The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

Chapter 100 Frederick's World

George quickly turned around and handed his coat behind him.

A rustling sound came from behind him, like fabric rubbing against skin, followed by his younger brother's short gasp and a soft curse.

Immediately afterwards, his coat was snatched away.

George remained with his back turned, waiting patiently.

After a few minutes of silence, Frederick's voice rang out.

"alright."

George then turned around.

The younger brother had already stood up, wearing George's obviously ill-fitting jacket—one sleeve was too long, and the shoulder line was also not quite right.

The signs of his transformation had completely disappeared from his face, leaving only a pale and tired expression, and his unpleasant eyes stared straight at George.

"Thank you." The voice was rather stiff.

"How are you feeling? Any physical discomfort? You..." George asked, "How much do you remember?"

Frederick didn't answer immediately, but instead looked down at his hands and then looked up again.

The cold stare lasted for a few seconds, then he said, "Unfortunately, I remember it all—and I probably won't forget it for the rest of my life."

George didn't know how to comfort him, so he could only say, "Come with me and leave here first."

He led his younger brother out of the ceremony hall, and the two of them went up the spiral staircase they had come up from.

Leaving the tower, they all knew that someone couldn't return to their bedroom, which still bore the remnants of a pupa and traces of alienation, for the time being.

As he walked down the third-floor corridor, Frederick suddenly slipped away, pushed open a door that George hadn't noticed, and disappeared behind it.

"Go find me some clothes," his voice came from inside the door. "I can't wear this."

George hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay." He turned and headed to his room.

Soon, he returned to the corridor with a set of his spare clothes and entered the room his younger brother had just hidden in.

George discovered that it was a studio with excellent natural light.

The large west-facing window occupies almost the entire wall, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the easels, palettes, and several picture frames stacked against the wall.

Frederick was sitting on the windowsill, swinging his legs, wearing that ill-fitting coat.

He took the clothes George handed him and began to silently change out of his pajamas, which had several large holes and countless small tears.

George took the opportunity to look around the room.

"This is the studio my mother set up for me," Frederick said abruptly while buttoning his shirt, "before she passed away."

George's throat bobbed.

"You must miss her very much."

Frederick's hands didn't stop moving: "Hmph, the eldest son is expected to succeed, the younger sister is pampered, and what about me? What is my place in this family?"

His tone was anything but friendly; a cynical poet might very well like that way of speaking.

"Miss? Of course I miss her. I could hardly stay in this family after she left."

George frowned. "Fred, we may not have given you enough attention, but Mom loves you and she wouldn't want to hear you say things like that."

“Yes, he passed away five years ago.” Frederick draped his coat over his shoulders. “All that’s left me with are these—” He pointed to the art supplies around him, “memories, and the worlds I’ve created.”

He turned around and completely changed his clothes.

George's style looked somewhat empty on him, but it only accentuated his morbid temperament, which was unique to artists.

"I'm jealous of you, George." His voice was calm, "and that's the truth."

George looked at him but didn't reply.

"However, after all this," a subtle glint flashed in Frederick's eyes, "I feel a little sorry for you now."

"You sound like you're talking about someone unrelated," George pointed out. "I don't see any particularly negative emotions."

"Yes—that's probably thanks to art." Frederick gave a cold smile.

"The world in my paintings often reflects my own desires. I've gradually been able to detach myself from the darkness and misery of my childhood and look at everything from a more objective perspective."

He walked to the window, put his hands behind his back, and looked at the morning mist rising from the decaying lake outside.

His voice carried a hint of ethereal emptiness.

"Overall, I am immersed in the world I have chosen and created. To a creator who has his own world, everything else always seems mundane and useless."

George was silent for a moment, then suddenly understood his brother's spiritual fortress.

"Good luck, Fred," George said finally. "I'm glad to see you've found your fun."

Frederick turned his head and raised an eyebrow, seemingly somewhat surprised.

"Strange, you seem genuinely happy for me."

He turned around, his gaze falling on an easel covered with a cloth in the corner of the room: "But it doesn't matter, brother."

That's a blank canvas that hasn't been used yet.

"Your story is about to reach its climax, while mine is just beginning."

George's heart skipped a beat: "Do you know something?"

Frederick turned his gaze away from the blank canvas and back to him.

“I know what Sybil has been investigating,” he said, his voice lowering. “And after she came to you, I was certain—not to mention what has happened in the last two days.”

"However, I don't know more about other things than you do."

He paused, his expression full of exhaustion and annoyance.

"Good luck, and don't die—that's my blessing. That's all I have to say."

After Frederick finished speaking, he looked away, seemingly lost in his own little world again.

George nodded and turned to leave.

Just then, his gaze swept over the small wooden ornaments placed by the window.

It was a shelf carved in the shape of a bird carrying a ring. George didn't care about the paintbrushes inside, but a dazzling diamond was set in the base of the shelf.

George stopped in his tracks.

The third Xianqiu Diamond.

Frederick noticed his gaze and glanced at the item in the same direction.

"What, do you have a problem with my taste?" he said.

George looked away from his brother and said, "I need it."

Frederick did not speak immediately.

He looked at the diamond that refracted seven colors in the morning light and bit his lip.

After a moment, he let out a long sigh, walked over and removed the paintbrush, then handed the shelf to George.

"I don't know why you took a liking to it, but it's one of the few things my mother left me—use it well, don't waste it."

George raised his eyebrows in surprise, hesitated for a moment, and then, amidst his brother's slightly impatient expression, took the ornament. "Thank you, Fred."

He carefully wrapped the diamond-encrusted ornament in his coat, then took one last look at the sun-drenched studio.

The younger brother had already turned around and was facing his blank drawing board again.

It was as if George's departure and arrival were negligible disturbances in his "creator's world."

George gently closed the door and quickly left down the hallway.