Chapter 286: War Has Arrived

Early the next morning, when his father Rogers came home from work, he brought back a telegram.

It was an official dispatch from Imperial Capital University.

"The start of the semester has been moved up to August 20th. Please return to the imperial capital as soon as possible."

Rogers handed the telegram to Richard.

Richard looked at the line of text.

"Why was it moved up?" his father asked.

"...Probably because of the situation," Richard said.

Rogers didn't ask anything else.

He sat down at the dining table and looked at the bowl of oatmeal Margaret brought him.

"Evelyn."

Evelyn poked her head out of the kitchen. "Dad?"

"Your brother is preparing to go to the imperial capital next week."

"Huh?"

Evelyn ran out from the kitchen. "Why was it moved up?"

"Something came up at the school," Richard replied casually.

"Oh."

Evelyn sat at the table and pouted.

"I still wanted to make you a new Professor Rabbit."

"You still can." Richard reached out and rubbed his sister's head. "Make it today."

"I haven't ground the almonds yet."

"Then make it tomorrow."

"...Tomorrow?" Evelyn's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Then I'll go grind the almonds right now."

Evelyn bolted back into the kitchen.

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

Before setting off for the imperial capital, Richard made a trip to the newsstand.

This time, the front-page headline wasn't about a "Gas Main Explosion" or an "Industrial Accident Rescue."

The front-page headline was a single line of bold text:

"Total War Across the States of Hemus Island."

The newsstand owner sighed as he handed over a copy of the Mirror.

"The fighting started at the end of July. It took the papers this long to finally print it."

Richard took the newspaper and unfolded it under a streetlamp.

The front-page preamble gave a brief explanation of how the war began.

It all started in a small state called Selenia, located at the southernmost tip of the Hemus Island peninsula.

In mid-July, the state's archbishop—who was also its de facto ruler—suddenly collapsed to the ground after finishing his morning prayers in the cathedral.

The cause of death was ruled a "sudden cardiac arrest," with "no physical trauma, no poisoning, and no known symptoms of illness."

Richard stopped under the streetlamp as he read that line.

Another "sudden cardiac arrest."

He continued reading.

For the past few decades, the Archbishop of Selenia had served as the titular general chairman of the Religious Alliance across several old states in the south of Hemus Island.

The Religious Alliance held tremendous influence among the priests, clergy, and faith nodes throughout the southern states.

The newspaper didn't use the term "faith nodes," however. It simply stated that the Alliance "enjoyed an irreplaceable position in the hearts of the people."

Richard understood the subtext.

In the Surface World, the Religious Alliance was a religious organization.

But on this side of the veil, it was a network of sacrificial scars accumulated over centuries.

The old archbishop had been the actual holder of that network.

When he fell, a vacuum in ownership appeared over the network.

Several old southern states immediately stepped forward, each claiming they had "the right to inherit."

The two emerging northern states with the strongest militaries voiced their opposition.

Across the sea, two major powers from the Old Continent threw their weight behind opposing sides.

Mid-July, the archbishop fell.

July 20th, a special unit from a northern state crossed the mountain pass and captured Selenia Cathedral.

July 22nd, the Southern Alliance counterattacked.

July 25th, the entirety of Hemus Island entered a state of war.

July 28th, the two major Old Continent powers officially declared military mobilization in support of their respective factions.

Early August, the news was finally permitted to go to print.

Having read this far, Richard folded the newspaper.

The spark had been lit. The Old Continent was going to war.

He tucked the folded newspaper into the inner pocket of his coat.

On the way home, he passed by a conscription notice.

Beneath the notice, seven or eight young men in plain clothes were lined up.

At the back of the line stood a teenager, so painfully thin that his shoulder blades jutted out. His sleeves were covered in patches.

He clutched an enlistment form in his hands, filled out in crooked handwriting.

As Richard walked past, he overheard the boy talking to the person in front of him.

"There's no work back home."

"The factories are laying people off."

"The army feeds you."

"Feeding you is good," the person in front of him agreed. "The army really does feed you."

The Empire's wartime alert was issued on August 7th, marked by a full-page notice in the newspapers:

The national railway system has entered "wartime control."

All passenger train schedules have been readjusted. Military trains have priority, and civilian passenger transport will be cut in half daily.

In the industrial sector, all military-related manufacturing has been placed under military administration.

This included steel mills, coal mines, gunpowder factories, textile mills for military uniforms, railway locomotive plants, shipyards, and more.

In a mid-sized industrial city like Briston—whose economy relied heavily on coal and textiles—most factories were reclassified as "secondary industries."

Rogers received a notice from his workplace.

The engineering company he worked for, which built municipal canal bridges, was temporarily excluded from military administration.

"...It's fine."

Rogers handed the notice to his wife. "It won't affect us for now."

"...Then what about our family?" Margaret asked.

"Everything stays as it is."

"What about Evelyn's baking academy next year?"

"That stays the same, too."

Rogers folded the notice and tucked it into his blueprint folder.

"Military administration won't reach the Royal Culinary Academy."

Rogers raised his head and glanced at the family portrait hanging on the living room wall.

It had been taken last year, back when Richard was frail and sickly.

Standing next to his father in the photo, he had looked almost as skinny as his little sister.

Now, he was taller than his father.

Rogers didn't say anything.

He picked up his cup of cold tea from the table and took a sip.

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

By early August, the letter for the next gathering still hadn't arrived.

Going by the usual schedule, it should have been delivered by now.

That night, Richard was packing his things.

The streetlamps glowed outside his window, and the sound of a late-night carriage clattering over the cobblestones slowly faded into the distance.

Right at that moment, the calm surface of water spread out by Richard's Silent Observation rippled.

A cluster of ether was condensing.

Richard remained standing by the window, unmoving.

The condensing ether was deliberately suppressed and restrained, squeezing its way to the window of this ordinary home in Slag Alley as if terrified of disturbing someone.

He recognized the weight of this ether. It was the gray-robed messenger.

Hecate likely figured the little fawn would throw a temper tantrum, so she simply didn't send it.

Or perhaps the fawn simply refused to come on its own.

The mass of gray outside the window slowly condensed into a tall figure.

Its facial features were still completely obscured beneath the wide-brimmed hat. Through the glass, the messenger bowed.

Richard pushed the window open a crack.

"Your Excellency," the gray-robed messenger's voice seeped out from the fog. "Forgive my presumption."

"Please come in."

The messenger shook his head and remained outside. Instead, he pulled a letter from his chest and slipped it through the crack in the window.

"According to the rules, I must still request that Your Excellency open it in my presence."

Richard took the letter.

"To His Excellency Hermes: The Theogony Salon round table shall convene once more on the night of August 15th.

The exact time remains unchanged.

I have prepared masks for all members, which will be distributed at the gathering.

Furthermore: I have introduced a new friend to our table, bearing the name Heracles.

Please be sure to attend.

—Chief Hecate"

Richard held the letter between his fingers.

Heracles, the strongest demigod hero of ancient Greece.

When ascending to godhood, others took domains like Wisdom, Light, the Hunt, or War.

His divine name was exceedingly simple: "Strength."

The sheer weight of the title "God of Strength" spoke for itself.

Hecate had specifically made a point of noting "bearing the name Heracles" in her letter.

Providing a title in advance was an unprecedented protocol.

The newcomer hadn't even taken his seat yet, but his title had already been announced. It was practically rolling out the red carpet for him.

Richard folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.

"I confirm receipt of the letter."

The messenger bowed again.

"Wishing Your Excellency a safe journey ahead."

He stepped back from the window. The entire mass of fog retracted, dissipating cleanly beneath the eaves of Slag Alley.

Richard pulled the window shut, sat back down at his desk, and fell into deep thought.

Seven chairs. A full table meant seven members.

One for Hecate herself, and six for her guests.

With all six guest seats already occupied, the addition of a newcomer could only mean someone was being replaced.

Replacing who?

He went over the six members at the table in his mind, one by one.

Demeter and Dionysus—the two Minor Adepts—were immediately ruled out.

Considering Prometheus's background and abilities, it was highly unlikely to be him either.

That left only Nemesis and Ares. And between the two of them, the one-armed Ares was far more likely.

Richard still remembered the faint look of disgust in Hecate's eyes when she had glanced at Ares's severed shoulder.

Now, the newcomer's title had already been announced.

Ares had likely already received the news.

Richard sighed and snipped the candle wick shorter.

Then there was the matter of the Hermes mask.

The messenger, the patron god of commerce, debaters, and scholars.

He was also the guide of souls, the god of rhetoric and trickery.

In his mind, Richard laid out the core keywords of this lineage one by one.

"Communication"—that was the most superficial layer.

"Oaths"—once words were spoken and put to paper, they became a binding contract.

"Guidance"—he could ferry souls across the river, but he could also drag things across that had no business making the crossing.

The caduceus of Hermes was fundamentally entwined with the concept of a "two-way" passage.

Richard's mind churned with endless thoughts.

Whatever was happening with Ares was none of his business for the time being, nor did he have the power to intervene anyway.

He needed to focus on taking care of himself first.

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

The Empire's wartime alert notices were pasted onto the base of every wall in Slag Alley.

When his father came home from work, he brought back a second telegram.

It was from his maternal grandfather, Gerard.

"The train to the imperial capital has been booked for 9:25 AM on August 10th.

A private carriage has been attached to the rear of a military train. Board with your ticket. Someone will be there to receive you."

Rogers wore a subdued expression as he handed the telegram over.

"August 10th."

"...Yeah."

"Don't worry about things here," Rogers instructed. "Just focus on your studies."

Richard looked at his father.

Rogers turned and went to the kitchen, whispering something to his wife.

Margaret tightened the apron around her waist again.

"Evelyn."

"Mom?"

"Bring two empty jars."

"For what?"

"To pack things for your brother."

Evelyn fetched two jars from the other room.

"This one is for almond crisps," Margaret said.

"What about the other one?"

"The other one is for dried plums."

"Dried plums?"

"To eat on the road."

Evelyn pouted.

"How much can he eat on the road?"

"Stuff in as much as you can. Your brother's stomach can hold a lot."

The little girl stayed busy in the kitchen until eleven o'clock that night.

Her first batch of almond crisps was too tough, and the second batch completely fell apart.

For the third batch, she added an extra spoonful of honey to the recipe, lowered the oven temperature by a notch, and let them bake for twenty minutes.

This time, the almond crisps came out perfectly golden and thin, snapping crisply with every bite.

She carefully stacked the almond crisps one by one into the glass jar from the Royal Grand Hotel.

When she reached the very top layer, she pulled out a freshly baked Professor Rabbit.

The new Professor Rabbit was a size larger than the last one.

It still sported a little top hat, but this time, a tiny pair of wings had been drawn onto the hat with icing.

Evelyn carefully placed this new Professor Rabbit on the very top of the almond crisps.

Richard stood at the kitchen door, watching his sister bustle about.

"...Why does it have wings?" he asked.

Evelyn didn't look back.

"...Professor Rabbit is going to fly to the imperial capital to see you."

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

The day before he left, Richard went to bid farewell to Mr. Hutton, meeting him again in that office at Greenwood.

The old gentleman was seated behind the desk, visibly still recovering.

"Have a seat."

Richard sat down in the chair.

"Is everything all packed?"

"It is."

"And your ticket?"

"My grandfather booked it. It's a private carriage attached to a military train."

Mr. Hutton gave a slight nod.

"The railways are operating under wartime conditions. It won't be a comfortable journey."

"The platforms will be crowded. Military trains take priority, so passenger cars will be repeatedly sidelined to make way."

Mr. Hutton put down his teacup.

"Head straight to the Ashford residence when you reach the imperial capital. Your aunt likely won't return to Imperial Capital University until September.

"There's no need to rush to the school. Just get yourself settled at the Ashford house first."

"...Yes, sir."

The old man studied him for a moment.

"Your aunt sent a telegram regarding that probatio text.

"She submitted the supplementary materials on your behalf. The official serial number has already been assigned."

"...An official serial number?"

"Yes."

The old gentleman took out a thin piece of paper from the drawer.

"The department admitted a total of thirteen new Practitioners this year. You're ranked eleventh.

"Most of them are undergraduates and postgraduates. There are very few prep students among them.

"Your probatio text was given the serial number CL-1913-0011."

Richard took the piece of paper.

CL was the abbreviation for Classical, the letterhead of the Department of Classics.

1913 was the year, and 0011 was his sequence number within the department for that year.

He folded the slip of paper and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.

The old gentleman didn't offer any further advice. Instead, he simply smiled and said, "That night in the Black Trench, I thought I was going to be joining Bigelow.

"But then I realized I couldn't. I haven't even secured a spot for wherever Bigelow ended up.

"There's still a long line of people ahead of me."

Richard swallowed.

Mr. Hutton studied him for a moment.

"Go on."

"The people and affairs in the imperial capital are completely different from a small town like this."

"Keep your eyes open, your ears sharp, your hands and feet light, and your mouth shut."

"...Yes, sir."

Richard stood up from the chair.

When he reached the door, he looked back.

The old gentleman was still sitting behind the desk, his left hand resting on his knee, holding a teacup in his right hand.

The clock in the office gave a single tick.

Richard bowed slightly. "Take care, sir."