PFC Chapter 4530 The Darkest Night (58)
Chapter 4530 The Darkest Night (58)
Chapter 4530 The Darkest Night (58)
"No one knows how long the waves have eroded this cliff standing on the edge of the dark city; even the rocks seem exceptionally sharp. I could clearly see how time has shaped the wilderness. The wind came at the wrong time; I could smell a hint of the primal in it. The steaming seawater rose from my nostrils to my eyes, making them itch. This is how the Indians fled from the coast, never to set foot there again, just as they did thousands of years ago. But I had nowhere to retreat, like a gymnosperm swallowed by lava. Before the volcanic ash could even bury me, I had already become a withered fossil."
The total solar eclipse of 1873 was not an astronomical phenomenon at all. Now I understand this more deeply. They are the more terrifying cyclical patterns hidden behind nature. All disasters are not their intention; they are as ordinary as the rising and setting of the sun and moon. In some people's eyes, they are natural calamities common in a bleak and terrifying world. Perhaps, I will become one of them.
I, along with several other investigators, walked towards the cliff. No one had imagined that what seemed like an ordinary Heliopolis theological seminar would ultimately lead us here. It appeared we were forced into this vortex, yet every heavy step we took spoke of our own choice to stand on the edge of the precipice. Just like now—flocks of birds on the horizon began to fall.
—John Constantine, *The Riddle of Ra*.
“You really know how to keep people in suspense,” Victor said, holding the manuscript. “You’ve built up so much tension upfront, researching Egyptian mythology and tracking down the Hermits, and now you’re still going on and on about this cliff. Aren’t you afraid the readers will complain that you’re being too long-winded?”
“My readers love that,” Constantine said, leaning back in his recliner with his legs crossed on the footrest in front of him. “I’m not like you fledgling writers; I have a stable readership. They love lots of dark and mysterious descriptions. That’s why ‘The Shadow of Farajnes’ was so successful.”
"So what do you think of mine?" Victor asked. "Was my writing a bit too brief?"
“I haven’t read the cliff part yet,” Constantine said. “To be honest, you’ve written too much about his inner thoughts earlier. You could cut some of it. Also, I have to say, you have a really strong bias towards Schiller. I don’t know, I don’t know how you came up with so much description.”
“We’re friends,” Victor said. “Of course I know him very well.”
“80% of it is made up out of thin air,” Jason commented. “Look at this part, I don’t even know what to say. You two said these two sentences in the car, and you expanded them into this much? You should charge by word count, then you’d make a fortune.”
"When he got on the bus, Rodriguez was still damp. Rainy days are rare in Brudhaven. But when they do come, it's like being drenched in a non-existent rain. I often use this metaphor to describe Rodriguez's temperament—like a glass of tequila mixed with lead and rust. The dampness didn't make him any softer than before, but only added a layer of melancholy like the misty rain of Gotham."
The old car windows didn't close properly, and condensation seeping in through the cracks fogged the edges of his glasses. As he took them off to wipe them, I tried to joke with him: "You should be warned, Mr. Rodriguez. Our fuel tanks might stop working because of your staring." He always appreciated my humor, so he responded: "I thought a PhD in physics would know perfectly well that the engine is more important."
Then we started discussing the case. 'Unusual, Frith.' I certainly trusted his judgment. 'Mass hysteria? Perhaps we should consider the possibility of poisoning.' And, unsurprisingly, came the best reasoning he called the mechanical mind: 'I mean, mysticism, Frith. A living, breathing magician is sitting right here.'
'Completely clueless,' perhaps I uttered aloud. He turned to look at me, then simply pointed to the gun at my waist. I knew what I had to do—I began my mission the moment those men in black cloaks abruptly appeared below the cliff. I had to tell myself, 'Well done, Frith. Let these mysterious figures know they messed with the wrong person.' I fired—the sound startled the birds in the sky, but they plummeted into the sea as if struck, like a belated storm of death.
—Victor Frith, *The Rodriguez Stories*.
"How dare you say that to him?" Jason commented. "You two are the best examples of the phrase 'keeping people in suspense'."
“Not at all, I have an extra section compared to him.” Victor pointed to the manuscript and then said, “I wrote about the appearance of the mysterious man.”
"But you still haven't introduced them. Or did you leave a foreshadowing that I didn't see?" Jason flipped through the manuscript.
Victor was losing his patience. He snatched the manuscript, flipped to the page, and said, "Here you go. See? When the detective visited the apartment at night, he found some unusual traces of a guy, and then we were attacked during the day. That's the foreshadowing."
"But there was still no introduction whatsoever."
“Look ahead, there’s more,” Victor said, flipping to the next page. “After the shooting, I added a digression—I already knew shooting wouldn’t kill them. Doesn’t that connect to the results of my occult research?”
“It’s still the result of my research,” Jason said.
Victor stood up, picked up the manuscript that was in front of Jason, and said, "You wrote that so easily. I doubt anyone wouldn't be interested in the diary of a librarian at Gotham University."
"Standing on the cliff, seeing those people in black cloaks rushing out from below, I suddenly remembered that night three months after I became the librarian at Gotham University. It was one of the few experiences that still gave me the creeps. As always, I will attach the original diary entry here."
It's so cold today. I don't know why the fireplace won't light; maybe it's because it rained this morning. Today I sorted through six poems. I really liked two of them. The rest lacked literary merit; they were written with too much passion. But I didn't have high hopes anyway. Just finding these hidden gems is enough to make this job worthwhile.
The person who borrowed the book came to return it a couple of days ago. I recognized him just as it was getting dark. His condition had worsened; his breathing was labored. That substance was affecting him more and more deeply. I gave him some of the medicine the blue tentacle had left me; I don't know if it will work. There was also some slime on the book. I could tell he was very apologetic. I knew I couldn't refuse to return it. Otherwise, the book might bring him even greater disaster.
I didn't know why he borrowed the Book of Iod, and I wanted to ask him, but I was afraid he'd bring up something that would worsen his situation. In the end, I agreed to return it. But the moment I started cleaning up the slime, I regretted it. Damn it, this stuff is so hard to wipe off.
Just as I was struggling to deal with the sticky black substance, a voice rang out. I looked up and saw someone even more troublesome than the slime leaning against the counter.
Out of respect for his privacy, I have omitted his name. All I can say is that he was once a world-renowned magician, but also infamous in the magical world, or perhaps, in hell as well.
I didn't expect him to recognize the book in my hand and ask to borrow it, but I had to refuse. The book hadn't been cleaned properly, and lending it out again might damage it, which wouldn't be good. Although I only came here to apply for the librarian job to think about my life plans, I had to do my job since I was getting paid.
When he started talking to me about the book, he mentioned something that piqued my interest. This book seemed to be merely an appendix to another book, and the Greek manuscript of that book was now in the British Museum. According to him, it was a very terrible book of curses. If I ever have the chance to go to England, I'll definitely see it.
Clearly, I hadn't realized then what kind of vortex this conversation would drag me into. While I was working through the night cleaning up the Book of Eodor, late at night, I was resting in the lounge when a noise suddenly came from the bookshelf. I grabbed the hunting rifle lying nearby.
However, my former librarian warned me not to go outside after 1 a.m., no matter what noise I heard. He strictly followed this rule and lived to retirement. I've already started thinking about studying in Europe, so there's no need to cause trouble now.
About ten minutes later, the noise outside the door stopped. I assumed they had left, so I went to the door to listen carefully. Just as I approached the door, the window of the lounge was pushed open.
When that old, creaking sound came from behind me, I mustered all my strength to keep from turning around. I gripped my shotgun tightly, but in the reflection of the metal barrel, I saw a large, dark blue hand—I think it was four feet long—grab the still-cleaned Book of Iod from the table and vanish in a flash.
I stood frozen by the door, lost in thought for a long time. His words from earlier that day kept replaying in my mind. There was a group of people searching the world for cursed texts, including the Greek manuscript he mentioned in the British Museum. So the appendix to that book must also be within their search. I should be more vigilant.
I know the rules here. The librarian is responsible for protecting every book. If someone borrows a book and doesn't return it, or steals a book, the librarian must retrieve it. Otherwise, I won't live to retire.
I gripped my shotgun tightly again, pondering the 'Hidden Ones.' It must be them, that infamous occult group, audaciously targeting Gotham. And in Gotham, there's an ironclad rule—how much you get back depends solely on how many bullets are in your gun. I'll make them regret this decision.
—From *The Gotham University Librarian's Diary*, by Jason Todd.