Chapter 276: Citywide Mobilization

Before preparing for battle, Richard made a trip home.

Wentworth had already pulled official strings to shut down every factory in the North District.

The official reason was a single notice from the Branch Office:

Strikes in the west of the city have escalated tensions. Production in the factory zone is suspended for the next few days; all workers are to evacuate the premises.

Rogers looked grim when he returned home.

"Everything was perfectly fine. Why the sudden shutdown?"

He hung his hat on a wall peg.

"The blueprints were one calculation away from being finished."

"Dad." Richard poured his father a cup of hot water.

"For the next few days, I need you to take Mom and Evelyn to a shelter."

"Hide from what?"

"Things are getting violent over in the west of the city."

"The police are worried about cultists causing trouble, or... enemy airships flying over."

Rogers held his cup in silence.

The papers had been running stories on Hemus Island every day.

Conscription posters plastered the bridge tunnels. Families across the city were hoarding salt and candles, buying them up faster by the day.

"Are we really going to war?" Rogers asked.

"I don't know," Richard replied. "But it never hurts to be careful."

Rogers downed his water and set the cup heavily on the table.

"Alright."

Evelyn was even easier to convince.

Richard told her the shelter had hot soup, fresh bread, and plenty of other kids to hang around with.

"Do they have an oven?" That was the first thing she asked.

"...They should."

"Then I'm bringing my flour." Evelyn ran back to her room to pack.

"I've been working on a new recipe for almond crisps, and this is the perfect place to test it out. I can let everyone hiding there try some."

Richard didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Only you would think about baking during an evacuation."

"Evacuees still need to eat." Evelyn emerged hugging a sack of flour.

"Sitting around doing nothing would be so boring. If I bake pastries for everyone, it'll lift their spirits and they won't be as scared."

Watching his sister hug that sack of flour, the heavy weight in Richard's chest loosened just a fraction.

His mother, Margaret, had stayed silent the entire time.

She sat in the corner of the living room, holding a half-finished piece of knitting.

She simply stared at her son for a long, quiet moment.

She didn't believe a single word of the explanation Richard had fed his father and sister.

From the damp, oppressive background noise that had settled over the city since winter began, and from the growing heaviness in her son's expression these past few days, Margaret already knew exactly what was happening.

She reached out her hand, gesturing for Richard to place his on top.

Richard rested his hand in his mother's palm.

Margaret's crippled circuits flared to life with a faint, ephemeral glow right where their skin touched.

She sensed the ether circulation within her son's body—complete, solid, and far stronger than it had been a few months ago.

She withdrew her hand.

"Be careful out there," his mother said, lowering her head.

After days of rushing around, Richard's [walking] attribute had reached its limit.

It had filled up silently during one of his countless trips between the Black Trench, the Branch Office, his home, and back again.

[Walking Lv.2, Progress 100%.]

He had fulfilled the advancement requirements—a multi-day, long-distance trek through dangerous terrain—back during the hike through the hills.

Richard invested a point.

[Walking Lv.2 → Lv.3.]

[Walking - Tireless: The accumulation rate of muscle, joint, and cardiovascular fatigue is significantly reduced. Movement efficiency on complex terrain approaches that of flat ground.]

Richard didn't feel like he could run faster or jump higher.

But from that moment on, his legs no longer felt heavy after a full day of travel.

And after climbing stairs for half the night, his chest no longer tightened.

Fatigue still accumulated, but at an incredibly slow crawl.

It was so slow that he could run for an extra half-day and stay awake for an extra half-night, and his body would still hold up entirely.

[Tireless] had arrived at the perfect time.

As for his [Spiritual Capacity], he had already spent points to expand it to twenty back in the Imperial Capital.

Over the past few days, he had been nurturing his supernatural items, training his shadow, and practicing Tide-Shifting Breathing.

The excess ether generated during his breathing method cycles flowed continuously into that expanded reservoir.

Now, it was just about full.

Twenty points of pure ether rested heavily beneath the Seat of the Sun in his chest.

That was his most stable power source for fueling the Sphinx Lamp, and the greatest reserve he could draw upon in battle.

..................

A dust-covered figure stepped through the doors of the Branch Office, a Hunting Rifle wrapped in oilcloth slung over her shoulder.

"We have a job?" Sarah asked.

"We do," Wentworth replied. "Pay is the same as always."

"This one's dangerous." She leaned her gun against the wall. "Half upfront."

Lieutenant Colonel Ord walked in with a few of his own hunters in tow.

But their numbers were noticeably thinner than last time. He only had three or four Practitioner-level hunters with him.

Using his Steel Prosthetic Arm, he hauled in a massive wooden crate.

The crate was opened, revealing a stash of high explosives. The casings were wrapped in silver wire, emitting powerful ether fluctuations.

"Modified Tunneling Number Two. The best I've got hidden in my stash." Lieutenant Colonel Ord patted the edge of the crate.

"Even a Major Adept would lose a layer of skin if they took a hit from this off-guard.

Tonight, Wentworth, Sarah, and I are going to sneak into that shop. If we can't blow it to hell, we'll at least blast it right out of that face."

"Lieutenant Colonel, isn't that a bit extreme?" Mr. Hutton, who had arrived earlier, frowned from the side.

"It's fine. We hunters don't have many good years left to live anyway."

The Lieutenant Colonel turned to look at him:

"The leader of my second squad died in the Unresponsive Pit. Bigelow died right behind his own desk."

His voice grew hoarse.

"Briston is my jurisdiction, and these are my people."

Mrs. MacNeil stood up.

"Lieutenant Colonel, the moment you blast it with explosives and bombard it with Spell Formulas, that eye will instantly awaken."

The medium lined up the Seven Spirit Lodging Vessels in a row:

"When it awakens, it will trace the source of the attack right back to us, locking its gaze on us instead."

"That will only make things worse," Mr. Hutton added from the side.

"Then what do you suggest?" The Lieutenant Colonel frowned.

"The only clean way," Mrs. MacNeil added, "is to lay the anchors to rest, one by one, from the inside."

She glanced in the direction of the Black Trench, toward the entirety of the North District.

"We have to bring peace to an entire river of nameless dead."

"Once we release the anchors one by one, the net will lose its moorings and collapse on its own."

Mr. Hutton nodded and continued:

"When the ritual net collapses, the eye won't be able to lock onto a specific source of attack, so it won't be able to find us."

"All we're doing is taking the dead it has pinned to the riverbed and sending them back to where they belong."

Richard understood.

It was an incredibly dangerous and painstaking path.

But it was the only way that would allow most of them to walk away with their lives.

Lieutenant Colonel Ord said nothing more, gently pushing the crate back against the wall.

"I prepared my whole life for this kind of death," he said. "Only to find out at the end, I can't even use it."

..................

There was a bell on the roof of the Branch Office.

Richard had visited the office countless times, but he had never heard anyone ring it.

The bell was covered in dust and pitted with rust.

Its mouth pointed downward, a layer of dirt settled beneath it.

"This bell," Wentworth said, standing before it, "no one has rung it in decades."

"Why ring it?" Richard asked.

Wentworth looked up at the rusted bell.

"When the bell rings, it means... the city is in danger of falling."

"Anyone who has ever taken a single penny from the Empire for mystic affairs has a responsibility to respond."

"Coroners, herbalists, funeral parlor gatekeepers... anyone from the Civilian Guilds who has ever made a living in this field must come when they hear the bell ring."

Wentworth stepped up to the bell and grasped the rope hanging beside it.

The rope was old, feeling stiff and rough in his grip.

He took a deep breath.

Clang...

The first toll echoed through the entire Branch Office, rolling outward across the North District.

Clang...

Clang...

Three tolls rippled outward, echoing through the twilight skies of Briston.

Wentworth let go of the rope and patted the rusted metal.

"Decades since anyone rang you."

"Sorry to put you out."

Less than an hour after the bell rang, people began to trickle in.

The first to arrive was Reverend Hawkins.

The hunchbacked old man carried a silver flask of holy water.

"Captain Wentworth," the old priest gasped, setting his silver flask on the ground.

"My old bones don't move as fast as they used to."

He let out a self-deprecating smile.

"As you well know, this bottle of holy water is practically useless.

No matter how many times I've blessed the things underground, it's never done a bit of good."

Richard looked at the old man.

Mrs. MacNeil had mentioned him before, back during the incident at the Holbrook Textile Mill in the Western Suburbs.

The night shift workshop had brought in Reverend Hawkins from St. Andrew's Parish to perform a blessing, but it had proven completely useless against a true evil creature.

"Then why did you bring it?" Richard asked.

Reverend Hawkins didn't answer him.

He simply stared out across the rooftops of the North District.

"I've overseen funerals in the North District for thirty years," he said slowly.

"Mr. Burns, Mr. Davidson, Old George... nine out of every ten people who died in these parts were sent off by my hands."

"The scriptures I read for them don't work. The holy water I sprinkle doesn't work."

"But."

The old man picked up his silver flask and clutched it to his chest.

"The dead of this district recognize my face."

To the dead, that face and those scriptures were familiar and peaceful.

The old priest's holy water might be useless, but the old priest himself was useful.

The second to arrive was the gatekeeper of the North District Funeral Parlor.

A one-eyed old man leaning on a brass-headed cane.

The third was the owner of the South City Antique Exchange.

A gaunt man carrying a Cloth Bag on his back that clinked and clattered with unknown items.

One by one, they arrived.

The seven or eight nodes marked on Mr. Hutton's map had all gathered that night.

Not a single one of them was anyone of great importance.

The coroner had fled, but the funeral parlor gatekeeper had come.

Herbalists, antique dealers, street inspectors... each of them possessed only a minor skill they used to eke out a living.

Identifying seals, blending incenses, recognizing bones—pulled out individually, none of them could turn the tide.

But brought together, they formed an earthen net.

Standing in the archives, Richard looked out at the room full of people.

These people were the most unremarkable layer of the city.

But tonight, they were the ones protecting it.

Before the meeting adjourned, Mrs. MacNeil took the lead.

"When kings neglect their duty, when saints fall silent, when the common folk are left with nowhere to turn..."

Seven or eight voices in the room, high and low, finished the second half of the phrase together.

"Then we must rise!"

..................

In the Surface World, Old Crowley of the Warren Family had also mobilized.

Wentworth had relayed a message to the Coal Mining Association through the Branch Office.

Old Crowley organized a miners' picket squad.

Hundreds of miners, armed with pickaxe handles and crowbars, worked through the night to set up barricades across the intersections of the North District.

The people of the Surface World knew nothing of the truth.

They only knew that the Inspectorate had issued a notice.

A toxic gas leak had occurred in the North District tonight, and all residents of the factory zone were ordered to evacuate to the shelters in the South City.

The barricades were set up along the streets to stop anyone from running blindly and accidentally stumbling into the toxic gas zone.

The miners guarded the intersections, stopping anyone trying to head deeper into the North District and driving them back south.

Standing on the roof of the Branch Office, Richard watched the flickering lamps of the miners manning the distant barricades.

This was Briston.

A city built of two intertwined layers—surface and shadow—where neither could survive without the other.

As night fell, Richard and the others, along with that roomful of Practitioners from the Civilian Guilds, arrived at the edge of the Black Trench.

The old sluice gate was the turning point of the entire net.

The ritual would be performed here.

Crouching by the gate, Mr. Hutton traced inscription after inscription onto rubbing paper without looking up.

"The disaster is already on its way," he murmured.

"And no one can hold it down."

Mrs. MacNeil gave Richard one final look.

Her ash-gray dress looked remarkably heavy under the flickering glow of the sluice gate's lamps.

"All we can do," she said, "is lay the anchors to rest, one by one, before it begins its harvest."

"So it comes up empty-handed."

Richard nodded.

Mrs. MacNeil looked at him.

"Are you ready?"

Richard ran a final check over his gear.

"I'm ready."