont to appreciate the faint, sharp scent of the ink, and prepared to draft his next response.
His entire sche had been predicated on two assumptions: that the recipients would not grow suspicious, and that they would not write back. He racked his brains, concluding that the current ss was a direct result of underestimating people's decency. He had to learn from that mistake.
He would still enclose a survey, but this ti, he would make it more sophisticated. Based on the previous responses, he divided his recipients into three categories—'very wealthy,' 'wealthy,' and 'not wealthy'—and designed a separate questionnaire for each to add a layer of authenticity.
In the new letter, writing as Miss Fabry, he expressed his deep gratitude for the money everyone had sent along with their surveys. After struggling to adopt a convincingly feminine tone, he explained that 'she' had recently invested in a mining venture that promised quick returns. It was an opportunity brought to her by a friend, he wrote, so very few people knew about it, and no one would be able to find information on it even in Nolan.
Thanks to this high-yield investnt, 'Miss Fabry' had completely resolved her financial difficulties. Therefore, to every address that had sent a reply with money, Jenkins enclosed not only a new survey but also ten shillings as proof of her improved circumstances.
The gesture cost him a full fifty pounds in cash, but it was a price he had to pay to finally be free of his correspondents. Naturally, he also had to duplicate his first two versions of the letter and send them to a new batch of addresses. Only then would the 'social survey for a graduation thesis' seem truly authentic.
In Jenkins's mind, the kind-hearted recipients, upon receiving the letter and the money, would be pleased to learn that Miss Fabry no longer required their aid. They would feel good about their past charity and simply return the survey. After that, he would only need to send one final letter announcing the successful conclusion of his research, and this whole unfortunate business would at last be finished.
"Praise the Sage, praise the Goddess, may Your light illuminate the path before !"
He offered a sincere prayer to the Sage when he was done. After all, apart from using counterfeit stamps, he hadn't actually done anything illegal. In fact, he was now out a considerable sum of money.
He mailed the letters again under the cover of darkness. Jenkins was convinced that while a mont of goodwill had landed him in this enormous ss, he, a great and righteous author, would surely not end up a criminal because of it.
anwhile, the great author himself was still hard at work on his new book. He had also nearly finished reading and editing the two books from his pen pal, Miss Mary. Jenkins planned to mail them back within the next couple of days; Miss Mary had already been waiting quite a while.
"I wonder if A-11-2-3301 can deliver letters, not just people?"
Mulling over this question, he drifted into a deep sleep.
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