The air in the room, thick with dust and unspoken threats, seemed to freeze around Mr. Hobert's last words. "Sometimes, the price of a 'curiosity'... can be far higher than we imagine." The words hung between us, not just as a warning, but as a challenge. A part of me, the part that had devoured every volume of LoTM and screamed in frustration at my incomplete knowledge, wanted to snatch the entire stack of tarot cards, Blasphemy Card included, and run. But the larger, more rational, and utterly terrified part screamed louder: Survive. Don't draw attention. Don't change the plot.
My act of disinterest felt as flimsy as tissue paper under the surveillance of his red-eyed gaze. I could still feel the phantom heat of the card on my fingertips, the weight of the words "Sequence 0: Darkness" branded into my mind. I needed to get out of this room, away from this strangely youthful old man and his divine contraband. But I couldn't leave empty-handed. That would also be suspicious. After all, I came here initially seeking protection, and I would leave with it. The Blasphemy Card was a problem for a future me, hopefully stronger and less likely to instantly vaporize, and of course able to put up a little resistance in a truly dangerous situation instead of being scared half to death, hehe.
I forced a casual nod, a gesture that felt alien and overly dramatic in the tense silence. "A fine philosophical point, Mr. Hobert," I said, my voice deliberately pitched to sound like a nobleman bored of discussing the weather and not the nature of cosmic power. "But my client's interest, and my own as a mere intermediary, is decidedly more... practical."
Deliberately, I turned my back on the table holding the stack of tarot cards, a move that sent a primal jolt of fear down my spine. Turning my back on a Demigod felt like offering my neck to a guillotine. But it was a necessary part of the act. I walked back to the items I had initially expressed interest in, my steps measured even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
"I believe we were discussing the revolver and the mask," I continued, stopping before the red pistol and the featureless face covering. "These are tangible. Their functions, as you described, are clear. A weapon that wards off spirits and enhances aim. A mask that changes one's appearance. These are things a mysticism enthusiast can comprehend, and more importantly, use. Or at the very least, display in a glass case to impress her equally frivolous friends."
I picked up the red revolver again. Its weight was solid, grounding in a way the thin card was not. The unnatural deep red of the metal seemed to absorb the dim light in the room. This was a tool for survival. The Blasphemy Card was a tool for... what? Godhood? Madness? A one-way ticket to the attention of every major power on the planet, including the Evernight Goddess herself? No, thank you. Not today. Maybe not ever, especially since living in this world is troublesome enough, let alone facing beings I could never hope to oppose. Heh, at least not until I become Sequence 2.
"And this," I said, grabbing the mask. Its surface was eerily cold and smooth, like polished bone or ceramic. Holding it felt like holding a void, a blank slate waiting to be filled. Its potential was immense. To become anyone. To hide from the many eyes I was sure would one day be upon me. It was arguably as dangerous as the card, but its danger was on a scale that, in my most arrogant moments, I could imagine managing.
Mr. Hobert watched me, his head slightly tilted. The intense, dissecting pressure had receded, replaced by a more commonplace merchant's curiosity, though still sharp. He had taken the bait. He seemed to accept that I was merely a gofer for a capricious noble, my own moment of curiosity about the strange card extinguished by its lack of immediate utility.
"A practical choice, Mr. Lynch," he said, his voice once again the chime of a shopkeeper's bell. "These two items are among the more... reliable in my collection. This revolver has never failed to fire, and the mask's effect, while temporary, is quite convincing."
"Reliable is good," I nodded, trying to project the aura of a man conducting simple business and not purchasing the means to potentially save his own life in a world of unspeakable horrors. "Now, to the matter of price. My client has provided me with a budget, but I am, of course, tasked with getting the best value."
I braced myself. In a world where a simple loaf of bread cost a few pence, the price of genuine Beyonder items, even low-sequence or flawed ones, would be astronomical. John's memories provided a rough framework—previous purchases of historical artifacts ranged from a few hundred to several thousand pounds for truly exceptional pieces. But those were just antiques. These were functional supernatural tools.
Mr. Hobert steepled his fingers, the strange tattoos on them seeming to shift in the low light. He looked from the revolver to the mask and back to me, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face.
"For a loyal customer like you, Mr. Lynch, and given the... special nature of your client," he began, his tone dripping with false camaraderie, "I can offer a combined price. For the 'Crimson Red' revolver, complete with a box of twenty special cartridges, and the 'Faceless' mask... five thousand two hundred gold pounds, or a bank cheque from the Backlund Bank, of course."
The number hit me like a physical blow. Five thousand two hundred pounds. I had to consciously stop my jaw from dropping. John's monthly allowance was twenty thousand pounds, a sum so large it was almost abstract, but this was a single transaction. A lump sum. It was an amount that could buy a small townhouse in a decent part of the city. It was more than most middle-class families saw in a decade. And he was spending it on a weapon and a mask. What the hell was with that price? Was he trying to scam me? Heh... actually, I remember the price of the axe Klein bought for Derrick was around 600 gold pounds, so maybe this isn't a scam? But still, why are Beyonder items in this world so expensive! Heh. Maybe that's why, throughout my reading of the novel, I never saw a poor Beyonder, except for Klein, haha.
And besides... what the hell kind of name is that for the revolver? 'Crimson Red'? Hah? That's a waste of words! Whoever created this mystical item is tacky and has no sense of aesthetics!
Calm down, I told myself, pressing my temples internally. You are John Lynch, heir to a shipping and industrial empire. This is pocket change. This is what you spend frivolously. Act like it.
I let out a short, dismissive breath, as if slightly put out. "Five thousand two hundred," I repeated, letting a slight tone of skepticism color my voice. "A rather precise figure, Mr. Hobert. One might almost think you had it prepared in advance." I looked him directly in his unsettling red eyes, channeling every bit of John's inherited privilege. "While my client isn't overly concerned with cost, he does expect me not to be taken for a fool. Would four thousand eight hundred be more reasonable? That includes the cartridges, and your discretion, of course."
Bargaining was a dance. A necessary part of the mask. The original John would never accept the first price. After all, he was the son of a businessman.
Hobert's smile didn't falter, but it tightened at the edges. "Mr. Lynch, you wound me. The materials for crafting the cartridges alone are exceedingly rare, sourced from the spirit world itself. And the mask... the art of its creation is lost to time. Five thousand is my final offer, and frankly, an act of charity."
Materials? The spirit world? So he was openly confirming their Beyonder nature now, comfortable in the knowledge that I, a mere mortal merchant, wouldn't truly understand. His arrogance was staggering, but also useful. He still saw me as an insignificant small player. Good. Let it be.
I pretended to consider it, running my fingers over the mask's smooth surface once more. I let the silence hang, a tactic I'd learned from watching my father negotiate contracts on Earth. "Very well," I said finally, with an air of conceding a major point. "Five thousand pounds, even. For that, you include a second box of cartridges and suitable containers for both items. My client greatly appreciates presentation."
Hobert watched me for a long moment, and I could almost see the calculations going on behind those red eyes. He was weighing the profit against the minor inconvenience. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. "Agreed. You drive a hard bargain, young master Lynch. A pleasure doing business with you."
The relief that flooded me was so potent it felt dizzying. I had done it. I had gotten through the encounter without being killed, and I had secured my first real tools for survival. And, most importantly, I had left the cosmic-level threat of the Blasphemy Card right where it was, in the hands of someone who likely knew how to handle it without blowing up the city.
"Excellent," I said, my voice thankfully steady. I reached into the inner pocket of my coat, pulling out the cheque book that was always there. John's name was elegantly printed at the top of every draft. Filling in the amount for 5,000 gold pounds felt unreal. I handed the slip of paper to Hobert, who took it with a gloved hand, his eyes scanning it briefly before giving another satisfied nod.
"One moment," he said, and turned to one of the many ornate cabinets lining the wall. He retrieved a small, polished mahogany box lined with black velvet. He carefully placed the revolver and two boxes of cartridges inside. The mask he placed in a separate, simpler pouch made of a black cloth that was strangely soft and non-reflective. He handed both to me.
"Handle them with care, Mr. Lynch," he said, his tone laced with one last subtle warning. "Their value extends beyond the monetary."
"Oh, I don't doubt it," I replied, taking the box and the pouch. They felt immensely heavy, laden with potential and peril. "I will ensure my client is fully aware of their... unique nature." I gave a slight bow of my head. "Good day, Mr. Hobert. I'm sure our paths will cross again."
"I don't doubt it either, Mr. Lynch," he replied, his smile back, wide and unsettling. "The wheel of fortune turns for us all."
With that cryptic remark hanging in the air, I turned and walked out of the back room, through the fake restaurant, and back out into the dirty streets of South Borough. I did not look back. Every instinct screamed that he was watching me until I was completely out of sight.
The cool, sooty air of Backlund had never felt so clean. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my composure cracking now that I was free of the oppressive room. My hands trembled as I held the mahogany box and the cloth pouch. I had just spent a fortune. I was holding items that defied the laws of physics. And I had been in the presence of a card that could make one a god.
You idiot, a part of me scolded. You should have taken it! It was right there! A Blasphemy Card! The greedy, knowledge-hungry part of my soul, the part that was a novel fan, was furious.
And what would you have done with it? retorted the rational, survival-loving part, cold with fear. Frame it? Try to sell it? Attempt to crack its code and draw the attention of the entire Evernight Church? You can't even read Chinese! You'd be dead within a week, and the plot would be irreparably shattered. Klein might never get his other cards. You did the right thing. The only thing.
The internal debate raged as I walked towards my waiting carriage. The coachman, seeing me approach, immediately stood alert and opened the door.
"To the family manor," I ordered, my voice hoarse.
As the carriage began to move, the steady clop of the horses' hooves became a counter-rhythm to my chaotic thoughts, I placed the box and pouch on the seat beside me. I stared at them.
The pistol was my insurance against low-level physical threats. Spirits, rogue Beyonders, maybe even some creepy string puppets from the Secret Order. The mask... the mask was everything. It was a new identity. It was a way to move unseen, to investigate, to hide from the consequences of my own actions. It was the ultimate tool for a coward who wanted to survive.
But the Blasphemy Card... it was a siren's call. I couldn't just leave it there. Not forever. Mr. Hobert was an unknown variable, a wild card never mentioned in the original novel. What if he wasn't a Sanguine? What if he was an agent for some other, more malevolent power? What if he decided to use the card himself, or sell it to someone who would, disrupting the balance of power Klein was supposed to navigate?
A plan began to form in the back of my mind, vague and fraught with its own immense risks. I couldn't get it now. But I couldn't forget about it. I needed to monitor the situation. I needed a reason, a pretext, to return. Perhaps I could cultivate a more serious interest in tarot cards myself, using John's existing obsession with Roselle as a cover. "I've become fascinated by the great mystery of Emperor Roselle and his connection to divination!" It was weak, but it was a start.
Or... a darker, more desperate thought emerged. If I couldn't buy it, and if Hobert proved to be a threat to the stability of the plot... then perhaps it needed to be acquired. Not by me, of course. I'm no thief. But information was currency. What if, at some point in the future, I anonymously tipped off a certain organization about a certain card held by a certain red-eyed shopkeeper in South Borough? The Nighthawks, perhaps? Or even the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery? Let them deal with it. Let them take it and lock it away in some vault, where it would be safe until the proper time in the plot.
It was a dangerous game. Playing with forces far beyond my comprehension. But the thought of the card, sitting in that dusty room with a man who gave me the creeps, was unbearable. I had to do something. Just... not today.
Today, I had won a small victory. I had survived. I had acquired tools. I had maintained my disguise.
The carriage rolled through increasingly cleaner and more orderly streets, moving from the grime of South Borough towards the opulent district where Lynch Manor stood as a monument to wealth and steam power. The pale red light of the moon was gone, replaced by the hazy afternoon light of Backlund, the sun losing its battle against industrial smog.
I leaned my head back against the plush velvet seat, exhaustion finally overcoming the adrenaline. The events of the morning replayed in my mind like a surreal dream: the tense breakfast, the marriage debate, the discovery of the card, the psychological battle with Hobert. It was too much for one day. Too much for a lifetime.
As the familiar wrought-iron gates of Lynch Manor came into view, a different kind of fear began to pool in my stomach. The next challenge awaited: facing my family, pretending everything was normal, and preparing for the royal event tonight. Wait? A royal event? Hah, since when was there a royal event around this date in the novel? Oh, no... of course it's possible considering this is before Zhou Mingrui transmigrated into Klein's body. Besides, Klein lived in Tingen at the start! Not Backlund. The only accurate information about Backlund at best would only come from Audrey. How inconvenient!
But the important thing is I'm home. Back to the gilded cage. Back to the role I must play. I took the mahogany box and the cloth pouch, hiding them under my coat. These were my secrets. My small, fragile pieces of power in a world where gods conspired and mysteries lurked in every shadow.
The carriage stopped. I took a deep breath, straightened my coat, and arranged my face into the neutral, slightly disinterested mask of John Lynch. The paranoid transmigrator was gone, for now. The wealthy, somewhat frivolous company heir had returned.
"Okay, John," I whispered to myself, the name still foreign on my tongue. "Time to go home."
I stepped out of the carriage and walked towards the manor's main entrance, the hidden weight of the revolver and mask against my chest a cons
tant, comforting, and terrifying reminder of the world that lay beneath the surface of this one.