Chapter 1269: Chapter 1269

Professor Burns waved his hand, signaling for Jenkins to say no more.

"I won't be attending the gatherings anymore either. To be honest, I get a very strange feeling every time I go near that hospital. It's... hard to describe."

He never did manage to find the words for it.

"Given its dangerous history, I think I'll be staying away from now on. It's a shame, of course, but one's life is what matters most. It's best to avoid such perilous places."

The professor's thinking largely mirrored Jenkins's own. While it meant losing an important channel for acquiring rare items and exchanging information, they both knew what was truly important.

As for reporting the Corpse Gentleman's illegal assembly, the professor was also in agreement. He had lived in Nolan his entire life and held a deep affection for the city. Although the Corpse Gentleman's gatherings had been helpful, he understood that the host was likely no saint, or else he wouldn't need to hide away in such a place.

With the professor on board, Jenkins no longer needed to make a separate trip to the black market to file an anonymous tip. The professor would find an opportunity to report the matter soon. Jenkins didn't need to worry about the excuse; the professor's life experience far surpassed his own, and a small matter was trivial.

The professor's original plan for the evening, aside from attending the gathering, was to visit an old friend's home to purchase some antiques. These were for his private collection; he wasn't trying to change professions and compete with Papa Oliver.

"Care to come along, Jenkins? Do you have any other plans tonight?"

They stood at a street corner, waiting for a column of soldiers in uniform to march past with resounding steps. Jenkins thought for a moment. Hathaway and Briny were probably enjoying a wonderful dinner. Dolores had gone into the city with Alexia to visit the public library. As for Chocolate, the cat was being pampered by the maids at the manor and would have a delicious late-night snack, so there was no need for him to worry.

"I'm free tonight, but would it be impolite for me to tag along to someone else's home unannounced?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll just say you're my student. Your name is... well, you can come up with one yourself."

The professor's old friend had been a classmate of his back in primary school and now held a peculiar occupation: librarian. The man was currently the head librarian of the Nolan City Public Library and practically lived there.

Though it was called a public library, it was unlike the Sage Church's library, which was free to all believers. This one charged a fee, and a very steep one at that, for everyone who entered.

This fee was merely for admission. If one wished to borrow a book or make a copy, it required an even greater expense.

Libraries of this kind, owned by the city, could be found in most major urban centers. Although they often went days without a single visitor, they were considered essential public facilities, managed, repaired, and protected with funds allocated directly from tax revenues. The taxpaying citizens took pride in their city having such an institution.

As the professor spoke of his old friend, Jenkins remembered he had a question of his own. The professor had some recollection of the name "Month of Flowing Fire." It was what people used to call the month of June long ago, but the name had since changed.

"Why did it change to the 'Month of the Starry Sky and Long Night'?"

Jenkins inquired as they walked along the side of the street. The gaslights stretched their shadows long behind them on this peaceful evening.

"There are many theories, but the prevailing view is that it's simply a shift in folklore, with no special meaning. Why? Do you have some thoughts on the name?"

In the eyes of the professor and most people, a change in a month's name was perfectly normal. But Jenkins, who had his own suspicions about the relationship between gods and their dominions and knew that the current number of Righteous Gods had not always been the same, theorized that "Flowing Fire" corresponded to an old god who no longer held that divine position.

Unfortunately, the professor couldn't offer any more clues, as no one had ever entertained such a sacrilegious line of thought before.

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The library was, of course, closed at night, so the professor led Jenkins down an alley to the back door. He rapped on the heavy wooden door several times before they heard the sound of footsteps.

A moment later, an old man in a heavy coat, hunched over and carrying an oil lamp, opened the door. The hinges hadn't been oiled or cleared of rust in a long time, and the door let out a piercing groan as it opened. Jenkins glanced around nervously before remembering this wasn't an illicit meeting.

"Burns, you're right on time. Come in, quickly. The weather's been so strange this year. It's already April, but it's still so cold."

"Sewell, you're just getting frail. I've told you many times, you shouldn't sit around so much. Now that you're older, you need to move about more."

"Who says I'm old? I'm only in my sixties."

The two men embraced and began to chat. The professor introduced Jenkins as his student, but the old man, Sewell, paid him little mind.

The library's back door led to a courtyard and a warehouse. Thanks to strict fire and moisture prevention measures, the exterior of the walls was in excellent condition. Even the steam, gas, and drainage pipes running along the walls looked different from those on the adjacent buildings.

The old man lived alone in a house that looked like an unauthorized extension of the library, built right up against its wall. When he pushed open the door, Jenkins saw a small connecting door between the two structures.

The room was spacious, warm, and dry—a residence specially designed for the librarian.

One side of the living room, the one against the library wall, was dominated by a large bookshelf, packed with three dense rows of books from top to bottom.

On the coffee table lay an open book with a pencil tucked between its pages. The yellowed page on the left was filled with dense text, while the right featured a hand-drawn pencil sketch, with faint grid lines visible for measuring dimensions. It was a handwritten book, a rarity these days.

"Have a seat. I'll go get what you asked for. I have to say, Burns, you're quite lucky. If you'd written to me any later, I might have sold these books to an antique shop."

Being a librarian had its perks, besides a quiet life. For one, you could read for free. For another, when the library decided to phase out some of its collection, you could be the first to purchase them at a low price.

The books the library discarded were usually of little value and in poor condition. In addition, each year, depending on the volume of new acquisitions, they would clear out some of the long-untouched books from the warehouse, appraise them, and then decide how to dispose of them.

The old librarian was selling these types of books to the professor. Since the professional appraisers from the city council's audit hadn't found any value in them, it was better for them to fall into the hands of someone who would appreciate them.

It was a form of grey-area income.

As for the "reason" for selling his collection, Mr. Sewell was planning to leave Nolan soon. His son, who worked on the other side of the continent, had managed to produce a new generation for the Sewell family even before getting married. A wedding was a certainty, and since Mr. Sewell was getting on in years, he had decided to accept his son's invitation to live with his family after attending the ceremony on the east coast, with no plans to return to Nolan. Thus, he intended to find a suitable home for the books he couldn't take with him.

"A while back, we found some books in the side warehouse being used to prop up a table leg. I don't even remember when they were put into storage; it must have been a very long time ago. Along with the ones I already promised you, feel free to pick what you like. The price is what we agreed upon in the letter."

Hearing this from the adjacent room, Jenkins instinctively got up to help move the books. The old man didn't object, pointing to a stack of books in the corner tied with rope and secured with a metal clip, and instructed him to carry it out.

The books were incredibly heavy and had a pungent, musty smell, but they were surprisingly not in terrible condition. After carrying them into the living room, the three of them laid the books out one by one, inspecting the contents and their integrity before sorting them into categories.

Jenkins didn't know much about appraising books, since very few people came to sell antique books at Pops Antique Shop. But the professor was an expert in the field and began explaining the basics to Jenkins as he flipped through the volumes. To the other old man, it truly looked as if he were instructing a student.

Jenkins wasn't particularly interested in the books and soon grew bored. The professor, however, was still meticulously examining them. Seeing Jenkins idle, the old librarian actually struck up a conversation with him about school life.

The Jenkins from Earth had received a higher education, but the Jenkins of this world had not. His experience with this era's institutions of higher learning was limited to a few lectures and tours. Fortunately, his professional background in archaeology was solid. By avoiding the details of daily life and focusing on his appraisal experience, he managed to bluff his way through.

As Jenkins spoke with authority, analyzing the stone slab printing techniques of the ancient Sicari Empire, the old librarian seemed to remember something. He asked Jenkins to wait a moment, then disappeared back into the inner room, re-emerging a short time later with a stone slab about the size of a book.

"Why don't you help me take a look at this? It was found in the walls of the attic when the top floor of the Nolan post office collapsed last week. It looks a bit like a book cover, but when it was sent to the library, none of us knew what it was. So I bought it for three shillings... I hope you're not about to tell me it's just a worthless rock with some strange carvings on it."

The moment he took it, Jenkins knew it was solid stone. He checked its thickness; it was about as thick as a standard dictionary. Putting his gloves back on, Jenkins picked up a book the professor had already finished examining and placed it next to the heavy slab. The slab was even slightly smaller than the 215-year-old handwritten manuscript, "Coastal Notes".