Academic gathering with a lich

Lyle changed into the plague doctor's attire, which was clearly a size too large; the hem dragged on the ground, a minor imperfection amidst the beauty.

The leather of the mask clung to his face, the cool touch and the faint scent of herbs were not particularly pleasant, but not too terrible either; the interior of the black coat was made of soft leather, clearly, its previous owner had been well-off.

Lyle was very satisfied with all this; he must look like a little crow, and if he added a black top hat, which signified official status, he would be naturally overjoyed.

The Plague Doctor was not a dedicated profession within the official organization; many of them in history were itinerant doctors yearning for fame and fortune. During the time when plague was rampant and there was a shortage of personnel, the government increased the welfare benefits for the plague doctors; those with medical knowledge, despite the threat of death, donned the Plague Doctor's uniform, walking alongside death, contending with the Grim Reaper for patients, as well as for status and wealth.

Lyle deeply empathized; pursuing medical research under the coercion of theocratic power, evading burning at the stake while seeking fortune—perhaps, this was his fate.

After letting his mind wander, Lyle cleared his thoughts and prepared his medical instruments, ensuring his gloves fit snugly. He approached his work with an attitude as if it were his first time learning.

Pupils dilated, body stiff, limbs exhibiting the black discoloration of rigor mortis—apart from that, there were no abnormalities on the skin's surface, limbs intact, and no puncture wounds.

The time of death was within six hours, facial features not notably distorted. Death by poison? There were no obvious needle marks on the body. Ingested through the digestive tract?

He'd start by examining the esophagus then.

Lyle performed an autopsy on the throat area.

No abnormalities.

Could it be a very slender, specialized injection?

Lyle began the autopsy on the limbs, which were frequently used for injections.

No abnormalities.

Not an intravenous injection, then could it be a direct injection into the muscle by some fearless individual? Homicide could not be ruled out either.

No abnormalities.

Heart and lungs, no abnormalities.

Intestines, no abnormalities.

Liver, kidneys, skull, spine...

Lyle became bewildered.

Looking at the corpse before him, dissected as if blooming like a flower, no area overlooked, no detail missed; such an autopsy, were it to be done at the Academy, could serve as a textbook example and would even earn Lyle a scholarship.

But without a cause of death identified, to Lyle, it was merely a dead body, not even the likelihood of death by old age.

Lyle began to feel anxious. He didn't want his work to end in failure. Could there be any clues I have missed?

That's right, the identity of the deceased—I still don't know who he was.

Looking at the small pile of clothes on the table corner, the hessian shirt and trousers, Lyle deduced that he was probably a commoner, similarly impoverished as himself.

It seemed he needn't worry about any problems arising from an overly thorough autopsy, but what was the cause of his death? Could it be that I have to fabricate one?

Just as Lyle was wrestling with this dilemma, an envelope fell out from the deceased's clothing.

Sealed with blue wax, it bore a capital 'A' insignia, surrounded by carvings of belladonna, also known as the deadly nightshade.

A commoner, why would he have access to such a formal letter? Lyle, in all his years, had only encountered one once—it was the acceptance letter from Aiffel Academy.

Lyle grew curious about the letter and its contents.

The back of the envelope read.

To the gentleman/lady in search of truth.

Lyle removed the letter, providing yet another surprise.

For it was made from paper.

The commonly used paper at the time was Papyrus, brought in from Egypt, and more significant documents were written on Parchment, which had a longer preservation time.

But this was different.

This was Oriental Paper.

For the youth of Cassandra, such paper was almost mythical; lighter, more durable, rumored to have been introduced by the Arabs.

Lyle, who had crossed over from another time, naturally knew of its origin, a poignant reminder sparking a hopeful beginning.

The contents of the letter were as follows.

Dear Mr. Lyle Butler:

You must have received our invitation by now, please do not be surprised, we have always been searching for someone like you, one who does not forget to pursue knowledge and truth even when oppressed by reality.

Your resilience has deeply inspired everyone in this dark age who seeks the truth, and now, please allow me to formally invite you to join the Andrei Academy. The purpose of our academy is to propagate and continue the dissemination of forbidden knowledge; we are the Keepers of Secrets of this era.

Due to external pressures, once you have made up your mind, please report to No. 13 Seventh Street, Cassandra before ten o'clock in the evening.

Furthermore, for the sake of your personal privacy and safety, our academy does not allow anyone to show their true face, so please don your disguise and maintain a low profile.

By the way, the use of the Holy Light Technique is strictly prohibited within the academy! Prohibited!

Andrei Academy Admissions Office

Lyle folded the letter.

The astonishment in his heart took a long while to subside, followed by ecstatic joy. In this foolish era, it turned out he was not alone in his quest for knowledge, and happiness at finding one's group naturally arose.

A few minutes later, the excitement began to subside.

How, then, had they ensured the letter made its way into my hands? Could there be someone from the academy among the people close to me? Kevin, Ralph, or maybe the sheriff's leadership.

Moreover, why would they lure me in this way? How could they be sure I would investigate the deceased's belongings so thoroughly? How did they come across such a unique corpse? Or rather, Lyle had an unpleasant guess—they had somehow created such a corpse.

To recruit one person, to kill another?

Lyle knew nothing about Andrei Academy, but its mystery and eeriness had already taken root in his mind, even leaning towards something sinistrous.

"Return... it... to... me..."

A flesh-and-blood hand grabbed Lyle's arm; a second voice echoed from the basement that he thought he was alone in.

Fear crawled up Lyle's spine.

He turned his head to look.

The tool-like man who had delivered the letter, whom he had dissected so thoroughly, was now straightening its upper body. What was supposedly its face turned towards Lyle, and the flattened spheres that filled its eye sockets were spinning abnormally; Lyle had no desire to meet those moving pupils face-to-face.

The deeply sliced arm gripped Lyle's glove, smearing it with blood.

Lyle had no more time to ponder conspiracy theories as he understood that this was definitely not a simple post-mortem muscle spasm.

"The corpse is resurrecting!!!!"

Lyle felt a burst of strength, running towards the entrance of the basement like a wild bull.

A snap came from his arm as the grip tightened, breaking off the hand which still clung firmly to his leather glove. The remaining part lay on the long table, and as Lyle ran hysterically, the dismembered limb swung wildly.

Lyle almost crashed through the tarp-covered iron door and ran to the foyer, where he breathed heavily under Wilt's astonished gaze.

"That corpse, it moved." As if fearing they would not believe him, he pointed to the remaining limb still hooked on his arm.

Their eyes filled with horror, but somehow, it was much more subdued than he had expected.

Without suspicion, without argument, they seemed to accept Lyle's word rather quickly.

"I understand, it looks like we have found the cause of death. Jordan, guard the scene and take care of Mr. Butler here; I will consult with the superiors," said Wilt, straightening his top hat as he walked towards the door.

The diminutive Jordan picked up a nightstick and approached Lyle, "Butler, do you need help with that?" He gestured to the arm on Lyle's body and then to his own nightstick.

Lyle understood what he meant. "Thank you, Mr. Jordan."

Jordan inserted the nightstick between the phalanges, levering forcefully until the bone came loose and fell.

"Done."

"Mr. Jordan, do you not doubt what I said?"

"Doubt what?"

"That the body moved."

"Ah, I see. Might be a bit of a shock for a newbie."

"Hmm?"

"I'm not good with words, and it's not easy for me to explain, but you'll get used to it if you stick around."

Lyle realized once again that this world was not scientific.

After ensuring Lyle was alright, Jordan shooed him away.

Lyle saw that things were drawing to a close and took his leave, bringing with him both the invitation in his plague doctor's outfit and the series of events that had unfolded.