The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

George de la Pole:

If you still value your life and don't want to suffer the same fate as Isaac, never go home!

You know nothing of true power; stepping into the Motal Lake, you will only be a lamb with your throat slit!

—A person who knows the inside story

After reading the letter by the light of a kerosene lamp, George placed it on the table next to another open letter.

The first letter was a warning, written on rough paper with crooked handwriting; the second letter, however, was written on fine paper, and the handwriting seemed quite familiar to him.

To my son George:

My dear child, our family has fallen into decline.

But if you are reading this letter, please return to Paradise Island as soon as possible; we desperately need you now.

You should still remember our mansion, proudly magnificent and towering high on that island in the middle of the lake.

I have heard the Lord’s merciful words and am about to be called by His grace, but the territory and estate need a vigorous and young viscount.

Go home. While I am still alive, I will return to claim your inheritance. You are rightfully entitled to it.

Your father | September 22, 1859

George's brows furrowed just as they had when he first arrived six months ago and saw caregivers dressing manic patients in straitjackets.

"The Fate of Isaac"? His own adoptive father wants to burn him as a sacrifice to God?

He carefully examined the two letters.

The warning letter was unsigned and its contents were alarming, yet could not be verified.

His father's letter seemed perfectly reasonable, but in his memory, there had been no indication of such a serious illness in the previous Christmas letter.

On the other hand, the right to inherit a title is not something that comes easily; it would be too hasty to give it up based on just an anonymous letter.

As a time traveler, this identity is a crucial cornerstone of his future plans.

After a moment's hesitation, he stuffed the two letters back into the envelope and put them into the inside pocket of his coat.

As usual, George walked back to his residence in the village near the nursing home where he worked as the sky darkened.

When I returned to my room, the twilight outside the window was being swallowed up by the thick darkness.

George lit the kerosene lamp, intending to clear his mind, but found himself restless and his mind a jumble of thoughts.

too late.

Whatever happens next, he would rather wake up early tomorrow and face it with full energy.

So he simply followed his usual routine, washed up, and went to bed.

Exhaustion washed over me like a tide, but the contents of the two letters kept intertwining in my mind.

Finally, he fell asleep.

The dream arrived as expected, but it was not the chaotic and bewildering dream of the past.

George found himself sitting at a heavy, long table.

There were two cards on the large table, and he couldn't help but pick them up to examine them.

The first card depicts a letter with a wax seal.

[Letter from Family]

[Sexual Characteristics: Literature]

[A letter from an old family; the two writers seem to have different plans for the future, which they entrust to their respective envelopes and letter paper.]

The second card is a rough letter.

[Warning Letter]

[Sexual Characteristics: Literature]

This warning letter attempts to use stark language to caution returning travelers, yet a familiar concern permeates its words.

As he focused his mind on the first card, he "saw" a button appear on the edge of the card: {Use}.

After a moment's thought, he chose to "press".

In an instant, the card he "used" shattered and disappeared into specks of light.

At the same time, a message flashed between the points of light:

[Examining the letter, I realized my father still hoped I would return; examining the envelope, some familiar handwriting emerged—a possible path to finding a vendor selling problematic books.]

You have obtained: Directions to Moran Bookstore

A dead-end path on the lower Tames River leading to London came to George's mind.

He stared into thought as he looked at the card table in front of him.

"Lucid dreams, fantasies, hypnotic states... could these be considered some kind of cheat code?"

However, he soon fell back into the abyss of sleep amidst his hazy thoughts.

-----------------

In the early morning in the suburbs of London, George walked into the St. Simeon private nursing home, surrounded by high walls, through the fog.

In other words, a private mental hospital—where he himself had been a resident physician for the past six months since his transmigration.

Even now, the bizarre feeling of the card table and cards in the dream lingers.

And if things go smoothly enough today, he might witness something even more bizarre.

The ward on the third floor of the sanatorium still exuded a stale and oppressive atmosphere, and the sage-colored wallpaper looked even more worn in the morning light.

Mr. Leclerc, the first patient George was to see during his rounds, seemed unusually agitated today.

His deep-set eyes, bloodshot and fixed, stared intently out the window.

George saw only the typical, hazy autumn morning sky outside the window, but the patient clearly had a different perspective.

"I see it! Everything looks so strange under the cobalt blue sky, Doctor, look at those shadows!"

"Oh, how kind they are! They're calling me! Can you hear them? They're calling me!"

Yet another... the same hallucination appears in different guises in the mouths of different patients.

One or two times might be a coincidence, but five or ten times could indicate a new type of illness that warrants attention.

But the fact that as many as 43 patients spoke with one voice is somewhat unsettling.

Of course, as a time traveler and a doctor who served for half a year, George was now used to "pathetic madmen".

In the notebook illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window, he, as usual, cryptically wrote down some diagnoses:

The patient further described complex visual hallucinations: structural loss, celestial anomalies, dynamic light perception, etc.

Preliminary assessment of the cause: Perceptual distortion resulting from prolonged confinement, extreme sensory deprivation, and mental repression.

The patient in the hospital bed had a strange joy burning in his eyes, staring intently at the person in front of him.

"You see, Doctor, this world is not a very beautiful story for me. God has chosen the beginning and the end for me."

"Everything has been decided, and I, in my insignificance, am still unaware..."

Considering that the patient's wrists and ankles were fixed to the bed with tough leather straps, his posture was like a moth pinned to a spot, so his "joy" was somewhat strange.

"Doctor, I feel a little dizzy, but what do you think?"

George, following the original owner's habits, meticulously wrote down the patient's words, while casually dismissing them with:

"Perhaps for me, the world means making rounds every day until I get promoted."

Suddenly, the patient tried his best to get closer to the bedside.

George seemed to smell an unpleasant odor mixed with some kind of repulsive sweet-smelling smell approaching.

"You don't believe me? But you should have seen it, in your dreams. And I'm certain..."

George's face twisted slightly, he slammed the notebook shut with a "snap," and then stood up.

It wasn't in keeping with his usual style, but for some reason, he felt a sudden, inexplicable irritation.

"Our conversations are always very pleasant, Mr. Leclerc. But let's leave it at that for today."

The patients who were checked on later seemed to be more agitated than usual.

Like George's previous patients, they mentioned, to varying degrees, the cobalt blue sky, light and shadow, and a kind of "approaching gaze."

According to George, the time traveler, these images were all undeniably chilling.

Dean Warren was extremely enthusiastic about this and even asked him to make a special note of these "specific symptoms".

If he is going to London to send a telegram tomorrow, he will inevitably have to ask the dean for leave.

After surviving his morning shift, George knocked on the dean's office door after lunch.

Dean Warren was a slightly overweight, middle-aged man with meticulously combed hair.

"Ah, Dr. De Lapol, please have a seat."

When George came in, he showed no intention of putting down the pipe he was enjoying, but simply pointed to the chair opposite him.

"What discoveries did you make regarding the series of hallucinations about the 'cobalt blue sky' experienced by the 25 patients you treated?"

A warning bell rang in George's mind, and he answered cautiously:

"Yes, Dean, I think these recurring specific images may point to some new type of collective delusion that has not yet been discovered. Your suggestion to record these symptoms was correct."

"Very insightful, George. I've always thought you have exceptional insight."

Dean Warren leaned forward, lowered his voice, and his eyes flashed with a guiding light.

"Ordinary medical explanations may be too weak to address the collective hysteria among our patients. If you can uncover the secrets behind this, I believe it will be a very impressive resume for you, a distinguished student of the University of Edinburgh."

If it were the original owner of the body before the transmigration, perhaps they would be interested in this.

But after seeing the detailed study of the original owner, George, as an outsider, now only felt a chill run down his spine.