Chapter 337: Zero Casualties

On October 28th, Hollis signed and stamped the Compilation Group's final seal pattern before sliding it into a kraft paper envelope.

He squared the stack of envelopes and placed them dead center on his desk.

"We're done."

Chair legs scraped against the floorboards as several students stood up in unison.

Montagu dropped his pencil back into its holder. Fischer was still slumped over his desk muttering numbers, only snapping out of it when the person next to him tapped his shoulder.

Catherine snapped her notebook shut, straightening her scarf tassels as she rose.

Richard kept his hand resting on the final proof sheet.

[Erudition] was a library.

Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, every volume perfectly aligned and ready to be pulled down the moment he reached for it.

But the books inside this library did not speak to one another.

They sat in quiet isolation, waiting for someone to retrieve them, read them, and cross-reference them.

He was already working fast, but he still had to flip through them one by one and connect the dots line by line.

Now, he felt something inside that library shift.

The shelves hadn't moved. The books hadn't moved.

But somewhere along the line, invisible threads had sprouted between them.

In that exact moment, the panel's progress bar maxed out.

[Learning Lv.3, Progress 100%.]

[Learning Lv.3 → Lv.4.]

The instant it advanced, the entire library lit up.

Row after row of dark shelves flared with light. Words surfaced on the spines, revealing the exact location of every volume at a single glance.

It was an expansion—from lacking capacity to holding it all, from incomplete retention to total recall.

Richard closed his eyes, then opened them.

He looked down at the seal pattern under his hand.

The entire seal transformed before his eyes.

The answers were simply there. All he had to do was look.

Deciphering an inscription used to mean recalling which book and page a symbol had appeared on, then mentally summoning that page for comparison.

Now, when he looked at a symbol, the relevant page numbers, paragraphs, and footnotes drifted to the surface automatically.

Every node of knowledge had sprouted tendrils, actively reaching out to link with related facts.

[Erudition] had given him a library filled with books.

Level 4 [Learning] had turned that library into a spiderweb.

Every node on that web vibrated faintly; a single tug resonated through the entire structure.

If he mentally flipped to a specific page, over a dozen related pages would light up in tandem.

Richard leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

It was a bizarre sensation.

"Williams."

Hollis's voice yanked him right out of that web.

Richard looked up.

The white-haired associate professor was standing in front of the desk, scrutinizing him.

"You've been staring at that pattern for nearly five minutes."

Hollis's tone was flat. "I already said we're done."

"My apologies, sir." Richard gathered the draft and slipped it into his satchel.

From September to late October—nearly two full months—he had spent every day in this windowless room, copying drawings, verifying lines, and filing documents.

It was tedious enough to suck the life out of a person.

Yet as he stepped out into the hall and cast one last glance back at the door, it felt strangely surreal.

By the time he reached the first-floor lobby, the daylight was already receding up the stone walls of the academic building across the way.

He pulled his coat tight and headed for the east wing of the Petrie Building.

Room 314 was lit.

He knocked and entered to find his aunt sitting alone at her desk.

The documents in front of her were stacked three piles deep, and the citron tea at the corner of the desk had gone entirely cold.

"Sit," Isabella said without looking up. She slashed a red line down the margin of a thesis.

Richard sat across from her.

"The Compilation Group wrapped up today."

"I know. Hollis called this afternoon."

Isabella glanced at her nephew.

"You look well enough."

She closed the red-marked thesis and shoved it into a drawer.

"Good timing. I leave for a trip in a few days."

"Where to?"

"Inspecting a few seals on the Northern Line. Routine business."

She took a sip of her citron tea.

"Sophia is coming with me, and Clara..."

"You know about Clara's field assignment. The Orkney Islands. I'll drop her off along the way."

Richard nodded.

"I've done everything I can for Clara." She tapped her fingernails against the desk.

"Her protective Spell Formulas were personally vetted by Professor Mortimer, and her Underwater Accumulator was built by her uncle. Military grade."

"The rest is up to her."

"Your grandfather is back from Franc, too." Isabella frowned slightly at the mention of her father.

"The butler called yesterday to say he was back at the estate. His health seems fine enough—no major issues."

She added, "Find some time to go see him."

"I will."

Isabella stood and pulled a kraft paper envelope from the bottom shelf of her bookcase.

"One more thing."

She placed the envelope on the desk and slid it toward Richard.

"Harvest Day is at the end of the month. The academy is giving you three days off."

Richard checked the envelope. Inside were two train tickets—a round trip from the Imperial Capital to Briston.

"This is..."

"Father prepared them." Isabella picked up her teacup, then set it back down, deciding it was too hot to drink.

"He says the frontline has stabilized across the sea. There are no signs of enemy forces invading the homeland for now, so martial law in ordinary cities has loosened up a bit.

Major cities like the Imperial Capital and Manchester still have to guard against espionage and sabotage, but places like Briston aren't nearly as restricted anymore."

"Oh, right. Your mother has been calling my office every other day."

"She called?"

"Yes." Isabella's expression grew complicated.

"Every time my sister calls, she starts by asking about my thesis, then asks if the department has any events, then chats about whether the weather in the Imperial Capital is warmer than in Briston..."

"And only after talking in circles does she quietly ask, 'Is Richard busy these days?'"

Richard went still over the envelope.

"When I tell her you're busy, she just says, 'Then don't disturb him.'"

"Right before hanging up, she always reminds me, 'If he isn't busy, just ask him to call home. Only if he isn't busy.'"

She pulled back from the desk and looked at her nephew.

"You left home in mid-August. It's been over two months."

Richard stood by his chair, looking down at the ticket envelope.

There was nothing written on it. It was completely blank.

But holding it, he felt its weight.

Over the past two months away, Richard had only called home a handful of times.

His mother always kept her calls brief, urging him to hang up the moment she finished her questions: "It's expensive. Save your money."

His sister always wanted to chat more, but their mother would inevitably press the receiver down to disconnect.

She would only have time to yell, "Brother, remember to eat!"

Richard tucked the train tickets into his coat's inner pocket.

"I'll go back."

Isabella hummed in acknowledgment.

"Go spend a few good days with them."

The following afternoon, Richard rode an Ashford family carriage back to 13 Chelsea Road.

The estate gates were wide open, and a young face had replaced the usual porter.

One of the two men from his last visit had been drafted. The newcomer didn't look a day over eighteen, and the cuffs of his uniform hadn't even been hemmed to fit.

The butler was waiting beneath the portico, stepping aside to motion him inside.

"The master is in the study."

Richard pushed open the study door.

Gerard sat in the old armchair by the fireplace, nursing a teacup.

With his first glance through the door, Richard realized something was wrong.

His grandfather's ether field had weakened.

"Sit."

Gerard's voice sounded exactly the same as usual.

Richard took the guest chair across from the desk.

"Grandfather... how is your condition?"

He decided not to beat around the bush.

Gerard rested his arm on the chair. "Nothing major."

He didn't elaborate on what he had gone to Franc to do.

"Is everyone else in the family alright?" Richard asked, changing the subject.

"Vincent visited last month."

Gerard glanced toward the fireplace.

"He took a hit that fractured his shoulder blade. It's been set, and he's recovering."

He took a sip of tea.

"The others have taken their share of injuries too, but as of right now..."

Gerard traced the rim of his teacup.

"Not a single young member of this Ashford generation has died."

The tension tightly wound in Richard's chest eased slightly.

For a family of Hunters in a war that had dragged on for nearly three months...

To take injuries without casualties was an exceptionally good outcome in the current climate.

Compared to the endless obituaries plastered across the Imperial Capital's newspapers, the Ashford family's luck bordered on the absurd.

Of course, considering his grandfather's recent trip, Richard suspected it had nothing to do with luck.

Gerard leaned back.

"You have your tickets. Head back and spend the holiday with them.

"Your mother worries about you constantly, even if she'd never admit it to rush you.

"But as her elders, we can see exactly how anxious she really is."

"Go spend some proper time with your parents and your sister."

Gerard stood up.

His movements were a half beat slower than before, and his right knee trembled faintly when he pushed his weight onto it.

"Also, your whole family can come to the Imperial Capital for Christmas."

Richard stared at him in surprise.

"The estate is sitting empty anyway," Gerard said, his tone perfectly flat.

"Given your mother's respiratory issues, the air here in the Imperial Capital is better than in Briston. Staying a few extra days will do her some good.

"We can handle Evelyn's culinary school enrollment while you're at it. It will save you a trip in the spring."

Just like always, his grandfather had arranged everything.

Richard didn't agree right away.

"I'll discuss it with my parents."

...

Briston. The seventh house east on Slag Alley.

Evelyn wiped down the living-room window facing the alley for the second time.

She had already cleaned it yesterday; doing it again today was purely because she needed something to do with her hands.

Outside, smoke was rising from Mrs. Weir's chimney, and the neighbor's dog was napping on its front steps.

Evelyn draped the rag over the windowsill and sat in the old armchair by the window.

It was the chair their mother usually used, the cushion permanently compressed into a hollow seat.

She pulled her legs up, planting her feet into the worn cushion, and rested her chin on her knees.

A notebook with a cake sketched on the cover sat on the coffee table.

But she had no appetite for baking today.

The living room was dead quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock.

Her mother was busy in the kitchen, sending out the occasional clatter of dishes.

Her father hadn't finished work yet and wouldn't be home until seven or eight.

She had grown used to the quiet.

After her brother left in mid-August, the household had dropped from four people to three.

A seat had emptied out at the dining table. Four sets of dishes became three, and their mother had scaled down her cooking portions.

At first, Evelyn hadn't really felt it.

But soon enough, she began to find the dinner table too quiet.

Her father still buried his head in his dinner and his newspaper, but his usual ten remarks dropped to five, then to two, until all that remained was chewing and the rustling of pages.

Her mother talked more, but it only ever circled back to things like, "I added pepper to the soup today," or, "Your father's trousers need mending."

When her brother was still around, she at least had someone to bicker with.

He could retort to whatever she threw at him, and once he did, he would turn right around and tease her.

She would fire back, he would parry, and back and forth they'd go until they finished their meal amid all the noise.

Now that the loudest person had gone to the Imperial Capital, dinners on Slag Alley had become as flavorless as chewing wax.