Lord of the Mysteries Chapter 1428 - In Modern Day (26)

I blink my eyes open in a daze.

Scanning my surroundings, I notice my coworkers diligently typing away in their office cubicles. A wave of disorientation washes over me, much like the lingering fog of a bad hangover—though I admit, I’ve never actually experienced the real thing.

Rubbing my aching temples with both hands, I glance at my desktop; the music player has finally ceased its output. Curiosity piqued, I click back into the song’s comment section to see if others shared my bewilderment.

“Brilliant!”

“A truly unprecedented audio journey.”

“Utterly divine pleasure.”

...

Having already skimmed the top reviews, I jump straight to the bottom of the feed:

“This song is a miracle! It finally cured my chronic insomnia.”

“The most authentic, raw death rock I’ve heard!”

“I quite literally fainted while listening. I’m not exaggerating!”

“How is it even possible for humans to produce such noise...”

“If you’re a real man, try listening for thirty seconds without giving up!”

...

I clench my jaw, feeling a strange obligation, and decide to add my own contribution: “An entirely unique musical experience! It completely defies human comprehension!” Someone has to suffer like I did; I can’t be the only one affected.

With a vague theory about the mysterious blackout now in mind, I slide off my headphones and try to focus on my duties. My head is swimming with dizziness, and a persistent, throbbing pulse behind my forehead makes me feel nauseous. It’s far worse than any brush with heatstroke I’ve endured, and even the office’s arctic air-conditioning fails to soothe the fire in my brain.

Despite my attempts to maintain a sense of calm, my body refuses to cooperate. Thank goodness for CEO Huang’s benevolence; every staff member is allotted two days of paid sick leave that doesn’t require a formal doctor’s note. I waste no time drafting a request and head toward Director Ai’s office to secure his signature.

Perhaps because I look so ghastly, Director Ai doesn’t put up a fight. He even asks, with a hint of genuine concern, if I need aid in getting to a clinic.

“That won’t be necessary. It’s not quite that dire.” I still value my pride and prefer to handle my own problems whenever possible.

“Very well, go home and recover. If something pressing crops up this afternoon, I’ll delegate it to someone else.” With that, he drops the subject.

Once outside the building, I hail a ride instantly. There’s no point in acting tough by waiting for a crowded bus when my health is at stake. I have never been one to pinch pennies when my well-being is on the line.

“Mushu Hospital, please,” I tell the driver as I settle into the back seat, confirming the location.

Mushu is a decent public facility—not the most prestigious, but perfectly capable, which means the Emergency Department should be blissfully free of long queues. I recall the district hospital Bai Ailin visited last night; while I’ve never set foot there, I have an intuitive sense that it would have been a reliable choice.

“Got it,” the driver replies, pulling into traffic.

As the minutes drift by, I gradually feel the life returning to my limbs. The dizziness begins to lift, the cold sweat dissipates, and that aggressive throbbing in my skull vanishes entirely. I encounter a bizarre thought—could it be that my condition was merely a mental manifestation?

Remarkably, this isn’t just wishful thinking. By the time we arrive at the hospital, I’m feeling completely refreshed and clear-headed. My appetite has even returned. After a quick scan of my own symptoms, I am convinced I’ve made a full recovery.

Since I no longer have a medical excuse and my shift is already forfeit, I decide to treat this as an unexpected afternoon off. I pull out my phone, find the image of the tutoring center’s address I had saved, and request a new ride.

“Excuse me, I’d like some information regarding your tutoring programs,” I say to the male receptionist, deliberately keeping my request vague rather than immediately committing.

Honestly, this center feels a bit peculiar. They exclusively employ men at the front desk, which seems an odd choice. It’s not that I hold any bias, but I typically find women to be more patient and accommodating in service roles.

After a quick summary of the available courses, he asks, “What exactly are you looking for?”

I clear my throat, replying, “Weekend, business English.”

“This is the crown jewel of our Dream Tutoring Classes,” the receptionist launches into a sales pitch. “Our principal oversees it personally, and she’s brought in genuine foreign instructors—real, native speakers. Sign up now and we can offer you a promotional rate: down from 8,888 to 6,666 yuan!”

“Is your principal particularly talented?” I ask, feigning interest.

The receptionist gestures toward the hallway behind him. “She’s spent years studying abroad, mastered a multitude of languages, and holds a PhD in education.”

I follow his gaze, peering through the partially open door of a classroom down the hall. A woman is leading the session, her side profile visible against the backdrop of the room. She’s dressed casually in loose jeans paired with a floral, form-fitting white shirt. Her brown hair is twisted into a neat bun.

Applying my Assassin’s keen observation, I take a closer look. She’s young—probably in her early twenties—with a touch of baby fat and delicate, refined features. She is undoubtedly quite attractive.

“Our principal is a true polymath. Beyond her linguistic skills, she paints, understands oil studies and sketches, and can even appraise antiques. She plays various instruments too! She’s truly an all-rounder,” the receptionist boasts, his voice thick with admiration.

Just as I’m about to reply, a man strolls into the center.

“Ah, look, that’s our foreign teacher, Mr. Anderson Hood,” the receptionist says, jumping to introduce him. “He's proficient in at least ten languages. He’ll work one-on-one with you to perfect your accent.”

From the corner of my eye, I observe a blond, blue-eyed foreigner wearing a crisp white shirt and a black vest. Seeking to put his claims to the test, I switch to English.

“Hello. What languages do you specialize in, and how long have you been teaching here?”

The tutor, Anderson Hood, keeps his hands in his pockets, grins, and launches into a rapid-fire string of words: “#@%%#*()()——”

I stare at him, stunned. “...”

Anderson shoots me a sideways glance and chuckles.

“What do you think? My Mauritian Creole is quite impressive, isn’t it?” He switches back to English for that sentence, then translates it into Chinese for my benefit.

“I didn't understand a word of that,” I admit honestly, unsure of even which language he had used.

Anderson lets out a dismissive click of his tongue. “It appears you lack the slightest talent for linguistics. Perhaps you should consider learning to paint from me instead?”