The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

The epic poem in Chapter 120, "On Praise and Clarity".

On a late autumn afternoon, the sunlight slanted down, making the leaves appear translucent, glassy yellow.

The air carried the coolness of the lake and the earth, but the golden afternoon sunlight made it not too cold.

Occasionally, a few birds would fly through the woods, leaving behind a few clear chirps.

Uncle and George walked slowly along the stone path by the lake without saying a word.

George didn't speak until they had walked some distance away from the main house, and only the sound of the wind and the waves of the lake remained.

"Uncle, the bookstore address on the envelope of the letter I received is the one you left, right?"

Albert didn't stop walking, but just turned his head to look at him, his expression still gentle: "Oh, you noticed?"

""

George stopped walking.

Albert stopped as well, turned around, and faced him.

The lake breeze blew his clothes and made his slicked-back hair sway slightly.

In this golden autumn light, he looked like any aristocratic gentleman lingering in the soft lighting of a cocktail party.

"So what if it is, George?" Albert asked with a smile. "You don't seem surprised."

George shrugged. "I'm not surprised at all."

"You've been handling family affairs during Father's illness, and the address of Mulan Bookstore is most likely the one you wrote down. You want me to go there, right?"

Albert's smile remained unchanged, but the light in his eyes seemed to have deepened.

"Yes, George." He turned back to look into the distance.

"Miss Moran is one of the special people I know. I thought that now that you've left London and returned to your family, you might soon find yourself in need of some special guidance."

George pressed further, "I suppose you knew about the family's extraordinary heritage and what my father was doing, which is why you gave me the bookstore address?"

Albert nodded: "Edward has always disdained suppressing his nature beyond necessary secrecy; he pursues a freedom tinged with a rather romanticism. But I—"

He paused for a moment, his expression becoming somewhat complicated.

"Perhaps that's the difference between us—I've never really approved of what he did."

George remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

Albert gazed at the distant, decaying lake, its surface shimmering with golden waves under the autumn light.

His voice became somewhat distant: "George, I'm only two years younger than your father. But even when we were young, I knew that Edward was the one Father envisioned to inherit the family business."

"What he saw as passion, I saw as obsession—but it was this one quality that led us down such different paths."

He smiled, with a hint of self-deprecation: "Reading, music, and tending to a small but not insignificant piece of land—that's enough to fill my heart, my very small heart."

"Compared to this, worldly life cannot satisfy Viscount Rotten Lake."

"So you married that Howard family lady and left the family core," George said softly.

"Although our marriage was arranged by our families, Catherine is a very good person, and she gave me another life." Albert nodded.

"In London, natural history and history have always been excellent pastimes for the wealthy and idle—and history hides many sinister truths."

"However, these people are not obsessed with climbing the ladder; they simply see this knowledge as a diversion from life. Exploring, recording, and exchanging ideas, without truly understanding the nature of potentially dangerous areas—this is a relatively healthy pastime," and it can come in handy in certain extreme situations.

He turned to George: "Miss Moran is an advisor who provides services on esoteric knowledge to such people. So when I learned you were back, I wanted to gain some additional knowledge that might be useful to you—whether you choose to follow Edward's path or forge your own."

George processed his words.

My uncle knew the family secret and had connections with certain extraordinary groups in London, but chose to remain on the surface of the world.

The reason I went to the bookstore was to expose myself to a broader network of knowledge, rather than just the knowledge passed down from my father.

Things are probably not that simple.

"Uncle, if it's presumptuous of me," George began, "I'd like to ask what you and your cousin discussed today? And what was that letter that Father gave to your cousin?"

Albert's smile vanished.

He squinted at George, his gaze sharpening for a moment, but quickly returned to its gentle expression.

"George, there are some things I can't tell you. You can think of it as—" he chose his words carefully, ""it involves some higher levels."

George pressed further: "High Court? The Anti-Corruption Bureau? Or the Royal Family?"

Albert did not answer directly; he simply turned and continued walking forward.

"Walk with me a little longer, George. Autumn will be over soon."

George followed in his footsteps.

The two walked slowly along the lake shore, their footprints leaving imprints on the golden fallen leaves.

The lake wind grew stronger, whipping up the yellow leaves on the ground and swirling them in the air.

The uncle walking beside George suddenly stretched rather inelegantly, then turned to George and said, "I'd much rather tell you some stories I heard at the gathering—like the tale of a prince from Bharata named Loshepa."

Under George's puzzled gaze, his uncle continued speaking to himself, and his next sentence immediately grabbed his attention.

"This is an epic poem that has been passed down from a fragment of the ancient Bharata kingdom’s book, the 'Praise of the Wisdom of the Buddha.' What makes it so appealing is that the king in the story made a great vow to the god of death to sacrifice his offspring, but after the father and son delayed, he completed the sacrifice by using someone else’s child."

So, standing by the lake, the uncle began to tell George the story:

In the most ancient times, King Harishis-Kandla of Bharata had no children despite having a hundred wives.

Guided by the sage, he made a vow to the god: "If you grant me a son, I will offer him as a sacrifice when he comes of age." He then had a son named Loshepa.

The king's beloved son could not bear to kill her, so he used excuses such as "not yet weaned" and "not yet married" to delay until his son came of age and was able to wear armor. Only then was the king forced to fulfill his promise.

Loshepa did not want to die, so he took his bow and went into exile in the forest for six years.

In the sixth year, he encountered the starving sage Ajigata with his three sons in the forest. Loshepa bought the second son with a hundred oxen, intending to sacrifice him in his place.

During the festival, no one was willing to bind the boy. His father, Ajigata, then demanded a hundred oxen and bound his son himself; since no one was available to carry a knife, the father again demanded a hundred oxen and sharpened a knife, intending to kill his own son.

The immortal's second son had an epiphany during the fire sacrifice: he was nothing more than an object his father could buy, sell, and kill. So, as the blade was about to fall, he cried out to each of the gods for help.

In the final breath, the ropes untied themselves, the blades deflected, and the flames shifted.

A divine voice descended: "He sold his son for three hundred oxen, and I have now redeemed him. From this day forward, he no longer belongs to you."

The second son was freed, and the gods bestowed upon him a golden chariot; the king's illness was also cured. After the ceremony, the second son sat on the immortal's lap.

Ajigata chased after the child, but the sage replied, "The gods have given him to me; his name is Devawata—a son of heaven, no longer yours."

Ajigata offered three hundred oxen to redeem me, but Devanwata refused: "You sold me for a hundred oxen; if you atone for your sins with money now, you can offer me back to the fire altar for an even higher price in the future. I will never obey such a father."