Chapter 161: Sleep-Return

With a gentle sweep of her right hand, a fissure tore open across the "floor" of the hall.

Richard felt the shadow beneath his feet dropping into the rift.

As his shadow fell, he plummeted with it.

The others were in much the same situation.

"Lend a hand!" Mrs. MacNeil shouted.

Just in time, the old woman in the Bone Bracelet reached out.

Her arm stretched from the Bone Bracelet, plunging into the widening rift beneath their feet to force the two edges back together.

Mr. Hutton continued reading his judgment.

"na, return."

"You are the flowing shadow, the Mother who requires sleep-return."

"You told us this yourself just now."

"You said you had come."

"You waited thousands of years for someone to call you back."

The remaining portion of the Mother could no longer hold its shape; her outline trembled.

Mr. Hutton looked up at Mrs. MacNeil. "Your turn."

His work was done.

He could not do what came next.

A Scholar could read an entity completely, but forcing it back to its original place was the work of a practitioner of the Secret.

Mrs. MacNeil nodded. At that moment, all seven indwelling spirits stood in solemn stillness.

The wolf in the silver ring rose;

The bird in the Emerald Brooch spread its wings;

The woman in the Ebony comb set aside her work;

The figure in the Moonstone Pendant raised its hands;

The two throats in the Coral Earring found their pitch;

The second hand of the silver Pocket Watch stopped dead center.

The old woman in the Bone Bracelet kept her arm fully extended.

Joined by Mrs. MacNeil herself, eight voices layered together.

"Stollithirenna (Devourer of Shadows)"

She chanted what the Church had failed to finish reciting centuries ago.

"in Christo te ligo (I bind you in the name of Christ)"

The Church had crudely branded her a "demon." Tonight, she chanted it anew so she would not be called a "demon" anymore.

"in sanguine Cuthberti te ligo (I bind you by the blood of Saint Cuthbert)"

She was the Mother of the Highlands; let a northern saint guide her home.

"in pacem Eirenes ad somnum revertere (By the peace of Eirene, sleep-return)."

Eirene was the Goddess of Peace, and this was a lullaby to see off a weary mother.

The eight voices faded.

Every layer had been called by name; every layer had been invited back to its original place.

Above this hall, the well formed by countless nested halls snapped shut.

The final sliver of the Mother was sucked into the deepest depths.

That was the terrain where she had first awakened, deep beneath the pre-Roman mountains, at the roots of the twelve standing stones.

In the instant she sank, she cast a glance at the youngest of those seeing her off.

The door shut. The seal was complete.

One by one, the seven indwelling spirits returned to the items worn by Mrs. MacNeil.

The two throats in the Coral Earring sang a final verse.

It was a song to close out the ritual.

The old woman in the Bone Bracelet hesitated slightly as she withdrew her arm.

"Please go back," Mrs. MacNeil murmured.

The old woman nodded, and the Bone Bracelet clasped tight.

"We should head back as well." Mr. Hutton drew out the long threads his judgment had woven from the rubbings and gathered them into a bundle.

Together with Mrs. MacNeil, he carefully peeled everyone up, returning the entire layer to the material realm.

Richard blinked.

The gray of the stone walls, the black of the stone sarcophagus, the copper bases of the nine candleholders... the colors of the subterranean stone chamber flooded back into his vision.

The candles were all extinguished, their wicks still smoking.

Right before his eyes, the stone sarcophagus was wrapped inch by inch in silver foil, and the iron chains binding it tightened once more.

A muffled thud came from beside him.

Theodore slid down the stone wall until his rear hit the floor.

"We're still alive."

Maggie crouched beside him, resting one hand on her knee while pressing the other to her temple.

"Don't speak." She couldn't even keep her eyes open.

Edmund stood in the northeast corner, palms pressed together, lips moving silently.

He was praying, and Richard didn't disturb him.

The situation in the outer ring was much worse.

Captain Field was half-kneeling on the ground while Sarah treated his left leg.

The skin of the captain's left leg had turned a highly unnatural grayish-white.

Sarah wrapped that section in a bandage soaked in holy water.

"How is it?" Mrs. MacNeil walked over.

"Fine. I won't die," Captain Field answered through gritted teeth.

His forehead was slick with sweat. Drops rolled down his brow bone and splattered onto the cellar's stone slabs.

"How much did you burn with blood ignition?" Mrs. MacNeil frowned.

Captain Field lowered his head.

"Two years."

The cellar went quiet for a moment.

Two years of lifespan. The toll of the Path of Blood Ignition was never an abstract number.

Every measure of blood burned away was a stretch of days sheared off the end of a life.

Captain Field had been destined to live to sixty-five; now he would only make it to sixty-three.

Or perhaps much less, if he had already burned it many times before.

"It was worth it," the captain said.

He patted his thigh with his right hand. The grayish-white area beneath the bandages had stopped trembling.

"It beats not making it back tonight."

The huntress applied a dark brown salve over the sunken flesh.

"Don't lift anything heavy with your left hand for three days." Sarah screwed the cap back onto the salve.

"Got it."

Captain Field nodded. Bracing his knee with his right hand, he slowly pushed himself to his feet.

He tested his left leg, inching it a half-step forward. As his knee bent, his brow furrowed, but he made no sound.

As long as the leg could bend, he was relieved.

Captain Field turned around.

"Richard."

"Captain." Richard used the wall to stand up. He had also been so exhausted he had dropped onto his rear earlier.

The captain raised a hand, gesturing for him to stay seated.

"I first held a blade at eleven, and went on my first field op with my old man at fifteen.

I'm thirty-eight this year, with one hundred and seventeen field ops under my belt."

"I've had my flesh eroded by similar non-corporeal evil creatures twice before."

"Twice... and you were fine?" Sarah asked casually, still packing her medical kit.

"The first time, my partner was an old practitioner of the Secret. He used a Bronze Mirror to force the bastard out."

"And the second time?"

"The second time, my partner didn't make it in time."

The subterranean stone chamber went quiet for a moment.

"That leg hasn't been mine since then."

The captain reached down and rapped his right thigh.

It made a muffled wooden thud, not the sound of flesh.

Only then did Richard realize that the captain had been missing a thigh this entire time.

In other words, if he had lost the other thigh today, he would have truly become a "halfling."

What a morbid joke that was.

Theodore looked up from his corner.

He had been dozing off, but now he was wide awake. Still, he tactfully kept his mouth shut.

"The bone is still there, but the muscle was filled in later."

The captain held no taboos about the subject. "I was laid up in bed for half a year for that one."

He shifted his gaze back to Richard.

"If it weren't for your move tonight, this leg would be matching the other one."

Richard didn't know how to respond for a moment.

Saying "it was my duty" felt too hollow, while saying "you flatter me" felt pretentious.

He thought about it and answered honestly, "I wasn't fully confident in that Spell Formula myself. I derived it on the fly."

"On the fly." The captain chuckled, the old scar over his brow twitching.

"That just makes it even rarer."

He didn't linger on the subject. Reaching into the Cloth Bag at his waist, he pulled out an item.

It was a small whistle carved from maple.

No longer than half an index finger, it was wrapped in a thin layer of copper, with two owl tail feathers tied to its lanyard.

Richard glanced at the whistle with his Spirit Vision. The extremely faint ether fluctuation inside carried the distinct traces of blood and fire unique to a Hunter.

It was not a supernatural item; it was merely a token.

The captain explained,

"Before my old man passed away, he left a whistle for each of us four brothers, telling us to look out for each other."

"I'm giving it to you... In the future, if you run into any trouble, my brothers and I can lend a hand."

Since the captain had put it like that, Richard didn't decline. He reached out and took it.

"I'll accept it, then."

The captain gave him an address:

"Our family runs a tavern in Sheffield called the Rusty Plow.

"It's on the third street outside the east gate of the steelworks. All the local workers know it.

"My sister-in-law manages the place.

"If you ever go there, show this whistle to her, and anyone in my family who can swing a blade will come help you."

"...I'll remember that." Richard gave an earnest nod.

On the other side, Sarah's own injuries were slightly less severe.

A diagonal gash ran down her right cheek, extending from the cheekbone to the angle of her jaw.

Blood slowly oozed from the wound, dripping down her jawline.

"That needs stitches." Edmund walked over, his prayers finished.

The young man pulled a small cloth roll from his backpack and unrolled it.

"Let me."

The huntress's expression didn't change.

She turned her face to the side so Edmund could see the entire wound.

"How many stitches?"

"Three or four." Edmund was already threading his needle.

"Do it."

Edmund's hands were incredibly steady.

The suture needle pierced one side of the wound, passed under the skin, and emerged from the other.

Sarah didn't move or make a sound the entire time.

Watching from the side, Richard noticed that the huntress's right hand was tightly gripping the sling of her Hunting Rifle.

She wasn't made of iron—naturally, it hurt. She just wouldn't cry out.

After sewing four stitches, Edmund snipped the thread with scissors and wiped the area with disinfectant.

"Done."

"Thank you." Sarah turned her head back.

Her expression hadn't changed from start to finish.

Mr. Hutton looked the most exhausted of anyone.

He was nearly sixty years old.

During the ritual, every line of the judgment had been forcibly squeezed from his body's ether reserves.

The entire capacity of a Senior Practitioner had been poured out in a single breath tonight.

The cost of the backlash was written plainly on his face: his eye sockets were sunken, his cheekbones jutted out, and his lips were dry and cracked. He looked like old tree bark completely drained of its moisture.

But he himself didn't seem to care.

He gathered the rubbings from the low table one by one and tucked them into his leather bag.

"Sir, you..." Richard began.

"I'm fine." Mr. Hutton waved him off.

He fastened the clasp of his leather bag.

"Once we get back, I need to proofread today's materials again."

"Tonight?"

"While the memory is still fresh." The old man slowly made his way toward the cellar exit.

"That way, the next time someone encounters a similar entity, it won't be nearly so troublesome."