Fantasy Writers 1860

"...Money is the measure of all things: the holder can see at a glance how much people are willing to pay for anything. What kind of price will make him trust you unconditionally, and what kind of price will make him begin to doubt? The holder can 'price' anything in the most appropriate way, ensuring that any transaction is completed in the most advantageous manner..."

"...In any situation involving money, transactions, or negotiations, an aura naturally emanates, making people more inclined to believe that your worth is higher than it actually is. Long-term attachment to this will make you habitually measure everything in terms of 'price,' until you can no longer understand 'priceless things'..."

"【Dead Souls Theater】: Within a 10-meter radius, the power of social consensus can be used to temporarily make anything 'agreed' to be real. However, value cannot be created out of thin air; it can be 'this stone is worth 100 pounds,' but it cannot be 'this stone is bread.' If someone present completely disbelieves in any social rules (such as a hermit living in the mountains), then they are immune to this."

"The consequences of running out of control: creating a perfect market where everything within its sphere of influence—including air, sunlight, friendship, memories, but not limited to these—will be given a price and begin to be traded..."

What are the consequences of things getting out of control?

Dorian frowned as he looked at the last part of the text.

Disilife seemed to read his mind. "Phantom Books are inherently extremely dangerous things, and their use naturally comes with costs and risks. For example, they can distort the user's personality and memories, rewrite reality, and so on."

"But don't worry, as the original author of this fantasy book, you probably have the deepest understanding of the words you wrote, so you shouldn't have to pay too high a price."

Dorian nodded, closed the "Yongle Encyclopedia Catalogue," and handed it back to Disiffi.

After the large, bright yellow book returned to Dislife's hands, it disintegrated into several beams of light particles that drifted and disappeared into the air, returning to the domain of the [Bookshelf of God].

"Speaking of which, the bi-weekly book club is starting in a couple of days. If you're free, you could join us." Disiffi was about to leave when she suddenly remembered this and mentioned it to Dorian.

"A book club?" Dorian asked.

"Yes, as I mentioned before, the more you understand a magical book, the more you can unleash its true power. That's why the Academy of Literature holds a book club every two weeks to share our understanding of a particular magical book, thereby enhancing our mastery and use of magical books."

It sounds similar to the reading activities that the literary society used to organize back in college, where people shared their reading experiences.

However, back in college, the literary society was full of people like Jiahao, Laobao, Mutian, pseudo-historians, amateur scientists, conspiracy theorists, public intellectuals, and people obsessed with romance.

The last book we were asked to read together was "The Hidden Messages in Water," but I couldn't take it anymore and left the club.

The reading group at the Academy of Literature should be of a higher standard, at least the books they read are definitely of high quality, all of which are immortal fantasy books recognized by the laws of this world.

"Sure, it'd be good to participate. Maybe I can even gain some inspiration." Dorian readily agreed, then, remembering his newly published book, *The Million Pound Note*, he couldn't help but ask, "By the way, what will the book club discuss this time? Do I need to prepare anything beforehand?"

"Since you've just created a new fantasy book, let's discuss your book, 'The Million Pound Stamp,' as the theme of this book club meeting."

Disifee turned around, her gaze falling on Dorian. Her jet-black gown, trimmed with pearls, unfurled gracefully as she spun, like a dark flower suddenly blooming in the night.

Before Dorian could reply, she turned around again, her bare feet stepping silently onto the carpet. Her figure quickly disappeared among the rows of tall bookshelves in the room, as if gently swallowed up by the heavy books piled on them.

……

Dalton Rich was sitting in his mentor's office.

Just a few days ago, he wasn't even qualified to sit here; he was just a patrolman without a private office. Now, however, he has been promoted to detective inspector, or what people commonly call a detective chief.

Although it's just an agency.

Even so, he couldn't feel happy at all.

He looked at an envelope on the table, which explained why his mentor, Inspector Lesder, was "temporarily suspended due to illness," and also why he was now sitting here as the acting inspector.

He took the letter, which he had read many times before, out of the envelope once again. The letterhead featured the Scottish Field coat of arms in gold embossing, and was surrounded by an elegant floral border.

The letter first acknowledged that Inspector Leeds had "read" the report he had previously submitted regarding the suspected evil crimes committed by the Immaculate Dawn Order, and "affirmed" his "efficient work."

Then, shifting the focus, given the "complex internal and external situation currently facing the empire" and the "primary need to maintain stability in the capital region," these cases need to be "carefully assessed to avoid causing unnecessary social panic," and "no rash actions should be taken before there is conclusive, direct, and groundbreaking evidence, and no related speculations or preliminary testimonies should be made public."

The final conclusion was to "temporarily seal it off, awaiting unified coordination and deployment from higher-level departments."

The meaning couldn't be clearer: that's it, the waters here are too deep, don't investigate any further.

The reality is ultimately too complicated.

Although Inspector Leeds is seen by many as an unapproachable big shot, in reality, most of the time, all he can do is try his best to uphold that pitiful bit of procedural justice within the limits of the rules.

In the face of truly powerful figures, a mere detective is utterly insignificant.

So, he was temporarily suspended from work due to feeling unwell?

Richie clutched the Scotland Yard letter in his hand, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the wastebasket.

He stood up and stared for a long time at the map of Lontinion that Inspector Reid had posted on the wall. Several places were circled in red on the map, where those blood-stained clues were abruptly cut off.

"A man like my master isn't the type to just stay home and enjoy life in an armchair after being suspended... He'll definitely continue investigating, in his own way..." Richie muttered to himself, standing by the wall covered with maps.

"But what can he accomplish by himself? Those people were able to get him suspended, so they must be quite powerful." Richie's fingertips dug deeply into his palms.