The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

The small study on the second floor of Paradise Island Manor.

The autumn sun streamed through the gleaming glass windows, bathing the room in a warm glow.

Lady Violet, leaning on her cane, slowly strolled in.

Albert was sitting behind his desk, with a stack of neatly categorized ledgers spread out in front of him.

His brows furrowed slightly behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he held the pen, the tip of which rose and fell repeatedly on the paper.

Upon seeing his mother enter, he quickly put down his pen and stood up.

"Mother, why did you come all the way here?" Albert pulled out the armchair opposite the old lady and then went back behind the table.

"We have to go and take a look." The old lady's gaze fell on the pile of account books on the table. "How are the recent accounts? Is the manor still able to operate?"

Albert sighed and casually patted the ledger.

"The land rent accounts are fairly normal. The tenant farmers haven't had an easy year either, but the rent is still being collected. However, the surplus is limited, not even enough to cover the manor's daily expenses. Besides..."

He paused, then opened another book.

The cover of this book is deeper, bound with thin rope, and features a large, openwork isometric cross.

"This is Edward's own portion—his 'production' income and expenses." Albert's voice carried a hint of helplessness. "He has always managed it independently, with only specific 'supplements' to the estate owner's accounts. That's where the problem lies."

The old lady didn't reply, but just waited quietly.

"In the expenses section, numerous bills for orders are continuously arriving from London and even further afield. Materials, instruments, special commissions..."

"The amount is not small, and I've already had Thomas check the payments for some of them," Albert said, rubbing his temples. "But the income and expenditure are completely a mess."

He helplessly spread his hands: "The sales records of those 'products' and the transactions with specific individuals are only known to Edward himself. There's no way to keep track of them after he fell into a coma. How much inventory is left? Which orders are still in progress? Which ones have been delivered?... I'm completely in the dark."

As the old lady listened, the wrinkles on her face seemed to deepen. She knew about her son's "special business," but had never really interfered.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to help." Her voice was weary. "This family can't rely on you anymore."

Albert nodded, not insisting.

After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked, "Mother, has George seen these accounts?"

The old lady was taken aback: "George? Why do you ask that?"

“No particular reason,” Albert picked up his pen again, “it just seems these ledgers were touched before they were sent to me. Especially the details of the expenses; some of them are in a different position than before. I think perhaps George was curious about his father’s affairs?”

The old lady pondered for a moment, then shook her head: "I haven't heard him mention it. He's been staying in that makeshift alchemy room on the third floor lately, saying he's organizing the documents his father left behind. Perhaps it was just something the servants did unintentionally while organizing them."

Albert hummed in agreement, then changed his tone slightly: "Let's not talk about these troublesome matters. James McGill's itinerary has been telegraphed; he'll arrive at the estate the day after tomorrow to handle the inheritance procedures."

Mentioning this, the old lady's expression relaxed slightly: "Has Mr. McGill handled similar matters before?"

"He is a well-known lawyer who specializes in handling matters involving aristocratic families, especially those with complex backgrounds," Albert said, looking at the old lady through his glasses.

"There shouldn't be any major problems with the procedures. Edward had intended for George to get involved in family affairs as soon as possible, so most of the paperwork should be ready. The key lies in the actual handover and management of the estate and... other assets."

As he said this, a bitter smile appeared on his lips: "Anyway, I don't have to cover the deficit. Once the inheritance procedures are settled, I'll immediately go back to London; I have a lot of things to take care of there. I've been on this island for too long; I've almost forgotten the sound of opera."

The old lady nodded gently, her gaze drifting to the faintly visible lake shoreline outside the window.

"Yes, you have your own life too. I should go back to Harwood Manor after Christmas." She patted the blanket on her lap.

"I absolutely loved this place when I was young, but now I just can't get used to the perpetual dampness on the island in the middle of the lake. After living here for a while, my joints start to ache."

Albert looked at his mother with concern: "When would you like to go back? I can arrange it..."

"No rush." ​​The old lady waved her hand. "Let's get the knighthood settled first. I'll feel at ease leaving once I see that George can take over smoothly."

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

At approximately the same time, in the temporary alchemy room on the third floor.

George stood at the workbench, watching William Eliot, who was practically "gesturing wildly," in front of him.

This newly converted "believer" is trying to distort the light in front of his face, like molding an invisible lump of clay.

This made his expression quite comical.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, but his eyes shone with an irrepressible joy and light.

"Young...Young Master!" Elliott's voice trembled with excitement.

"I can feel it... I can feel them 'resonating,' just like in the book, matter, light, and... a law. I can grasp the light, sir!"

He carefully released his thoughts, and the spiral beam of light instantly dispersed, restoring his face from the funhouse mirror effect.

Elliott let out a long breath, then turned to George, his face filled with pure and unadulterated joy.

"You're right, sir. That potion, and that 'power' you mentioned... I feel I can do far more than I thought!"

George smiled slightly, but a complex mix of emotions welled up inside him.

Fortunately, the resonance of matter quietly opened the door to Elliott's long-dormant talent, and he arrived just in time.

The servants carried Eliot, who had just woken up and thought he had relapsed, up to the third floor from the servants' quarters downstairs. The whole process was uneventful and no trouble was caused.

At that moment, he could tell that Elliott was exposed to the spirit world, his face buried in the freshly polished leather shoes in his hands, while his spirit had flown beneath the surface of the world.

His ability to enter the spirit world so easily is perhaps due to his talent.

That's good, at least it looks good for now.

But beneath the surface of "goodness," George knew perfectly well what kind of vortex he had dragged a mere mortal into.

This is not as simple as providing a decent job or solving some livelihood difficulties.

This forcibly dragged him from the stable surface world into a bizarre world behind the curtain, filled with inhuman temptations and eternal struggles.

Elliott was within reach; after all, his life wasn't that of an NPC in a game. From the moment he was granted the secret teachings, he was destined to never return to a mundane existence.

George can create characters in GTA, be refined and easygoing in Red Dead Redemption, and be a slacker in Stellaris, but he finds it hard to take the fate of a real person in stride.

How much does the fate of a living person weigh? He will probably find out soon enough.