But why did things turn out like this...

Why are they all support skills, not a single attack skill?

Until dusk, until the taxi arrived at the warehouse district, Wayne Baker was still wallowing in self-pity.

A newbie, weak, helpless, and pitiful—the endless rows of warehouses looked to him like monstrous beasts sprawling across the land, ready to tear him to shreds the moment he stepped inside.

The Death Cultists’ base was at No. 66, Zone F. It would take at least twenty minutes to walk there. Was there still time to learn magic now?

Wayne Baker looked pale and sickly. Under his speechless gaze, Veronica Smith took the lead, detouring toward the back of Warehouse 66 in Zone F.

Splitting up and flanking from front and back—this was the classic setup for getting caught in a pincer!

“Wayne Baker, I admire your courage and your determination to fight against evil forces. Even though you’re scared to death, you still came along.” William Johnson gave a two-fingered salute, dragging Wayne Baker forward with his other hand.

“The anthem of humanity is the anthem of courage. For justice, I’m willing to contribute my meager strength.”

Wayne Baker replied weakly. The real reason he came was that he was afraid of missing out on Veronica Smith and William Johnson; who knew how long it would be before he met another mage? It definitely wasn’t about courage or conviction.

“Don’t worry, Veronica Smith is strong, and with me here, you’ll be fine.”

Let’s hope there won’t be any casualties!

It had to be said, even though William Johnson was gay and had a strong ability to “reshape” men, his sturdy build gave a real sense of security. With him around, Wayne Baker felt much more at ease.

And William Johnson wasn’t wrong—Veronica Smith really was impressive. That handsome face, that petite figure, and after sleeping, she could casually earn nine figures. If anything really went wrong, Veronica Smith alone could draw all the enemy fire.

……

Time reached 6 p.m. As the sun finally dipped below the sea horizon, scattered streetlights flickered on in the warehouse district.

Fog rolled in, hazy as gauze, gently covering the entire city of London.

Wayne Baker had just gained supernatural perception, and the thin mist immediately gave him a sense of foreboding. His instincts told him that London’s nights were truly dangerous. The solution was to hurry home and seal himself under his blanket in bed.

But the fog-shrouded road home was full of dangers. He didn’t dare walk alone at night, so he chose to stay by William Johnson’s side.

“The smell of death... a barrier. So it really is here...”

William Johnson gazed at Warehouse 66 in Zone F from a distance, took a black hooded cloak from his bag, and draped it over his tall frame.

After a moment’s thought, he pulled out another cloak and handed it to Wayne Baker—Veronica Smith’s black robe, which fit Wayne Baker very poorly.

“Stay behind me. If a fight breaks out, just stay to the side...”

Using the cover of darkness and fog, William Johnson calmly stepped into the barrier. It was a sparse, ordinary perception-type barrier, not very targeted—mainly for early warning. This meant the Death Cultists gathered in the warehouse weren’t very strong and posed little threat.

William Johnson easily avoided the barrier’s detection. Wayne Baker didn’t need to—his body was saturated with the aura of death, so the barrier judged him as one of their own and didn’t trigger any alarms. He didn’t even need to hide it.

Wayne Baker was thinking about whether the barrier could give him magic power. After all, it was magic. The Book of Greed could devour William Johnson’s magic, so it should be able to swallow the Death Cultists’ magic barrier too. If he signed a contract a second time, maybe he could recruit an excellent servant.

One with attack skills, preferably.

But it didn’t work out. The Book of Greed did activate, but its standards had risen—it wouldn’t eat just anything anymore. From now on, if Wayne Baker wanted to use the book, he’d have to use his own magic power.

And the problem was back to square one: Wayne Baker had no magic power!

At that moment, Wayne Baker wanted to become a mage more than ever before.

At the warehouse entrance, William Johnson pressed his ear to the door, which could be called either bold and careful or just lacking in infiltration experience.

Wayne Baker frowned as he watched. He was a rookie and had no right to comment, so he could only assume that this was just how mages operated.

A moment later, William Johnson heard the rustling sounds of prayer inside, confirming that the cultists were collectively praising the Goddess of Death. He gently pushed open the warehouse door and ducked inside.

*Waves hand.JPG*

Wayne Baker stared at the waving hand, wanting to complain but afraid of disrupting the ceremony. He glanced around the foggy warehouse district—everywhere looked haunted. Helpless, he imitated William Johnson and slipped inside.

William Johnson politely closed the door, muttering some incomprehensible words, and confidently joined the cultists’ group chant.

……

In the center of the warehouse, about twenty people were gathered, all in hooded black robes.

They stood in a circle around a pattern made of candles, hands clenched in fists crossed over their chests. The dim candlelight couldn’t cast long shadows, and the half-exposed faces flickered between light and dark. Coupled with the eerie chanting, everything made Wayne Baker feel especially uncomfortable.

Judging by the style, the Death Cultists were clearly not good people.

As Wayne Baker passed a shelf, he casually picked up a crowbar and held it, humming and pretending to pray, putting on an act as he joined the prayer circle.

The cultists were so focused that they didn’t even notice two strangers had joined their ranks.

Wayne Baker pretended to praise the goddess, his gaze drifting to the candle pattern—a familiar inverted triangle, not very complicated.

No blood, no sacrifices, so there were no scenes of pure maidens being disemboweled or anything like that.