Chapter 170: Chapter 170

"I've told you time and again, an Enchanter's spirit isn't some simple form of energy. It's a complex synthesis of things we can't quite describe—information, consciousness, energy, and more. Aside from special rituals, one can also enhance their abilities by attuning themselves to the world. Close interaction with animals, or even living alongside them for an extended period, can certainly foster an evolution of one's abilities. Animals, humans—we're all part of the world. It's perfectly natural. Though most who advance this way are believers in the 'Spirit of All Things' or the 'Earth Mother Goddess,' and their worldview is a bit... unconventional. But since you were fortunate enough to find something that increased your ability slots in your very first Mysterious Realm, it's not entirely out of the question that you've managed to grasp the true essence of a housecat just by raising one."

He paused for a moment before adding:

"Let me offer a word of advice. You're far too close to that cat of yours. For a single, adult man, that's hardly conducive to a healthy social life.

And one more thing. When you get back today, I want you to copy out the third chapter of 'A Friend to Nature: Wondrous Creatures' twice. Consider it your punishment for asking such a foolish question."

Jenkins listened intently to Oliver's explanation. A wave of relief washed over him, and a smile spread across his face.

"Of course! I'll get right on it when I get back!"

His voice was laced with unconcealed delight. He had wrongly suspected Chocolate again. He'd make it up to it with an extra-large dinner tonight.

"Why do I always suspect my own cat? It seems I'm still not secure enough."

He thought to himself.

"Well, the thing is, Chocolate accidentally drank something... unusual last night. I'm a bit worried."

His voice was now tinged with anxiety, his mind flashing back to the five thousand pounds.

Papa Oliver fell silent. He carefully set down the pistol he had been inspecting, laying the disassembled parts out on the table.

"I know you've come into a small fortune recently, but that's no reason to waste gold pounds . How much did it drink?"

"About a fifth of a fluid ounce, red dragon lineage, 52.3% concentration."

Jenkins forced the words out, enduring a pang in his heart. He had to keep reminding himself: his cat was more important than gold pounds.

"It'll be fine. A small amount like that won't have any serious effect. Don't believe all that nonsense from chivalric romances about transforming into a dragon from a single drop of blood. That's pure fiction."

Though Papa Oliver claimed he wasn't worried about going out with Jenkins, he still armed himself to the teeth, just like his apprentice, with an array of talismans, weapons, and ammunition before they dared to step outside.

The two of them didn't take a carriage, opting instead for a leisurely stroll to the Docklands. Even on a Sunday, the area was bustling with laborers.

They paused, watching a line of sailors hauling crates cross their path. Then, they rounded a corner, sidestepping a manhole cover that hissed with steam, and turned onto a familiar street.

Jenkins came here often.

"The Oil Ink Mister Club?"

Jenkins guessed aloud.

Papa Oliver gave a cautious nod. He was dressed in a high-collared brown leather greatcoat and had deliberately chosen a wide-brimmed black hat. It was a suspicious-looking getup for daytime, but not entirely out of place on the city streets.

After all, autumn was already setting in.

The Oil Ink Mister Club was Jenkins's usual shooting range. It operated on a membership basis, not a pay-per-visit fee. On Papa Oliver's recommendation, Jenkins had joined, paying three pounds and twelve shillings a month for a set number of practice sessions. The club offered a wide variety of firearms, and for an extra fee, you could even hire retired soldiers from the Fidektri Kingdom's army as instructors.

In this era, a farmhand, a soldier, or a typist might earn twenty-five pounds a year. The lowest-paid shop clerks, servants, and embroiderers made between twelve and twenty pounds. Jenkins's membership at the club alone cost him over thirty pounds a year.

But it was a worthy expense. For a poor lad who'd never so much as touched a firearm, being able to competently handle a pistol in a fight after just three months made the cost worthwhile... probably.

Even now, with eight thousand pounds in cash to his name, the great author still felt a pang of regret at the expense.

"Mr. Oliver, Mr. Williams, good morning."

The doorman recognized them and greeted them politely. "Will you be needing a private room, gentlemen? Perhaps a hearty breakfast, or are you heading straight downstairs? Oh, and the club is hosting a rather famous author today. Would you care to join the gathering in Hall Three?"

"We're heading downstairs."

The club's inner corridors were narrow, barely wide enough for two men of average build to walk abreast. The walls were painted a metallic brass, and illumination came from candlelight rather than the ubiquitous gas lamps. In the enclosed space, the warm, yellow flames cast a flickering glow on the brass walls and the polished floor, creating a rather unique atmosphere.

The entrance to the lower level was in Hall Seven. This "lower level" was, of course, the shooting range.

Jenkins had his questions, but he trusted Papa Oliver completely and kept them to himself.

Jenkins had been here countless times, but it was only today that he realized the place held hidden depths he'd never imagined.

A burly attendant approached them. Papa Oliver made a subtle hand gesture, and the man raised an eyebrow, motioning for them to wait. He disappeared into a small, sheet-metal-walled room marked "Staff Only" and returned a moment later, handing Oliver a whistle.

It was an ordinary-looking brass whistle, of a common design. A serial number was engraved on its side.

Even at this early hour, there were a few patrons at the range. But the two of them headed in the opposite direction, where the attendant pulled open a trapdoor in the floor. Papa Oliver gestured for Jenkins to follow and descended into the opening.

"How big is this place underground?" Fınd the newest release on NoveI-Fire.ɴet

After climbing down a ladder, Jenkins found himself in a passage that resembled a mine shaft. A set of rails emerged from the darkness in one direction, running past them before disappearing into the gloom on the other side.

An old kerosene lamp hung beside the ladder. Its glass chimney was coated with a layer of yellowish soot, dimming its already feeble light.

"It's bigger than you think," said Papa Oliver. He took the lamp from its hook on the wall and handed it to Jenkins. "This is actually one of the entrances to the black market, but it's such a hassle that few people ever use it." He started walking, and Jenkins hurried to keep up.

"As you can probably tell, this tunnel was converted from an old mine shaft. Over twenty years ago, a team of archaeologists from Bel Diran stumbled upon a blocked entrance during a survey out in the wilds. It seemed an earthquake had revealed it. The city and the police sent people to investigate, and they determined the mine likely dates back to the last Epoch. And this here is the furthest point it reaches beneath the city."