Chapter 294: The Modernization of the Veil

It was Richard's turn. He looked first at the small pile of odds and ends at the corner of the table.

A copper bell rusted into a black lump, a knife with a snapped blade, and a clay figurine riddled with cracks.

Practitioners generally called these things "cursed objects," which were entirely different from "supernatural items."

Supernatural items formed when ether settled into an antique over long periods, gradually accumulating into a usable, living power.

Because they contained abundant ether and commanded high prices, they were snapped up the moment they hit the market.

Cursed objects were essentially spoiled supernatural items.

If an antique fell into a highly polluted zone and sat there for a decade...

Even if it originally held a trace of clean ether, the accumulating filth would have long since eroded it.

For anyone other than a Scholar, these objects were effectively useless and actively invited disaster.

A Hunter couldn't use one for protection, and carrying it would only ruin their concealment during a mission.

A Secret practitioner carrying one would struggle to seal it cleanly; a single mistake, and they would be dragged down with it.

Only a Scholar could squeeze any utility out of them.

But even that was extremely limited.

Once a cursed object was thoroughly stripped of its filth, barely any usable ether remained inside.

At best, they provided decent material for research.

But to Richard, even if purifying a cursed object left behind nothing but scraps, it still translated to tangible points on his Panel.

Richard broke the silence.

"Your Excellency Heracles." He pointed at the copper bell.

"Does this bell ring?"

"No," Heracles answered. "I shook it for ages, and it didn't make a peep."

"That makes sense," Richard said, smiling.

"It doesn't make a sound because whatever it's calling isn't on our side of the physical realm."

He deliberately framed it to sound unsettling.

"If you left it by your pillow at night... you might just hear it."

Heracles slapped his massive hand down over the bell.

"...I am absolutely not keeping this garbage."

His reaction drew a few quiet laughs around the table.

Richard moved on to the other items.

The snapped knife was a ritual blade that should have belonged to a complete set.

On its own, it was useless and heavily polluted.

His Inspiration only truly snagged on the clay figurine.

"This figurine is interesting." Richard studied the fractures mapping its surface.

"These cracks split from the inside out."

"It used to hold a seal, but it looks like the seal failed. Whatever was inside broke out on its own, leaving behind an empty shell."

"I'll have to dismantle it to see if the shell is still useful."

Dionysus brought his two-handled cup to his lips.

"Hermes, why are you collecting polluted trash?"

"Practice," Richard answered simply.

"Every cursed object I dismantle teaches me a little more."

"And if you break one?" Dionysus asked, sounding amused.

"Then it goes back to being the ruined scrap it already was."

Richard smiled. "They were broken to begin with."

Dionysus let out an absent sound of acknowledgment and dropped the subject.

Heracles spoke up.

"Before I arrived, the Chief mentioned there was a Scholar at this table with excellent appraisal skills.

If I had anything I wasn't sure about, I could ask him for help."

"He must have meant Your Excellency Hermes."

Richard offered a slight nod toward the head of the table.

Hecate let out a soft chuckle from her seat.

Taking that as confirmation, Heracles pushed the small pile of cursed objects over to Richard.

"It's a hassle for me to deal with these anyway. If you can use them, they're yours."

It was a convenient favor to hand out.

Richard didn't decline. He reached out and gathered the pile.

He would dismantle what he could in his free time; for anything he couldn't manage, he could always ask around once the university term started.

Between his aunt, the museum curator, and Professor Mortimer, someone would know how to crack them open.

Any points he earned from purifying them would be pure profit since he was getting the scrap for free.

After stowing the cursed objects, Richard looked toward the roll of Flag Fabric in the center of the table.

"I'd like to make a proper trade for this tattered flag."

Repeating his earlier tactic, he took out his neatly transcribed manual.

"I have a Spell Formula called [Moon Nail: Reflection].

"It can stimulate an ether circuit for a short burst of time. This might be useful to you."

Richard intentionally left the rest of his pitch unspoken.

"This Spell Formula isn't exclusive anymore. A few others at the table have already traded for it."

"I'll take it," Heracles agreed after a moment's thought. "What do you want for it?"

"Your Flag Fabric." Richard tapped the torn roll of leather-like material.

The others at the table looked over, and Heracles hesitated.

The Flag Fabric came from a high-tier evil creature; it was highly valuable material.

Trading it for a non-exclusive Spell Formula...

"I only need you to tear off a corner for me," Richard added.

"A corner?" Heracles stared at the roll. "Just a corner?"

"A corner is enough." Richard nodded.

"I just want a sample for research."

"I can't use a whole roll, and I wouldn't be able to suppress its contamination anyway."

Heracles didn't need to overthink it.

He had planned to trade the Flag Fabric away regardless.

Trading a small corner for a Spell Formula that activated ether circuits was a bargain.

"Deal."

Having secured the piece of Flag Fabric, Richard took out a palm-sized Tin Box.

He opened the lid, revealing about a dozen frost-covered bean pods stacked inside.

"I would like to make a trade with Your Excellency Demeter as well."

"These were harvested above the snowline on Hemus Island. They're called Divine Throne Frost Pods."

Demeter raised her terracotta mask, looking toward him.

"...Flora from the snowfields is rare."

"I only have this one box. I can't keep them alive to cultivate, but I know Your Excellency Demeter can.

I want to trade them for your pinch of Silent Fern. Also, if you manage to cultivate these pods, I only ask for a portion of the harvest in return."

Demeter picked up one of the frosty pods between her fingers.

She had no high-altitude seeds in her repository. If she could get them to take root, they would yield a steady harvest year after year.

"Deal." She accepted the frost pods.

"The Silent Fern is yours. If the pods thrive, I will bring your share to future gatherings."

Richard carefully put away the pinch of Silent Fern.

The Fog Bell was only ever a substitute. With genuine Silent Fern and the advanced applications of the "Silence Blockade"...

The path to advancing his "Silence" Spell Formula was now completely clear.

Soon, the participants claimed what they needed, trading away the majority of the items on the table.

Once the trading concluded, Hecate moved to the next phase of the salon.

"That concludes the trading portion."

"By our usual rules, it is time to share intelligence."

As usual, Dionysus was the first to speak.

"I'll start with a novelty. Phonographs have recently become all the rage in the Imperial Capital's upper crust."

Some at the table had heard of the devices, while others had not.

Dionysus explained.

"It's a machine with a large horn and a needle at the base. It records a human voice onto a spinning wax cylinder and plays it back."

"Nowadays, society ladies find it far more prestigious to display a phonograph in their parlor than a grand piano."

He set his cup down.

"Last month, a countess in the city hosted a séance.

The usual routine: drawing the curtains, lighting candles, having a few people hold hands around a table, and bringing in a medium to channel spirits.

But this countess wanted to be trendy, so she set up her phonograph to record the 'divine manifestation' as a keepsake."

"After the séance ended, the wax cylinder was full, so she invited her guests to listen to the playback."

Beneath his ivy mask, Dionysus lowered his voice.

"The cylinder spun, playing back the events of the evening.

The sound of the medium chanting, the knocking beneath the table—it was all there.

But halfway through the recording, an extra woman's voice emerged. A voice that hadn't been present in the room."

The table remained silent.

"An ordinary person would have assumed it was a mixed recording, or that one of the guests simply couldn't hold their tongue," Dionysus said.

"But this countess knew her stuff. She played the cylinder again, and the voice was still there.

Only this time, the words were different. When she played it a third time, the voice said something else entirely."

"Logically, a recording etched into a single wax cylinder should sound exactly the same every time it's played.

But every time this one played, that woman said something different."

Richard felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of déjà vu.

A wax cylinder recording worked by carving the physical vibrations of sound into the wax. Once carved, those grooves were fixed; no matter how many times it played, the output should never change.

But that woman's voice hadn't been recorded in the wax at all. It was drilling through from the other side of the veil, using this new gadget as an anchor.

"This phenomenon has become incredibly popular," Dionysus continued.

"It's spreading through theaters, salons, and ladies' parlors, becoming the most fashionable supernatural item in the Imperial Capital this summer. Everyone wants to take home a 'wax cylinder that speaks on its own.'"

He let out a careless laugh.

"I actually find it amusing. In the past, channeling spirits required drawing curtains, lighting candles, chanting spells, and tossing about for half the night.

Now? Just turn the crank, drop the needle, and they come all on their own."

As Richard listened, a slow chill crept up his spine.

Nemesis spoke next.

The pans on her tilted scales swayed slightly.

Behind the mask, her voice carried a tone that was difficult to parse.

"In the northern Gaelic Highlands, villages have been emptying out one by one over the past six months."

"Emptying out?" Heracles asked.

"Emptying out," Nemesis answered.

"Factories are cutting staff; they can't afford to feed people anymore.

Wartime conscription dragged away the able-bodied men, and the rest migrated to the coast or the mainland. Not a single person stayed behind."

"The people guarding the ancient battlefields, standing stones, and old altars in the northern highlands for generations were those stubbornly traditional Hunter families.

Now, their lineages are snapping one by one. One family there had guarded a single weak point for seven generations.

Last month, their final Minor Adept Hunter passed away."

"The moment he died, the weak point they had guarded for seven generations went dark.

The Guild wanted to send a replacement, but they couldn't find the manpower. Everyone fit to fight had been transferred to the front lines, and the rest were locked down watching the major weak points.

Who is going to care about a minor, rural weak point, even if it had been guarded for seven generations?"

Her scales settled into a deliberate tilt.

"Everyone is watching the cities and the major ancient sacrificial grounds. Meanwhile, the countryside withers away, place by place, entirely out of sight."

The weak points in the cities were growing, while the rural weak points were left completely unguarded. One side was swelling, while the other was collapsing.

Prometheus looked over.

"I mentioned last time that over the past year, several colonies in the interior of the New Continent emptied out 'without war or plague.' The houses stand intact, but the people are gone."

A few people at the table nodded.

"While all the other colonies in that sector emptied out, one particular settlement became far too prosperous."

"Harvests hit record highs, there was no plague, no one died, and everyone lived in peace."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Dionysus lifted his cup.

"It is abnormally good." Prometheus shook his head.

"The surrounding colonies emptied out one by one, yet that single settlement flourished. As for the few outsiders who visited and actually returned..."

"They couldn't describe what the residents' faces looked like."

The table fell silent.

"They all said the people there 'all looked exactly the same.'"

It was Demeter's turn.

She rubbed her hands on her knees and slowly raised her terracotta mask.

"Last time, I mentioned that in the fields I tend myself, the grain was growing faster and faster, yet becoming increasingly hollow.

Tonight, I'm going to talk about a different agricultural zone."

She spread her hands open over her knees.

"That area is ordinary farmland—a place where regular farmers grow grain, pay taxes, and live their lives. Now, those fields have gone wrong."

"The ears of grain are swollen to bursting, kernel pressed tight against kernel. It looks like a massive bumper crop, but the moment you pinch an ear, it collapses."

She made a pinching motion with two fingers.

"There's nothing inside. It's hollow grain."

No one at the table made a sound.

"If it were just the grain being hollow, that would be one thing," Demeter continued.

"The terror lies with the people who ate that batch. The farmers ate their own harvest, and after a few meals, they began to wither."

"What do you mean by wither?" Richard asked.

Demeter explained.

"It means the person isn't sick, but their entire being seems hollowed out.

Their eyes go glassy, they stop talking, and they can't muster the energy to work.

Just like those ears of grain—plump on the outside, but entirely empty within."

"Furthermore, those who ate the hollow grain have absolutely no resistance to 'soul-calling' in the night."

Richard instantly thought of the incident he had just survived.

"It's a famine wearing the face of a bountiful harvest," Demeter said.

"The hollow grain hollows out the people who eat it. A hollowed-out person can't anchor their own soul. If something calls them in the night, they answer."

She lowered her hands back to her knees.

Heracles shared his intelligence next.

"On my recent trip, I ventured fairly deep into the Ash Belt.

The evil creatures out there have become highly organized. They have hierarchies, commanders, and they move in squads. I saw it with my own eyes."

A few people at the table nodded. This matched what had been discussed in previous salons.

"But I stumbled onto something bizarre."

Heracles went quiet for a moment behind his Lion-Mouth Mask.

"I saw a squad of evil creatures escorting a human."

That revelation astonished everyone at the table.

"It was a living person wrapped in a cloak, their face obscured.

That squad of evil creatures surrounded them on all sides, escorting them south the entire way. Not a single creature laid a hand on them."

Heracles clenched his hand into a fist.

"We were too far away to intervene, and we didn't dare approach anyway. My intuition told me that if we tried to stop them, my team and I would die miserable deaths."

It was Richard's turn.

He mentally filtered what he could and couldn't share.

"My intelligence is this... ever since the war started, some things within the Empire's borders have grown 'restless.'"

"What things?" Dionysus lifted his cup.