Chapter 325: Out of Clues

Debate Week drew to a close, and days fell back into their old routine.

Morning classes, the Compilation Group, the library, eating, practice, and sleep.

Occasionally, he spent a weekend afternoon at the museum, or was called to Room 314 by his aunt for an extra training session.

Work in the Compilation Group piled high enough to drown a man. The front lines were burning through seals far faster than budgeted.

Too many people were dying.

The trench warfare had dragged into a bitter tug-of-war.

Blood soaked into the mud, and the echoes of the dead poured through the veil in endless layers.

The Compilation Group could not send seals out fast enough to match the front-line attrition.

Richard sat in his room, turning over a proof for a Celtic three-stage closed structure.

The closing of the third knot was off by half a stroke; he marked the error with a red pen.

Associate Professor Greer poked his head in, the dark circles under his eyes forming solid bruised patches.

"Williams, is that batch of improved versions for the front lines done yet?"

"It's done. On the desk."

Greer gathered the stack of manuscripts and hurried off.

Richard picked up his tea and took a sip.

Debate Week had been over for almost a week now.

Clara had taken fourth in the overall competition, winning his aunt a fair bit of prestige in the department.

Phillips had returned to the Royal Academy, leaving Richard with two tins of a newly blended tea before his departure.

Montagu remained unchanged, keeping up his usual lofty airs as he attended classes, completed his exercises, and flipped through his rubbings.

Catherine still wore a mask, her pen flying faster and faster across her notebook. Nobody could tell if her voice had recovered yet.

Fischer had brought her throat lozenges twice. She accepted them, but still refused to speak a single word.

Speaking of which, the next gathering was fast approaching. He had pulled the invitation from his mailbox just two days ago.

Imperial Capital University's sealing array was incredibly strict.

Combined with the constant presence of Major Adept professors on campus, Hecate had used the most ordinary mailing channel this time.

The only difference was a minor anti-tampering Spell Formula woven into the envelope; if anyone else tried to open it, the letter would self-destruct.

His days continued as usual. He attended classes, handed in assignments, and dispatched the Compilation Group's orders one by one.

The only change was that every night, when he sent his shadow into the shallows of the veil to practice Spell Formulas, he would mentally run through the route into the museum's Storeroom.

From the loading dock to the outer corridor, and from the iron gate to the Storeroom.

Which brick to step on for every pace, the precise ether cost of swapping shells at every second—he ran through it all again and again, timing the sequence perfectly in his head.

By the sixth run-through, he found a spot where he could shave off a full twenty seconds.

The second shell did not have to be the catalog librarian.

If George the porter happened to walk past the unlocked side door outside the archives while hauling freight from the loading dock to the outer corridor...

Then he would not need the catalog librarian's clearance at all. He could slip straight through that side door and into the middle corridor.

Saving one shell meant a greater margin of safety.

Richard closed the proof in his hands and set it on the corner of the desk.

His quota for the Compilation Group was finished for the day, and he had no classes that afternoon.

He walked out to the old oak tree behind the Department of Classics and sat down.

The roots dug painfully into his rear, but the spot was quiet.

He had exhausted every usable clue written on the Papyrus.

Just as Thoth himself had said...

"Maat merer rekh." (Truth favors those who know the answer.)

What if he went back in this time, and Thoth was out of answers?

Richard shook his head. Overthinking was useless.

He pushed himself up from the oak roots and dusted himself off.

On his way back to the dorms, he passed a bulletin board.

A new notice was pinned at the very top.

"Notice from the Imperial Conscription Committee:

All eligible males nationwide between the ages of eighteen and forty-one are to enter the second phase of preliminary registration starting November 1st..."

In the blank space beneath the notice, someone had scrawled a line in pencil:

"Saying we'd be home before Christmas—it was all a lie!"

Richard gave it a glance and kept walking.

That night, the countdown reached zero.

The familiar line of text surfaced at the bottom of his Panel.

[Seed entrance opened.]

[Enter?]

Richard lay back on his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest.

He selected [Yes].

His consciousness plunged into darkness.

The stone chamber was exactly as it had been, with Thoth standing right in the center.

He spoke:

"The path hereafter is not recorded in the book."

Richard felt a twinge of foreboding.

"What I know ends here."

Thoth raised his Reed Pen and wrote one last line on his Writing Slate.

Once he finished, he turned the slate around.

"Maat merer shen en ib."

(Truth favors an honest heart.)

Richard stared at the words for a long time.

Just as he suspected, the two Papyrus scrolls had already yielded all their intelligence.

The Harbor's defense layout, the day-names of the two Virtuosos, the ignition incantation for the inscriptions, the honored names, the location of the fuse, the method to break the curse, the shell-replacement route...

From the next step onward, he was on his own.

He offered Thoth a slight bow.

The stone chamber began to dim.

His consciousness plunged once again, crashing into the swaying of a ship's deck.

The third time in. It was an old route walked anew.

The very first thing he did was split his shadow.

His execution was far more refined than the last time.

The shadow slipped into the water and vanished beneath the waterline.

It threaded through the crevices in the breakwater's foundation, following the exact same path as before.

He made it through.

With the hidden piece in place, he opened his direct assault.

He began to chant the inscriptions.

As he chanted, he realized the inscriptions were lighting up faster than before.

His familiarity with the text had deepened.

By the fourth repetition, the entire ship began to shake violently. The tattered vulture flag on the mast snapped wildly in the wind.

Richard simply picked up the pace.

By the seventh chant, the inscriptions peaked.

Within three breaths, he slammed down the honored name and issued his challenge!

The sea turned into a black mirror; the two defending Virtuosos were forced to respond.

Everything played out exactly like last time, only far smoother.

On the hidden end, his shadow surfaced from the water to a city in chaos.

Watching a spectacle was simply human nature.

The citizens of the Imperial Capital showed the same rabid enthusiasm for a fight as crowds watching a workers' strike in Briston.

Yassin: replacement complete.

This time, he did not head for the side door of the customs building to find Mohammed.

Richard changed his route.

Yassin broke into a trot, heading straight for the freight elevator.

The elevator was manned during the day, but with the chaos at the Harbor, the guards had long since bolted.

He dragged open the iron grating, stepped onto the platform, and descended straight into the underground.

This route shaved off a considerable amount of time compared to his last run.

Reaching the entrance of the logistics passage, he vacated Yassin's shell and slipped into George's.

The porter hauled his way down the passage toward the outer corridor. As he passed the side door outside the archives...

He changed routes once more and pushed the side door open.

It was unlocked.

The archives were empty at this hour, the lights all switched off.

He cut straight through the room, emerging from the other side directly into the middle corridor.

He had completely bypassed the catalog librarian, Harold.

Four shells. He had used two, leaving him with two more chances to swap.

He ran into Senior Assistant Simon in the middle corridor.

Replacement. The third shell.

For his fourth shell, he planned to switch to Abdul and deliver the tea himself.

"Abdul," Richard called out, stepping over to stop him.

The stout man turned around.

"The kettle lid is loose."

Abdul looked down at the lid.

The lid was perfectly fine. It was not loose in the slightest.

But the moment he lowered his head, the shadow darted out of Simon's shell and sank right into Abdul's body.

Richard pushed the metal cart, trundling down the outer corridor toward the iron gate.

When he reached the gate, Donald was leaning against the wall.

"You're here?"

"I'm here," Richard replied in Abdul's voice.

"It's a mess outside tonight. Drink up, Mr. Donald, it'll help keep you awake."

He filled the enamel cup to the brim with hot tea and handed it over with both hands.

Donald reached out to take it.

Their fingers brushed against each other on the rim of the cup.

With just that single touch.

The shadow slipped from Abdul's palm, gliding right across the point of contact and straight into Donald's body.

A Practitioner's circuit did indeed have a rejection response.

But aided by Abdul's mark and direct skin contact, the replacement was far more forceful than the last time.

The entire process was completely silent.

A cup of hot tea passed from one pair of hands to another.

Abdul blinked, standing before the iron gate.

"Who did I... just finish delivering to again?"

He scratched the back of his head, then pushed his creaking cart back the way he came, heading for the logistics passage.

Five shells. All of them used.

From entering the water to sliding the key into the iron gate's lock, his total time was nearly cut in half compared to his second attempt.

The iron gate opened, and Richard walked briskly past the outer shelves, bypassing the first eight relics.

He had memorized the positions, types, and ether signatures of items one through eight more clearly than the lines on his own palms.

He did not stop, did not scan, and suppressed his Spirit Vision down to the narrowest possible slit.

He stopped in front of the ninth relic.

Last time, he had nearly caused this thing to detonate the entire Storeroom.

It was a dual-branded trap laid by the two Virtuosos: illuminated by the Solar Tradition, incinerated by the Hearth Fire Tradition. It blew up the second it was touched.

Richard bypassed it.

There were four relics left behind the fuse, and all four were layered in anti-tomb-robbing curses.

The curses were forged from a priest's own blood. The priestly inscriptions on the mummy served as the key.

Richard mobilized the unbroken thread of connection linked to the mummy container.

Following the passage behind the veil, he coaxed it over, strand by strand, anchoring it to his end in the Storeroom.