Tap. Tap. Tap.
My fingers tapped the desk in my room with an irregular rhythm as I meticulously examined the tackily-named revolver and the Faceless mask.
"Hah... I should have asked about the negative effects of these items from Mr. Hobert first!" I complained inwardly with annoyance, having realized this crucial point only hours later.
After all, while I was at Mr. Hobert's shop, my focus was too drawn to the Blasphemy Card and I was too afraid that acting strangely would get me killed by him. But it was still frustrating not knowing the negative side effects of these items, making it impossible for me to use them.
If I forced the use of these items, my soul might be unknowingly shattered, I could lose my original identity, or I might go insane. So, I wouldn't entertain the foolish idea of using them!
It was truly aggravating, especially considering these items weren't cheap at all. Hah... I felt like I'd been tricked by that old man! How stupid.
"Hmm... I suppose I could try to recall information about similar weapons from the novel to at least guess the effects of these items," I thought unconsciously, stroking my chin as I pondered information about Beyonder artifacts from the novel.
I thought about the Axe of Hurricane that Klein had bought for Derrick Berg and tried to remember if any negative effects or the weapon's powers were mentioned in the novel.
I recalled that the weapon had the effect of summoning a lightning strike and could paralyze opponents with a certain percentage chance, though I wasn't sure of the exact probability.
Honestly, thinking about that made me very curious about what this revolver could actually do, since according to Mr. Hobert's statement, it could be used to ward off evil spirits and make its wielder more accurate in aiming, right? But perhaps there were other, stronger effects beyond those two; after all, the items were so expensive, so their effects were likely more substantial.
However, putting that aside, I genuinely couldn't remember the Axe of Hurricane having any negative side effects. I unconsciously let out a sigh, feeling utterly confused about these objects.
"Could it be that these items actually have no negative side effects?" Such a random thought suddenly popped into my head because I truly didn't know how these items could be useful. But upon further reflection, it was clear that it was impossible for this revolver to have no negative effects, especially since... I'm not Klein, who could remain safe from such things!
Hah... Whatever. But I was also curious about this shapeless mask. Wasn't it incredibly advanced? I mean, I could change my face to that of another person.
Following this logic, could the effect be what I imagined? Perhaps this mask would make me unconsciously mimic another person's behavior or act like them, or gradually transform me into that person the more I used it.
Hey! Could this be used to create a completely new identity? I mean, I could recreate my original face from Earth but with Loen characteristics using this. Was something like this possible, and could I counter the negative effects I was thinking of?
The thought that I could counter an artifact's negative effects made me smirk slightly, but I remembered that the way negative effects worked probably wasn't like this; it was just my speculation. I couldn't truly know the negative effects without asking Mr. Hobert.
But I supposed... even though I didn't know the negative effects of these two items, I should still keep the revolver as an emergency defense tool. After all, anyone would be afraid of being shot with a revolver, right?
"Right, that's probably the best decision I can make for now," I muttered and promptly picked up the tackily named Crimson Red revolver.
As my fingers touched the surface of the revolver, it felt like touching ice that never melted, accompanied by faint whispers that seemed to want to seep into the crevices of my mind.
I ignored it and quickly placed the revolver in my right pocket.
Then, I immediately shifted my gaze and went to the cabinet on my desk, opening it to place the Faceless mask inside.
As I slowly opened the cabinet and intended to immediately put the mask away, my eyes widened in an instant. I saw an object in the shape of a crystal ball inside the cabinet. The crystal ball was truly clear and, at a glance, looked beautiful if observed carefully.
"Hey... what... is this?" I unconsciously muttered that after seeing the beautiful crystal ball, and my mind was immediately filled with various passing questions.
I am different from Zhou Mingrui. I possess almost all of John's memories about everything perfectly, and there isn't a single memory belonging to the original John that I don't remember from the start; even yesterday's memories of John Lynch I remember perfectly.
The only memory problem happening to me is with my original memories related to the Lord of the Mysteries novel, because I feel that many of my memories have been erased in parts that should have been important.
However, I never remember anything about an object that was strangely inside John's cabinet and why this object could randomly and magically be here. Honestly, I immediately hypothesized that this might be related to my transmigration into John Lynch's body, but I promptly decided to ignore that because it seemed illogical to me and completely unrelated to transmigration causing an object to magically appear in my cabinet.
Should I take this object and move it to be observed? No... I have no idea what this is or why it's here, so it's better for me to leave it alone until at least I find out why this object is in John Lynch's cabinet, as I'm quite suspicious that John Lynch's memories also seem to have been magically erased, so I need to investigate this too.
"Huh... so exhausting..." I mumbled that after thinking that I now had to find out why this strange object could be mysteriously in my cabinet and what this object actually is. After all, I'm not that clever! I'm also self-aware that I'm so cautious I'm almost paranoid, so of course I don't expect my incompetent self to solve this easily.
Unconsciously, I pressed my temples to soothe this headache, and after that, I immediately placed the Faceless mask in the bottom part of the cabinet and closed it slowly.
I returned, leaving the cabinet behind and looked again at my messy desk cluttered with various books on economics, the history of the Loen Kingdom, the Northern Continent, and several books about Emperor Roselle and the Fourth Epoch. And I immediately tidied the desk.
Having done that, I walked back to my wooden desk. As soon as I sat down, I picked up one of John's blank notebooks because I wanted to write down my knowledge about the world of Lord of The Mysteries.
Of course, I wouldn't write down everything about it... after all, I don't know everything about Lord of the Mysteries, and worse, many of my memories about this world have been erased. But I could write down some things that weren't too dangerous.
I picked up a pen and began twirling it in my hand. I planned to write in English, but I would try to disguise it as random personal notes, so I would also add unrelated snippets of Loenese alongside the main text in the book.
I stopped twirling the pen and began writing in the book using Loenese first.
June 26, 1349. Father keeps pressuring about marriage. And today I decided to make a diary book. Because maybe it's fun to make something like this hehe, and I decided to make secret symbols like Emperor Roselle that only I can know!
That's what I wrote at the top of the page, in neat Loenese—the ordinary diary entry of John Lynch.
But below it, with the same thin ink, I began writing in English:
Visionary Pathway: Seq 9 Spectator
Main:Mature Manhal Fish Eyeball
Suppl:35ml Horned Black Goatfish Blood
80ml pure water,5 drops autumn crocus extract, 13g cow tooth paeonol powder
Acting:"Always watch, never perform"
I paused for a moment, ensuring my writing was small and tight. Anyone glancing at it would think it's meaningless scribbles, ornamental doodles.
This wasn't the first time. Since I realized my memories of the novel were starting to blur at certain points—names of deities, specific characters—I decided: what I still remember, I must record now.
But not in a foolish way.
I turned the page, wrote again in Loenese:
"Viola said I'm too tense. Maybe. But it's better to be tense than careless."
Then below it, in English:
Seq 8 Telepath – pituitary gland Rainbow Salamander, 10ml Farsman Rabbit CSF…
I then continued writing about various random thoughts in Loenese and listed the sequence names for the Visionary pathway, although I forgot the names for Sequences 2 and 3, so I ended up writing other names I knew, even though I didn't know the potion ingredients beyond Sequence 7.
I smirked slightly. It's a trick I learned from a junior at my office back then. He always hid project secrets among ordinary meeting notes.
But the difference, I thought bitterly, was he only hid client data. I'm hiding the recipes for godhood.
I kept writing, alternating between "John's" complaints and "my" memories.
Until finally,at the bottom of the page, there was one more line in English:
"I hope one day, these notes are just a strange memory. Not a survival guide."
But we both knew—me and this book—that was an empty hope.
In this world,knowledge is a weapon.
And this weapon I wrapped neatly in two layers of language,ready to be used or burned, depending on the need.
At least... the memories about this weren't erased. That was a positive aspect I could appreciate.
I then stretched my arms in the chair and immediately stood up. The joints of this body, still foreign to my own sensations, made soft cracking sounds, a small orchestra of tension accumulated since morning. My own breath sounded too loud in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room, as if the velvet and mahogany luxury absorbed not only sound but also courage.
My eyes, almost unconsciously, immediately went to the wall clock in the room—an intricate work of brass and ebony wood with a pendulum swinging in a constant metronome-like tick-tock. Its hands, slender and cruel, pointed to the number one. One o'clock in the afternoon. A time that felt like an anomaly. A whole day had been wasted, swept away in the current of foreign memories, divine puzzles, and dangerous conversations with a red-eyed merchant, and now the real world—John Lynch's world—demanded his appearance.
"The royal event, huh?" I mumbled, the two words feeling like bricks on my tongue. Yes, of course. The event that had been the source of Viola's anxiety at the breakfast table, the milestone of Charles's ambition, and the first real test of my acting. I couldn't forget that, just as I couldn't forget that the moon in this world was red. John Lynch's life didn't stop because of my arrival; his social wheels kept turning, and now those wheels would grind me before the princes and nobles of Loen.
With steps I deliberately made firm—an attempt to convince myself that I controlled these feet—I promptly left the room. The space that had initially felt like a gilded coffin now felt like a launchpad towards another battlefield.
The Lynch Manor corridor stretched before me, a long tunnel built from prosperity and pride. Now, in the afternoon, sunlight piercing through the tall, stained-glass windows gave a different light to all its opulence. The gold-framed paintings, which last night were only dark shadows, now displayed heroic scenes from Loen's history: naval battles with full-sailed ships, portraits of stern-faced industrialists, and pastoral countryside scenes that ironically felt very foreign to a family whose wealth was built on factory smoke and the sound of steam engines.
The preserved animal heads—a deer with magnificent antlers, a bear with jaws locked in an eternal snarl—stared at me with glassy, empty eyes. I walked past them, and for a nonsensical moment, I felt they understood my confusion better than the humans in this house. They too were intruders, displayed as trophies, their original identities emptied and filled with new meanings: conquest, wealth, power. Hey, at least we have that in common, I thought with bitter sarcasm.
As I walked, my mind spun faster than the gears in my father's factory. The royal event. What did I know? Almost nothing. John had vague memories of it—an important meeting at Backlund Palace, recognition for the family's contributions to the navy, a chance to meet Prince... Edessak?—like almost everything unrelated to Roselle or economics. How annoying. The original John probably prepared for this for weeks, memorizing protocols, names, and its petty politics. Me? I was busy arguing with my father about marriage and almost having a heart attack over a tarot card that said "Sequence 0."
I need information. And fast. Fritzh. He is the key. The old butler who has served this family longer than I've been alive, whose sharp black eyes have probably witnessed more Lynch secrets than anyone. He would know everything: who would attend, what to say, what not to touch, how to bow, perhaps even what color of underwear an heir should wear before a prince. A discomfort twisted in my stomach. Approaching Fritzh meant opening myself to his watchful observation. Every word, every expression, would be weighed and measured against his memories of the original John. But what choice did I have? Failing this test was not an option. Failure meant drawing attention, meant disappointing Charles in a dramatic way, meant—most terrifyingly—potentially altering the "plot" of John Lynch's life in unpredictable ways.
As I turned a corner in the corridor, deciding to head to the lower floor where Fritzh usually managed household affairs at this hour, a familiar figure emerged from behind an open door to a small music room.
Viola.
She looked like a fresher, more vibrant version of herself from the breakfast table this morning. Her simple morning dress had been replaced with more formal yet still elegant attire—a sky-blue afternoon dress with delicate white embroidery at the edges, her reddish-brown hair tied back with a matching ribbon. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and there was a small spark of satisfaction in her green eyes. She had just finished something, her etiquette class, I guessed. A faint, very faint, scent of rose and lily clinging to her, a mix of soft, feminine perfumes, assailed my senses before she even noticed my presence. It was a scent that felt real and human amidst all the deliberate smells of luxury in this house, and for a moment, it made my chest feel tight with a memory not my own: a young John, perhaps ten years old, laughing at his five-year-old sister walking with a book on her head while a strict etiquette teacher watched.
She paused for a moment, noticing my presence. An almost invisible process occurred: her posture, already upright, became slightly more perfect. Her shoulders lowered, her chin dipped slightly, then rose again. Her free hand moved with trained, automatic grace, smoothing the folds of her already immaculate dress. The movement was so smooth, so natural, like a bird preening its feathers. Then came the respectful nod, a very small but meaningful dip of the head, enough to show respect to her older brother and heir, but not so deep as to seem subservient. The smile that formed on her lips was thin and controlled, forming a perfect curve she had been taught since childhood. It was warm enough for a sibling yet retained the layer of cold propriety demanded by our family's social stratum. A beautiful mask, and she wore it with great skill.
"Finished with university, Brother?" Her voice was soft, yet clear like the sound of a small bell, breaking the silence of the corridor filled only by the sound of my own footsteps on the Persian carpet—or whatever it's called in this world.
Her voice—a voice that, according to John's memories, was cheerful and full of laughter when they were children, sharing secrets behind bedroom doors—now sounded like an instrument perfectly tuned. There was warmth there, I was sure, but it was warmth filtered through a sieve of strict discipline. I had to answer. John would answer. How did John answer?
"No," I said, and I tried to mimic the flat, slightly bored tone I often recalled from fragments of his memory about casual conversations. "I didn't attend classes today." I paused for a moment, giving her time to absorb that while my brain scrambled for a logical continuation. "There were some... matters that needed to be dealt with first." The word "matters" felt heavy and vague, a good blocking word. I looked at her eyes, hoping she would accept it.
And then, something strange happened. As I looked at the face of this sister who wasn't my sister, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of my own lips. Not my smile. It was an automatic reaction, a muscle twitch triggered by neural pathways built over years by the original John. This body remembered. This body, upon seeing Viola with that attentive expression, automatically wanted to show fondness. It felt strange and disturbing, like watching my own hand move on its own. I quickly suppressed the smile, returning my expression to neutral.
"Matters?" Viola raised one eyebrow. Just one. It was a small, meaningful gesture, mixing curiosity with shrewdness. A sharp glint of question shone behind her clear green eyes, like sunlight piercing the still water of a pond. "Is it something serious?" Her voice was still soft, but there was an edge underneath, an active sonar detecting inconsistencies.
She was too perceptive!
"Not really," I said, trying to keep my voice flat, unhurried. I decided to use a partial truth, wrapped in a lie. That's always safer. "Just buying some accessories for the event later. I want everything to be perfect." I shrugged slightly, a movement I hoped looked like the indifferent attitude of a rich playboy suddenly caring about his appearance due to an important event. I hoped my flat tone, which I spiced with a bit of the expected arrogance of a John Lynch, was convincing enough.
"Ah, I see," she uttered. Her words were neutral, but her eyes—her eyes did something else. They seemed to observe not just my face, but also the air around me, the tension in my shoulders, the way my hands clenched slightly. There was a pause, only a fraction of a second, but it felt like an eternity. In the vast silence of the corridor, I could hear the chime of a clock from a distant room, and the sound of my own pounding heartbeat in my ears. Did she see it? Did she sense that the person standing before her was an imitation?
Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. Her expression returned to the controlled smile, her social mask tightened again. The glint of shrewdness faded, replaced by polite deference. Perhaps I was just imagining things. Perhaps my own desire to remain hidden was making me paranoid.
"I hope the preparations go smoothly, Brother," she said, her tone returning to a soft, supportive note. Yet, there was something in the way she chose her words... "preparations." It was a broad word. Did she mean preparations for dressing, or preparations for facing the court of nobles, or... preparations for maintaining this great deception?
She then performed the next movement in their social dance. Her perfectly trained hand reached for the hem of her sky-blue dress again, her slender fingers lightly holding the fabric. She gave an elegant farewell with a slight bow, a dip of the head subtler than her greeting nod earlier. "Thank you for your time."
The sentence hung in the air. A formality, of course, but in her mouth, it sounded almost like an acknowledgment, an admission that John's time was a valuable commodity. Or perhaps it was her polite way of ending her little interrogation.
With that, she turned. Her steps were calm, confident, and perfect. Every movement was a statement of who she was: the well-educated Lynch daughter, a bright future, a player on the social chessboard her brother would attend later that night. She left me alone in the corridor that suddenly felt wider and emptier, the scent of rose and lily lingering as a ghost in the air.
Elizabeth, her ever-present personal maid, who had been standing silently a few steps behind with folded hands, promptly followed her mistress with silent, efficient steps. She didn't even glance at me, her focus entirely on Viola, another part of the smoothly running Lynch household machine.
I stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath I buried deep in John's lungs. The first contact of the day was over. I had survived. But the tension that followed the encounter didn't leave. It was just another reminder: in this house, even among family, I couldn't let my guard down. Viola might care, but she was also observant. And in this world, sharp observation could be a more dangerous weapon than that tackily-named red-eyed revolver.
Fritzh. I still had to find Fritzh. But now, after the interaction with Viola, that task felt twice as dangerous. I rubbed my face with my hand, feeling the smooth skin that wasn't mine, and forced my feet to move again. The corridor sloped downwards towards the more functional part of the house, leaving the display of luxury on the upper floor behind.