The air in the room, thick with dust and unspoken threats, seemed to freeze around Mr. Hobert's final words. "Sometimes, the price of 'curiosity'... can be far higher than we imagine." The words hung between us, not just as a warning, but as a challenge. Part of me, the part that had devoured every volume of LoTM and screamed in frustration at my own incomplete knowledge, wanted to grab the entire deck of tarot cards, including the Card of Blasphemy, and run. But a larger, more rational, and genuinely terrified part screamed louder: Hold on. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't change the plot.
My nonchalance felt as fragile as tissue paper under the scrutiny of his crimson gaze. I could still feel the faint heat of the card on my fingertips, the weight of the words "Sequence 0: Darkness" etched in my mind. I had to get out of this room, away from this seemingly youthful old man and his divine contraband. But I couldn't leave empty-handed. That would be suspicious, too. After all, I had originally come here for protection, and I was leaving with that protection. The Blasphemy Card was a problem for my future self; hopefully, it would be stronger and less prone to instant evaporation, and certainly capable of putting up some resistance in truly dangerous situations rather than being scared to death, hehe.
I forced a casual nod, a gesture that felt strange and overly dramatic in the tense silence. "A fine philosophical point, Mr. Hobert," I said, my voice deliberately adjusted to sound like a bored aristocrat discussing the weather rather than the nature of cosmic forces. "But my client's interests, and my own as a mere intermediary, are clearly more... practical."
Deliberately, I turned my back to the table where the tarot cards lay, a movement that sent a wave of primal fear down my spine. Turning my back on a Demigod felt like offering my neck to the guillotine. But it was a necessary part of the act. I walked back to the items I had originally requested, my steps measured despite my heart pounding in my chest.
"I think we're talking about the revolver and the mask," I continued, stopping in front of the red pistol and the featureless facemask. "These are real objects. Their function, as you described, is clear. A weapon that wards off evil spirits and improves shooting accuracy. A mask that changes one's appearance. These are things a fan of mysticism can understand, and more importantly, use. Or at least, display in a glass display case to impress his equally frivolous friends."
I retrieved the red revolver. Its weight felt heavy, offering a different kind of support than the thin card. The metal's unnatural crimson hue seemed to absorb the dim light in the room. This was a tool for survival. The Card of Blasphemy was a tool for... what? Divinity? Madness? A one-way ticket to the attention of every major power on the planet, including the Goddess of Eternal Night herself? No, thank you. Not today. Maybe never, especially since living in this world is troublesome enough, let alone facing a creature I couldn't possibly defeat. Heh, at least not until I became Sequence 2.
"And this," I said, reaching for the mask. Its surface felt so cold and smooth, like bone or polished ceramic. Holding it felt like holding a void, a blank slate waiting to be filled. Its potential was so great. To be anyone. To hide from the many eyes I was certain would one day be watching me. In a way, this mask was as dangerous as the card, but the danger was on a scale that, in my most arrogant moments, I could still imagine myself handling.
Mr. Hobert watched me, his head tilted slightly. The intense, piercing pressure had subsided, replaced by a more general, though still sharp, merchant's curiosity. He had taken the bait. He seemed to accept that I was merely an errand boy for a fickle nobleman, my curiosity about the strange card quenched by its lack of immediate use.
"A practical choice, Mr. Lynch," he said, his voice once again like the tinkling of a shop bell. "These two are among the most... reliable in my collection. They have never failed to fire, and the masking effect, though temporary, is quite convincing."
"Reliability is good," I nodded, trying to project the air of a man running a simple business rather than purchasing a potentially life-saving device in a world filled with unspeakable horrors. "Now, regarding the price. My client has given me a budget, but of course, my job is to get the best value."
I braced myself. In a world where a simple loaf of bread cost only a few cents, the price of genuine Beyonder items, even low-grade or defective ones, would be astronomical. John's memory provided a rough outline—previous purchases of historical artifacts ranged from a few hundred to several thousand pounds for truly extraordinary items. But those were just antiques. These were functional supernatural tools.
Mr. Hobert intertwined his fingers, the strange tattoos on his fingers seeming to shift in the dim light. He glanced from the revolver to the mask and back at me, a slow, calculating smile etched across his face.
"For a loyal customer like yourself, Mr. Lynch, and considering the... special nature of your clientele," he began, his tone filled with false friendliness, "I can offer a combined price. For the 'Crimson Red' revolver, complete with a box of twenty special bullets, and the 'Faceless' mask... five thousand two hundred pounds in gold, or a bank check from Backlund Bank, of course."
The figure hit me like a physical blow. Five thousand two hundred pounds. I had to restrain my jaw from dropping open. 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 enough to buy a small house in a decent part of town. It was more than most middle-class families would see in a decade. And he spent it on weapons and masks. What the heck was that price? Was he trying to scam me? Huh... actually, I remember the axe Klein bought for Derrick costing around six hundred gold pounds, so maybe this wasn't a scam? But still, why are Beyonder items in this world so expensive! Huh. Maybe that's why, throughout reading this novel, I've never seen a poor Beyonder, except for Klein, haha.
Besides... what kind of name is that for a revolver? 'Crimson'? Huh? That's a waste of words! Whoever created this mystical object is tacky and has no aesthetic sense!
Calm down, I told myself, massaging my temples. You're John Lynch, heir to a shipping and industrial empire. This is just small change. This is what you're spending lavishly. Behave accordingly.
I let out a short breath, as if slightly irritated. "Five thousand two hundred," I repeated, letting a hint of skepticism tinge my voice. "That's quite a precise figure, Mr. Hobert. One could almost think you'd prepared it beforehand." I stared directly into his bloodshot, unsettling eyes, channeling every bit of John's inherited privilege. "While my client isn't particularly concerned about the cost, he expects me not to be treated like a fool. Would four thousand eight hundred be more reasonable? That includes the bullets, and your discretion, of course."
Bargaining is a dance. It's an essential part of the masquerade. The real John would never accept the first price. After all, he's the son of a businessman.
Hobert's smile didn't falter, but it tightened slightly at the edges. "Mr. Lynch, you've hurt my feelings. The materials for making the cartridges are incredibly rare, originating from the spirit world itself. And the mask... the art of making it has been lost to time. Five thousand is my final offer, and frankly, it's an act of charity."
Material? Spirit world? So he's openly confirming their Beyonder nature now, comfortable in the knowledge that I, a mere mortal merchant, wouldn't truly understand. His arrogance is astonishing, but also useful. He still sees me as an insignificant minor player. Good. Let it go.
I pretended to consider it, running my fingers over the smooth surface of the mask once more. I let the silence settle, a tactic I'd learned from watching my father negotiate contracts on Earth. "Very well," I said finally, conceding a crucial point. "Five thousand pounds, exactly. For that, you'll include a second box of cartridges and a suitable container for both. My clients appreciate presentation."
Hobert stared at me for a long moment, and I could almost see the calculations going on behind his red eyes. He was weighing the advantages against the minor inconveniences. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. "Agreed. You're a good bargainer, Young Master Lynch. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
The relief that washed over me was so intense it was dizzying. I had succeeded. I had survived the encounter without being killed, and I had acquired my first real survival tool. And, most importantly, I had left the cosmic threat of the Card of Infamy right where it belonged, in the hands of someone who most likely knew how to handle it without blowing up the city.
"Excellent," I said, my voice relieved to remain calm. I reached into my inner coat pocket and pulled out the checkbook that always remained there. John's name was elegantly printed at the top of each check. Filling out the sum of 5,000 pounds in gold felt surreal. I handed the slip of paper to Hobert, who took it with a gloved hand, his eyes scanning it briefly before nodding in satisfaction again.
"Wait a moment," he said, then turned to one of the many display cabinets lining the wall. He took out a small box made of polished mahogany and lined with black velvet. He carefully placed the revolver and two cartridge cases inside. He placed the mask in a separate, more modest pouch made of a strangely soft, non-reflective black cloth. He handed them both to me.
"Handle them with care, Mr. Lynch," he said, his tone tinged with a final, subtle warning. "Their value goes beyond monetary value."
"Oh, I have no doubt," I replied, taking the box and bag. Both felt incredibly heavy, loaded with potential and danger. "I will make sure my client is fully aware of their... unique nature." I bowed my head slightly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hobert. I'm sure we'll meet again."
"I have no doubt about it, Mr. Lynch," he replied, his smile wide and unsettling again. "The wheel of fortune is turning for all of us."
With those mysterious words hanging in the air, I turned and walked out of the back room, past the fake restaurant, and back onto the dirty streets of South Borough. I didn't look back. Every instinct I had screamed that he was watching me until I was completely out of sight.
The cool, dusty air of Backlund felt so clean. I took a deep, trembling breath, my composure beginning to crumble as I was freed from the suffocating room. My hands trembled as I held the mahogany box and the cloth bag. I had just spent a fortune. I was holding items that defied the laws of physics. And I was in front of a card that could make someone a god.
You idiot, part of me scolded. You should have taken it! It was right there! The Card of Blasphemy! The greedy, knowledge-hungry part of me, the part that was a fan of the novel, was furious.
"Then what are you going to do with it?" the rational, survival-loving part retorted, cold with fear. "Frame it? Try to sell it? Try to crack the code and draw the attention of the entire Church of Evernight? You can't even read Chinese! You'll be dead in a week, and the plan will be ruined beyond repair. Klein may never get his other cards. You did the right thing. The only right thing."
An inner debate raged as I walked towards the waiting carriage. The driver, seeing me approach, immediately stood at attention and opened the door.
"To the family home," I ordered, my voice hoarse.
As the carriage began to move, the steady beat of the horses' hooves provided a counterpoint to my chaotic thoughts. I placed the box and bag on the seat beside me. I stared at them.
The gun was my insurance against low-level physical threats. Spirits, evil Beyonders, perhaps even evil demonesses trying to kill me. The mask... the mask was everything. It was a new identity. It was a way to move invisibly, to investigate, to hide from the consequences of my own actions. It was the ultimate tool for a coward seeking survival.
But the Card of Blasphemy... it was like a siren's call. I couldn't let it go. 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 sinister force? What if he decided to use the card himself, or sell it to someone who would, upsetting the balance of power Klein was supposed to maintain?
A plan began to form in my mind, vague and fraught with enormous risks. I couldn't put it into action now. But I couldn't forget it. I needed to monitor the situation. I needed a reason, a pretext, to return. Maybe I could develop a more serious interest in tarot cards, 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 arose. If I couldn't buy it, and if Hobert proved to be a threat to the plan's stability... then perhaps it would need to be acquired. Not by me, of course. I'm no thief. But information is currency. What if, sometime in the future, I anonymously told a certain organization about a certain card owned by a red-eyed shopkeeper in South Borough? Maybe the Nighthawks? Or even the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery? Let them handle it. Let them take it and lock it away in a safe, where it would be safe until the right time in the plan.
This was a dangerous game. Playing with forces far beyond my comprehension. But thinking about that 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 have achieved a small victory. I have survived. I have acquired equipment. I have maintained my disguise.
The carriage rolled through the increasingly clean and tidy streets, moving from the grime of South Borough toward the upscale district where Lynch Manor stood as a monument to wealth and steam power. The pale red glow of the moon had disappeared, replaced by the hazy afternoon light of Backlund, the sun losing its battle against the industrial smog.
I leaned my head back in the plush velvet chair, exhaustion finally overpowering the adrenaline. The morning's events replayed in my mind like a surreal dream: the tense breakfast, the marital argument, the discovery of the card, the psychological battle with Hobert. Too much for one day. Too much for a lifetime.
As the familiar wrought-iron gates of Lynch Manor came into view, a distinct feeling of dread began to well up in my stomach. The next challenge awaited: facing my family, pretending everything was normal, and preparing for tonight's royal event. Wait? A royal event? Huh, since when was there a royal event around this date in the novel? Oh, no... of course it was possible, considering this was before Zhou Mingrui transmigrated into Klein's body. After all, Klein lived in Tingen to begin with! Not Backlund. The only accurate information about Backlund would come from Audrey at best. What a hassle!
But the important thing was that I was home. Back in my gilded cage. Back in the role I was meant to play. I took the mahogany box and the cloth pouch and hid them under my coat. This was my secret. My fragile, tiny fragments of power in a world where the gods conspired and mystery lurked in every shadow.
The train stopped. I took a deep breath, straightened my coat, and put on a neutral, slightly indifferent face, like John Lynch. The paranoid transmigrant was gone, for now. The wealthy, somewhat reckless corporate heir was back.
"Okay, John," I whispered to myself, the name still foreign to my tongue. "Time to go home."
I stepped out of the carriage and walked towards the main entrance of the mansion, the hidden weight of the revolver and mask on my chest a constant, sobering, and terrifying reminder of the world hidden beneath the surface of this one.