The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

In the restaurant of Paradise Island Manor, servants cleared away the cutlery and set out exquisite cheese platters.

The afternoon sun was shining brightly, and the air still carried the warm aroma of venison pie and apple dessert.

Uncle Albert was having a pleasant conversation with his guest, who was recounting with great interest an anecdote from his early days at Scotland Yard. Miss Kelly occasionally chimed in with a witty comment, eliciting chuckles from the crowd.

But Frederick de la Pole was not interested in it.

He is never the center of attention, and rarely even participates in conversations—that's not his style.

He had been told time and again that he could bring the conversation to a close in just three minutes.

He quickly finished the food on his plate, his gaze occasionally drifting to the window.

As he put down his napkin and stood up, Uncle Albert asked with concern, "Fred, are you feeling unwell?"

"No, Uncle. It's just...drawing."

As usual, Frederick glossed over the matter.

After leaving the restaurant, he returned to his room, picked up his leather art supply bag with practiced ease, and held his slightly worn sketchbook in his other hand.

Several elders mysteriously failed to appear for days on end, and the uncle even went so far as to put on a show of peace in front of the guests.

He knew there was a reason behind it, but he was happy to enjoy the time when he wasn't being noticed.

He was stuck at the mansion all afternoon yesterday, and Frederick felt he was about to lose his temper.

After all, climbing to the rooftop and casually sketching the island's outline under the warm autumn sun was his only "escape" each day.

As he had done every day for the past few years, he arrived at the oak door leading to the top floor.

But today, he discovered that the door was ajar.

Frederick squinted and pushed the door open a crack.

Through the crack in the door, he saw a figure that shouldn't have been there.

In a corner of the rooftop terrace, away from the skylight and openings, the elder brother George, on whom "high hopes were placed," stood with his back to the door.

In front of him was a strange little wooden platform, on which sat a transparent glass cauldron, beneath which seemed to be some kind of base covered with markings.

What Frederick found most unusual was—

It was noon, and the autumn sun shone brightly on the entire rooftop, making everything glitter in a golden atmosphere.

But right in front of George, he lit four large candles, the flames dancing on their golden surfaces in the midday sun.

His elder brother was looking down, holding a silver stick and stirring the liquid in the glass pot in a certain pattern.

As he moved, the slightly turbid liquid in the pot began to change.

Wisps of golden light emerged from the depths, like broken sunlight being kneaded and melted into it.

The liquid gradually became clear and transparent, with a soft, milky-white sheen.

Frederick, standing behind the crack in the door, unconsciously held his breath, a strange emotion welling up inside him.

Look, from grandparents to parents, to elder brothers, and even the servants of the manor, no one can escape these "strange and supernatural beings".

Although the sun was shining brightly on the rooftop, Frederick felt as if he were in a torrential downpour of freezing rain in the shady corner just a door away.

The torrential rain and thunder that tore through the night when his mother passed away still haunt his dreams every night for the past five years.

Since the return of this elder brother, the terrors of the past have returned to the manor.

Or perhaps, they never left?

Frederick's nostrils flared, his lips twitched and drooped, and his eyes narrowed uncontrollably as he silently took a step back, then another.

His face was filled with a variety of emotions.

Fear, disgust, temptation, excitement, craving...

If the price of being cared for is exposure to these things, he would rather leave and become the king of his own kingdom.

Just like he always has.

The second son of the De La Porte stretched out his arm, gently closed the door, and then turned and left quickly and silently.

My interest in sketching on the rooftop has completely vanished.

He needs some peace and quiet, he needs to get away from all of this, away from everything in this mansion right now.

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

On the other side of the rooftop, George was completely focused on the refining process before him.

Spiritual energy, like mercury, was guided by a silver stirring rod and poured into a glass vessel, where it resonated subtly with the fully blended liquid, purified by sunlight.

The exact details of the recipe for Morgan le Fay's Holy Grail Spring were clearly visible in his mind.

Every step, every proportion, every wisp of spiritual infusion, once imbued with the essence of the card, becomes second nature.

As the last syllable fell, spiritual energy was infused, and the liquid in the glass vessel suddenly rippled.

All the golden and milky light that had appeared instantly receded, condensing into a pale red.

The roses are just beginning to bloom, sharing the rosy color on her face, or something like that.

A sweet, intoxicating fragrance wafted from the pot, instantly filling the entire rooftop.

Morning dew, summer honeycomb, autumn cider, and a certain lingering sweetness—perhaps a thousand wine tasters would give a thousand different answers.

George let out a long breath, put down the stirring rod, and looked with satisfaction at the approximately one liter of finished product in the pot.

The Holy Grail of Morgan le Fay has been successfully crafted.

He quickly took out a set of glass bottles and measuring cups that he had prepared.

Measure out approximately 200 ml, pour it into the bottle, and seal it tightly with the cork. Then do the second, the third…

It was divided into five bottles in total.

There was still about half a measuring cup of liquid left at the bottom of the pot.

George didn't waste any; he poured himself a small glass, the pale red liquid swirling gently in the glass, reflecting a pleasing, jewel-like luster in the sunlight.

A tribute to the first alchemy.

George took a sip, and it tasted surprisingly good.

A fine sparkling wine with the flavors of apple juice, honey, and lemon.

George finished the drink in one gulp, feeling a warm current slide from his throat into his stomach, and then gently spread throughout his body.

With a cheerful heart, he packed up all the tools, along with the five bottles of potion, and put them into a basket. After cleaning up the scene, he carried the basket back to his temporary alchemy room.

After the items were properly placed, George immediately drifted into consciousness and summoned the card table.

On the surface of the card table, the recipe card for "Morgan Lefebvre's Holy Grail Spring" still floated, with a newly condensed potion card next to it.

He focused his mind and read the detailed information that appeared on the card:

[Morgan Lefebvre's Holy Grail Spring (Five Servings)]

[Sexual attributes: candle, wine, medicine]

[A bright and vibrant drink... made by a beginner, but with excellent presentation.]

【Effects: 1. Removes the effects of "Abyss" rules at level 4 and below (except for "Starry Night"); 2. Alleviates trauma to the "Elemental Body".】

Could we not only deal with the pollution of the "Abyss," but also the influence of the "Laughing Master"?

Without the slightest hesitation, George immediately rang the bell rope.

A moment later, Elliott entered, looking quite well, but George could still easily detect a certain gloom between his brows.

"Young Master, you wanted to see me?"

"William, I have a preliminary solution for your condition."

George spoke gently as he took out a bottle of medicine and handed it to him.

"Drink this."

Elliott didn't ask any questions, took the bottle, and uncorked it.

The sweet scent immediately invigorated him.

He tilted his head back and drank the pale red liquid in the bottle in one gulp.