Chapter 178: The University

Chapter 178: The University

Shutting the door behind with a click shut, he entered the long pathway that reached for the institute.

The moment he entered, the suffocating choke of sulfur and coal soot vanished, replaced by the bite of late-autumn frost, the scent of wet soil, and the faint, sweet decay of weeping willows dipping their branches into the mist-shrouded waters of the lake nearby.

The Lakeview Institute of Arts loomed ahead, carved from dark, rain-slicked granite. Built in the grand Gothic style of the previous century, its towering spires pierced the low-hanging fog, pointing toward the indifferent stars.

Row after row of high, arched windows stared down at the lawns, their glass panes dark and empty, reflecting the faint, flickering amber glow of the gas lamps lining the gravel pathway.

To an ordinary scholar, it was a place of high culture and academic prestige — a place where the children of the nobility debated literature and studied the masters.

Walking through the silence of the university, he opened the main door of the hall before entering.

The gravel crunched beneath his leather boots. As he walked beneath the shadow of a sprawling, ancient willow. He tracked the way the shadows beneath the branches seemed to ripple.

Through the thin veil of the material world, the lingering psychological residue of decades of obsessive painters, manic poets, and eccentric philosophers clung to the very stonework.

A subtle but dizzying static in the air, the kind of environment that would slowly erode the sanity of an ordinary man, nudging them toward the fine line between genius and madness. The fine line that so often led to the embrace of a hidden existence.

Murphy pulled his coat tighter around his bandaged arm, his gloved hand resting lightly over the twisted tornado artifact in his pocket. The detective persona within him analyzed the place for a long moment, from every lantern to every locked door of the outer pavilions, searching for the specific person he had come to find.

Although the persona didn’t last long as he pulled the mask from his face, making it disappear back into the concealed safe place of the spirit world.

Afterward, he stepped onto the broad and expansive stone porch of the main building as Mo Fei. Above the black oak double doors was a carved relief of symbolic goddess of justice, gazing down with blind marble eyes, half-covered by creeping ivy.

Mo Fei reached out, his fingers pressing down on the cold iron handle. He slowly turned the doorknob, letting the heavy door swing into a grand arched hall, swallowing the night mist.

The place ahead led to an archway, leading to several classrooms. Up ahead, he saw university faculty and staff entering the Department of Political Science. Nearby, there was a sign that read: Department of History. Although it seemed no one had entered there yet, there was a heavy spiritual presence.

One of the professors of English literature emerged from the dark archway of the adjacent corridor. Cradled over one of his arms was a thick stack of leather-bound folios.

He was a gentleman who appeared to be in his late forties, carrying the distinct, slightly stooped posture of a man who spent more time conversing with dead authors than the living. He wore a simple but classic, double-breasted frock coat, though the cuffs were noticeably frayed and stained with the faint smudges of blue ink. A silk top hat sat atop his salt-and-pepper hair, slightly tilted, as if placed there in a hurry.

"Ah, a fresh face amid the winter rot." The professor murmured, his voice bearing the crisp cadence of the northern backcountry, yet carrying a strange, raspy undertone. He stopped a few paces away, adjusting his grip on the heavy books. "Are you here for the late lecture on the Pre-Sackville romanticists, young man? Or perhaps a newly matriculated soul? I am unfamiliar with your countenance."

Hearing the words of the professor, Mo Fei bowed down slightly, lifting his top hat and adjusting his posture to speak politely. "Forgive the intrusion, Professor. I am not a student here. I was only seeking a gentleman of this establishment... though, regrettably, his name eludes my memory. I was merely assured I might find him within these walls tonight."

"A leaf adrift from the greater branch," the professor exhaled a small sigh, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips as he adjusted his tilted top hat. "A pity. Well, a pleasant evening to you then, sir. Though, before I depart... may I inquire as to your good name?"

"Sherlock..." Mo Fei answered, the alias slipping out as he paused and smoothly appended. "Sherlock Hermès." Without waiting another moment, he moved past the man, but suddenly he stopped and turned. "A moment, Professor, if I might trouble you with a brief question. Is this the place of the primary residential quarter where you all live?"

"My pardon, Mr. Hermès?" He asked, confused slightly.

"I mean to say..." Mo Fei amended quickly, cursing his 1989 brain for the slip. He forced a polite, curious smile of a gentleman asking about the university. "Are there residential chambers assigned to the professors within the main cloister? On-campus housing, as it were..."

"Ah! You speak of the residential fellowships." The confusion was finally clearing from the professor’s eyes, replaced by the familiar warmth of a lecturer explaining university geography. "The senior dons and chairs of the faculties do indeed keep chambers in the residential quadrangle, just past the cloisters of the west wing. The History Master, in particular, practically entombs himself among his scrolls up there."

The professor gestured with his chin toward the dark archway of the History Department.

"Good night to you." With a polite nod, the ink-stained gentleman went on his way, his boots tapping a cadence down the long hall until the mist swallowed the sound entirely.

Left alone in the grand, arched hall, Mo Fei let his polite smile drop. He turned his gaze toward the sign reading Department of History.

’That means he lives here in a private room... so that’s why he returned? But if he is an Angel that has lived thousands of years, then how did the people of university accept him without a record... is it because there is a connection of this institute with something bigger?’

He pondered as he quietly walked forward, his heart beating hard in his chest. He gripped the handle of the history department and entered.

It was a vast room with a table and chairs sitting before a window. A beautiful curtain hanging down from the iron rod, that soft cotton had a few artistic paintings, flowers, deep red roses, and a vine crafted into the smooth surface.

Near the table, a large bookshelf loomed over the table, casting a shadow from the lantern light at the top.

The whole air held an unusual taste of dust, as if the ancient things here weren’t there for showcase. The place had a strange presence even though it was entirely empty, but the sweet scent of cocoa was persistent in the air.

Mo Fei looked around to find anyone, but to his expectations, the whole room had no one. Finally, he walked further to examine the place.

On the table, a pile of ancient scripts was sitting quietly. Just beside it, a few cards rested; they had golden edges with a skull embedded in the center. They were occult cards used by historians in this world to be used to understand the records.

His gaze lay on a blood-red curtain, hanging by a silver rod; it was near a wall, but behind it was no window that made Mo Fei slightly uneasy as he slowly turned toward it.

Slowly, he held the cloth and slid it away to see what was behind it.

His eyes widened at the sight. Behind it were ancient script and some strange symbols and unusual paintings that seemed as if they were drawn recently. His gaze lay on a dripping black ink, soaking the blanket beneath.

Mo Fei gulped slightly, but just then he suddenly felt a strong gaze behind him. His whole body began to press him downward, forcing him to go on his knees. His teeth rattled from the weight as he tried to move and look back.