Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics-Chapter 5543 - 4569: Blackest Night (58)

"No one knows exactly how long the cliff standing at the edge of the City of Darkness has been eroded by the waves, even the rocks seem exceptionally sharp. On it, I can clearly see how time shapes the wilderness. The wind arrives untimely, and I catch a whiff of something primal, the steamy seawater rises up my nostrils into my eyes, making them itch. The Indians once retreated from the coast, never stepping foot there again, like thousands of years ago. But I have no choice but to stay, like a gymnosperm consumed by lava, turning into a withered fossil even before the volcanic ash begins to bury it.

The total solar eclipse of 1973 was not an astronomical phenomenon at all. At this moment, I understand this more profoundly than ever. They are more frightening cyclical laws concealed behind nature. All disasters are not their intention, just as ordinary as the rising and setting of the sun and moon. In the eyes of some, they are common natural disasters in the gray and horrific world. Perhaps, I’m one of them too.

I, along with several other investigators, walked toward the cliff. No one expected that the seemingly ordinary Heliopolis theology seminar would ultimately lead us here. It seems we are being dragged into this whirlpool, yet the heavy steps of everyone tell that we proactively stand on the edge of the cliff. Right at this moment - flocks of birds on the horizon start to fall.

——"The Mystery of Ra" by John Constantine."

"You really know how to keep people in suspense," Victor said while holding the manuscript, "You’ve built up the story for so long, researching Egyptian mythology and tracking the concealer, and when it comes to the cliff, you’ve laid out such a long setup. Aren’t you afraid readers will criticize you for dragging it on too much?"

"My readers love this style," Constantine reclined on the lounge chair, crossing his feet on the footstool in front, "I’m not like you budding new writers, I have a stable readership. They enjoy a heavy dose of obscure and mysterious descriptions. ’The Gloom of Faralines’ was wildly successful precisely because of this."

"How do you feel about mine?" Victor asked, "Does my writing seem too brief?"

"I haven’t read the cliff part yet," Constantine said, "Honestly, you’ve overdone the psychological activities in the beginning. You might want to trim some of it. Also, I must say, your filter for Shiller is too thick. I have no idea how you managed to come up with so much description."

"We’re friends," Victor said, "I know him well."

"80% of it is pure fabrication," Jason commented from the side, "Look at this part, I don’t even know what to say. Just the two lines you spoke in the car, expanded to this length? You should charge by word, you could earn a fortune."

"Rodriguez still carried the damp water vapor on him when he got into the car. Rainy days in Brude Haven are uncommon, but when they do come, it’s like being drenched by an imaginary rain. I often use such metaphors to describe Rodriguez’s character—like a cup of tequila mixed with lead gray and rust, the dampness hasn’t made him softer than usual, it just adds a layer of gloom like Gotham’s foggy rain.

The window of the old car didn’t close tightly, and the water vapor seeped through the cracks, leaving a white mist on the edge of his glasses. When he took off his glasses to wipe them, I tried to joke with him: ’You should come with a warning, Mr. Rodriguez. Our fuel tank might stall due to your gaze.’ He always appreciated my humor, so he replied: ’I thought a PhD in Physics would know engines are more important.’

Then we discussed the case. ’Unusual, Fries.’ I certainly trust his judgment. ’Mass hysteria? Maybe we should consider the possibility of poisoning.’ And then came what he called the best deduction from a mechanical mind: ’I mean mysticism, Fries. A living magician might be sitting here.’

’Clueless’ might have slipped from my mouth. He turned to look at me, then simply pointed to the gun at my waist. I knew what I had to do—when those black-cloaked figures abruptly appeared below the cliff, I began to fulfill my mission. I had to tell myself: ’Good job, Fries. Let these mysterious people know that messing with you is messing with the wrong person.’ I fired—the sound startled the birds in the sky, but they fell into the sea as if hit, like a belated death storm.

——"Rodriguez Detective Collection" by Victor Fries."

"You dare to criticize him?" Jason remarked, "You two are the best definition of keeping people in suspense."

"Come on, I added a section," Victor pointed at the manuscript, then said, "I wrote about the appearance of the Mysterious Man."

"But you didn’t introduce them. Did you leave some foreshadowing earlier that I missed?" Jason flipped through the earlier pages of the manuscript.

Victor lost some patience, directly grabbing the manuscript and flipping to the page, then said: "Here, see this? When the Detective visited the apartment at night, he found unusual traces of some guy, and then we were ambushed in daylight. That’s the foreshadowing."

"But still no introduction."

"Look back, there’s more behind." Victor flipped further and said, "After the gunshot, I added a flashback—I knew all along that shooting wouldn’t kill them. Doesn’t this just tie back to the results of our mysticism research?"

"Still, it’s the result of my research," Jason said.

Victor stood up, picked up the manuscript in front of Jason, then said, "It’s easy for you to write. No one would be uninterested in the Gotham University Librarian’s Diary."

"As I stood on the cliff, seeing those black-cloaked figures rushing out from below, I suddenly recalled the night three months after becoming the Gotham University librarian. It was one of the few experiences that even made me feel eerie. As always, I’ll attach the original entry from my diary here.

* Today is too cold. For some reason, the fireplace just wouldn’t light, perhaps because it had just rained this morning. Today, I sorted six poetry collections. I liked two of them. The rest lacked some literary quality, created with too much fervor, but I didn’t have high expectations. Finding these neglected gems is enough to justify this job.

The other day, the person who borrowed a book returned it. I recognized him at dusk. His condition had worsened, his breathing was labored. That thing’s corrosion on him deepens by the day. I gave him some medicine that the blue tendrils left for me, not sure if it would work. There was some mucus on the book. I could see he felt very sorry. I knew I couldn’t refuse its return. Otherwise, this book might bring him even greater disaster.

I didn’t know why he borrowed this ’Book of Eiod.’ I wanted to ask, but feared he might mention something that could worsen his condition. In the end, I agreed to the return. But I regretted it the moment I started cleaning the mucus. Damn it, this stuff is hard to wipe off.

While I was trying to tackle that sticky black substance, a voice spoke out. I looked up. A person more troublesome than this mucus was leaning against the counter.*

To protect privacy, I have omitted this person’s name. All I can say is he was a world-renowned magician, infamous both in the magic realm and, perhaps, in Hell.

* I didn’t expect him to recognize the book in my hands and request to borrow it, but I had to refuse. Since the book’s residue wasn’t cleaned off, lending it out again could damage it, which wouldn’t be good. Although I only took this librarian job to ponder my life path, since I’m paid, I must work.

When he started talking about the book, he mentioned something that intrigued me. This book seemed to be merely an appendix to another book, whose Greek manuscript is currently at the British Museum. According to him, it’s a very terrifying curse book. If I get the chance to go to England, I would like to witness it.*

Apparently, at that time, I didn’t realize what kind of whirlpool this conversation would drag me into. While cleaning the "Book of Eiod" overnight, in the latter half of the night, I was resting in the lounge, and suddenly there was a disturbance in the book area. I grabbed the shotgun beside me.

However, the former librarian had warned me never to go out regardless of any noise after one o’clock at night. He lived to retirement by strictly following this rule. I’ve considered studying in Europe, so there’s no need to cause trouble now.

After about ten minutes, the noise outside ceased. I thought they left, so I went to the door to listen closely. As I approached the door, the window of the lounge opened.

The old creaking sound came from behind me, and I mustered all my strength to prevent myself from turning around. I gripped the shotgun tightly, but from its metallic reflection, I saw a dark greenish hand—about four feet long—snatch the still-unclean "Book of Eiod" from the table, and it vanished with a whizz.

I stood by the door, unable to return to my senses for a long time. The man’s words from the day flooded my mind again. A group is hunting for cursed tomes worldwide, including the Greek manuscript he mentioned hidden at the British Museum. Their hunt likely targets this book’s appendix, too. I need to be more vigilant.

I know the rules here. Librarians bear the responsibility to protect every book. If someone doesn’t return a book or steals a tome, librarians must retrieve the stolen items, or else, I won’t live to retirement.

Re-gripping the shotgun, I pondered about the ’Concealers.’ It must be them, this infamous mysticism sect, audaciously eyeing Gotham. And in Gotham, there’s an iron law—how much you can recover depends on how many bullets you have in your gun. I’ll make them regret this decision.

—— ’Gotham University Librarian’s Diary’ Jason Todd."