3. The Historical Society

Professor Bright was Silas Noel’s mentor during his two years as an apprentice.

He was a man nearing sixty, with slightly messy brown hair streaked with white, and an unkempt appearance. A widower with no wife or children, he was always guarded about his past.

Still, he was a strict yet kind mentor. His amber eyes always gleamed with a sharp, cunning intelligence. Academically, he had been a tremendous help to Silas.

During yesterday’s interview at the university, Professor Bright had subtly encouraged Silas not to be nervous, as if the position was already reserved for him. It was unclear how much influence Bright had exerted.

Silas took a few steps forward to greet Professor Bright.

Bright wore a warm reddish-brown robe that covered his short, sturdy frame. A small man with a ruddy complexion, he looked healthy and robust. Soon, he hurried up to Silas.

Before saying a word, he glanced at the state of the office and exclaimed, “What in the world is this?!”

Silas said, “I haven’t had a chance to tidy it up.”

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Bright gave his former student a mildly disapproving look. “Young folks just out of school…” he muttered to himself. “Come on, we’ll head to the cafeteria later.”

They roughly organized the documents and papers in the office. As for the dust and grime, they were helpless for now. Soon, Silas selected a few manuscripts related to course content, planning to study them later.

After finishing, he asked Bright, “Professor, has Professor Cabell retired?”

“Of course,” Bright replied. “He said he was too old to continue teaching. But his health seems fine to me—who knows what’s going on with him.”

Bright’s tone betrayed clear dissatisfaction with Cabell.

Professor Cabell was well-known in the Department of Literature and History. Among the several professors studying literary history, Cabell was the most reclusive—a solitary, white-haired eccentric.

When Silas was still a student, he often heard classmates speak of Cabell behind his back, their tone and comments dripping with disdain.

The original Silas’s interactions with Cabell were limited to a single specialized elective course. Cabell didn’t seem to mentor apprentices or interact much with other professors, instead immersing himself in some personal research.

The department’s attitude toward him was ambiguous—seemingly supportive, yet allowing rumors to circulate unchecked.

Silas asked, “Why was I chosen, then?”

Bright hesitated before admitting, “They originally planned to give the position to Cabell’s teaching assistant. You remember that gloomy young man?” When Silas nodded, he continued, “But they couldn’t get in touch with him.”

Silas asked, surprised, “Couldn’t get in touch?”

“Right,” Bright said. “With the semester about to start, he hadn’t submitted his teaching plan. The dean tried contacting him but couldn’t find him or anyone close to him.

“In the end, they had to find a replacement quickly. But don’t worry, Silas—you’re here now, and no one’s going to push you out. I’ve got your back.”

Silas gave a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Bright clapped his hands, pleased with himself. “Silas, you’re a good kid. You’ll do great things—I’m calling it now.” He stood. “Alright, let’s go eat. Look at how hungry you are.”

The warm, slightly teasing elder led Silas to the university cafeteria.

In Silas’s memories, he had eaten here countless times. The food was decent and affordable, though the flavors were unfamiliar to He Jiayin, the former Earth native.

…But he’d have to get used to this world, wouldn’t he?

After lunch, Silas and Professor Bright strolled through the campus, discussing course-related matters. Silas, troubled, sought advice on some issues, and Bright offered guidance with a hint of amusement.

Finally, he concluded, “Have some confidence, Silas. You’re my best student. In a couple of years, I’ll be retiring, and then…”

He didn’t finish, instead giving Silas a suggestive look.

Senior professors with deep credentials, like Bright, naturally enjoyed far better treatment than young professors like Silas.

Silas didn’t know Bright’s exact income, but recalling his mentor’s lavish spending habits gave him a spark of motivation.

Still, he wondered—how long could he really stay in this professor role?

Silas thanked Bright for his kindness.

Soon, Bright said he had other matters to attend to and needed to return to his office, also on the fourth floor. He had likely been heading there when he ran into Silas.

Silas bid him farewell.

As for the messy office, he couldn’t think of a solution yet. Perhaps after moving to the university dormitory, he could find time to clean and organize it.

For now, he had neither the time nor the tools.

Soon, Silas boarded a public carriage back to West City, carrying the manuscripts he’d found.

The return route was slightly different. The public carriage followed a clockwise loop, like a circle. He’d taken the upper half on the way there, and now he was on the lower half.

This allowed him to see more of East City’s bustling sights: the vast central plaza, the imposing statue of the city’s founder, the grand cathedral, the crowded commercial district, and the quiet, elegant residential areas…

Suddenly, the driver shouted, “Historical Society stop!”

The carriage slowed to a halt.

Silas froze. For a moment, he hesitated, thinking of the business card Glenfield had given him. Then, he decided to push through the other passengers and disembark, looking toward the small but exquisite building ahead.

He couldn’t pinpoint its architectural style—it didn’t match any Earth equivalent.

It had pointed spires, a clock tower, Gothic lancet windows with stained glass, and Roman-style semicircular arches, a mishmash that seemed to blend historical periods.

But, considering this was the Historical Society’s building, the style felt fitting.

Silas was dressed in black casual clothing, with a stack of documents under his arm and a long-handled umbrella in hand, looking somewhat encumbered. Still, he walked toward the Historical Society’s building.

His mind recalled fragments of information about the Historical Society, though not much.

As a scholar fresh from academia, he wasn’t very familiar with city organizations like the Historical Society. He vaguely knew it was a platform for history enthusiasts to exchange ideas.

In this world, the existing god was the God of the Past and History, known as Antinam, the “Guardian of the Rift of Time.”

The Church of the Past, which worshipped Antinam, was the only legally recognized faith in this world.

…So that’s why Glenfield called the Historical Society a semi-official organization?

Soon, in the spacious first-floor hall of the Historical Society, Silas spotted a woman sitting on a sofa, as if waiting for something.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, dressed in a proper blue gown, holding a wide-brimmed hat and a beaded purse, looking like a refined noblewoman.

But her excited, eager expression shattered that elegance. She resembled a young girl who’d stumbled upon an adult’s secret—both nervous and thrilled.

Silas’s intuition told him she might have information he needed.

As he approached her, he waited for the sound of rolling dice, but even when he stood before her, no clattering came.

…So this woman didn’t trigger a check?

Why was that? Because he already had the vice president’s business card, so he didn’t need others to trigger related information?

As a former Keeper of Secrets, Silas instinctively analyzed the situation.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t communicate with his Game Master, didn’t know his character sheet, and had no idea what kind of scenario he was in.

It was truly perplexing.

As he reached the woman, she noticed him. Seeing Silas approach, she stood immediately, as if finding a kindred spirit, and asked, “Are you here about the Revelator too?”

Silas froze.

Revelator? What Revelator?

Before he could respond, the young woman continued without pause, “I’ve heard from friends about that mysterious power, but I don’t know if I can master it.

“Either way, the Historical Society is my best bet. I’m not going to the overly strict Church or those creepy, evil cults.

“…I got a business card. Do you have one?”

The young woman pulled a card from her purse and showed it to Silas.

Keeping a polite distance, Silas glanced at it and said softly, “Yes, I have one too.”

It was indeed the card of Joseph Morton, Vice President of the Historical Society.

“That’s great!” the woman exclaimed. “Now I’ve finally found a companion!”

Silas gave a faint smile, but in his heart, he thought he might not know as much as she did.

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