Academic gathering with a lich-Chapter 48 - 47 Mr. Journalist of the Secret Pact

Mr. Dark quickly returned to his independent room, where everything had been tidied up as if a theatrical troupe had disbanded.

The bed canopy crawled back to the ridge of the roof and transformed into stone carvings, while the bone throne creaked and stretched, dividing into the skeletons of sheep, dogs, and deer. The soul flames reignited within their eye sockets, though the eerie feeling was hardly diminished.

The gathered crowd shed their black robes and, like ant colonies returning to their nest, burrowed into their respective rooms.

The scene reverted to a genuinely literary society atmosphere.

"How do you feel, Child of the Holy Light?" teased a voice from behind. A gentleman in a suit carefully folded his black robe, clearly having been a part of the performance.

"Shocked, and a sense of shame that’s hard to describe."

The gentleman held his mask in one hand and covered his face, "It’s only been one time for you."

"Should I be satisfied? Why participate in such a shameless performance?"

"Because it’s necessary. Mr. Dark, he has a bit of... um... that kind of unrealistic, inability to distinguish the real world, way of thinking."

That is adolescence.

"Moreover, an inflated self-awareness can affect his combat ability. We must assist in maintaining his high-level combat power to deal with Raymond, who may come to exchange feelings at any time."

"Come on, let me introduce you to a few friends; you might deal with them often in the future."

And with that, he was led through a side door.

Behind the door was a typical reading room, with decor similar to the style of Cup of Luxury, a large round table in the center, bookshelves on both sides, and two figures turning their heads at Lyle’s arrival.

One was wrapped like the epitome of chaotic fashion, with a Deer Antler Crown atop his head, a shirt of unknown animal skin, a grass skirt tightly tied around his waist, and white fuzzy stockings on his legs that had just come into vogue. A combination of pieces from different eras, it felt like an advertisement forcefully inserted mid-video, assaulting your eyesight. Two things became clear: first, the vast span of human clothing evolution; second, the severe extent of human idiocy.

The other was hardly better off. Buried in manuscripts, he wore a Greek-style silk robe, thin enough to hang loosely on his body. In theory, the remaining skin exposed to the elements should have merged naturally with the surroundings, like a figure immersed in a timeless oil painting. However, the remaining parts were mechanical. His limbs were mechanical, as was the cubic metal head, resembling a brain or a helmet, that topped his neck. The clash of nostalgic and futuristic styles resulted in a comedic and cringe-inducing sensation beyond time, analogous to the notions of an omnipotent Gatling Bodhisattva and an all-knowing nuclear deity.

"You might not recognize him, but this is Mr. Journalist," the gentleman pointed to the man with the deer head.

"And this is..."

"William Wyran," interrupted the mechanical scholar.

"We like to call him Mr. Delusion. As for why, you’ll find out soon enough."

Mr. Journalist stood up, stabilizing his Deer Antler Crown that began to sway with inertia. He grasped Lyle’s arm with earnest enthusiasm.

"Plague Doctor, we missed the chance for a heart-to-heart talk last time due to special circumstances. The regret from last time has been transformed into this opportunity. Fortune truly favors me."

Lyle watched the Deer Antler Crown wobble with the journalist’s handshake, the sharp ends nearly poking his own head.

Leaning back slightly, "I’m also very pleased to see you again, Mr. Journalist."

"Hehe, be sure to patronize my shop when you have the chance. You can tell at a glance that Plague Doctor is a very sincere buyer."

"Hmm? Is Mr. Journalist a businessman?"

"I sell some special things."

"Hmm."

"With me, you can trade secrets."

"Secrets?"

"Yes," Mr. Journalist vigorously rubbed his hands together, "Private, unknown to others, buried deep in the heart, those that overturn a normal image, the meticulously concealed secrets. The thought of these disguised things being unveiled before me excites me as much as the goddess in my dreams lifting her skirt."

"But if it’s a secret that one doesn’t want to be known, why trade it?" That’s clearly not achievable.

"Because everyone actually harbors a sinful pleasure in peeking into others’ secrets. They want to keep their own secrets, but they also crave to know others’, and the price, naturally, is their own secrets. My rule is that I will never make public the secrets I learn; that’s the first layer of security I offer. I decide what secret you get based on what you share, and that’s the second layer. Third, I won’t include anyone’s name in the secret I give to you, but I will provide some guidance."

"It’s an interesting game, a bit dangerous, but sufficiently enticing. People always get immersed in the thrill of uncovering secrets."

"But if one can’t choose the secret they wish to know, why would they willingly divulge their own?"

The reporter let out a heh-heh sound, like a crow cawing at dusk, and he pointed at himself, speaking as if laying a net.

"Because the secrets I share always satisfy them."

Like a sullen, shadowy old man skulking in a dark corner engaging in shameless acts.

However, if one could gain a secret that’s useful to them while the price is just having their own secret known by someone insignificant, they’d probably be tempted, wouldn’t they?

But there’s another issue, which is credibility. People deposit money in banks because banks guarantee the safety of their funds, but what does Mr. Reporter rely on? His personal moral code is likely not enough to convince others.

"My talent is called Pact-Maker. I gain power from knowing secrets, which affects various aspects of my life: luck, wealth, and abilities. I’m a natural trading post for secrets, and my talent also binds me; those rules are part of it. Besides, I can discern truth from lies."

"What if you break the rules?"

"I won’t break them—there are no ’ifs.’ Talents are god-given. He who bestows can also take away, and the price is not something we can endure."

In other words, Mr. Reporter would enforce those rules compulsorily, unless the trade’s conditions are established, and he wouldn’t mention the secrets he’s trusted with to anyone.

"Mr. Reporter, it must be hard for you, after all, holding onto secrets without being able to tell them."

"Would you stop making money because your hand aches from counting it?"

That makes sense.

"So, Mr. Reporter, can I trade with you now?" Lyle was a bit interested.

"Of course you can." Mr. Reporter also rubbed his hands together with a cheery smile.

"Don’t we need to find a secluded place?"

"No need. As soon as you feel the urge to confide a secret to me, the Secret Pact begins, and only the two of us will know the content of this conversation."

"Oh, I see."

Lyle was contemplating what secrets he might have.

"Actually, my desire is to make a lot of money."

"Oh, I see."

"And then?"

"There’s no ’then’."

"But didn’t you say that you’re supposed to reveal a secret to me too?"

The reporter stepped back, and Lyle felt the secretive atmosphere dissipate; he heard the surrounding noises again.

Is the Secret Pact over? Where’s the thing? What about my secret?

"Mr. Plague Doctor, a secret only remains a secret if it is known only to oneself. You chose frankness, so it’s not a secret anymore. Besides, even if it were a secret, if it’s something I already know, the Secret Pact does not hold."

"When you’ve truly thought things through, let’s trade then."