Chapter 389: Prey of Sufficient Weight

The head rolled halfway across the desk, stopping with its bewildered eyes fixed perfectly on Richard.

Richard looked at the head but made no move to touch it.

"Offer that, and you can knock the door open," MacFie said. "The lord of the hunt knows his own lost hound."

Mortimer held his chipped teacup, leaned in for a glance, and promptly poured cold water on the idea.

"It will open the door, certainly." The old professor sipped his weak tea. "But sending this head back is merely returning lost property to its owner."

"The man loses a hound, and you hand back its head. The lord of the hunt might spare you a glance, but a glance isn't a trade."

Richard's heart sank.

"Name substitution is a matter of equivalent exchange." Mortimer set his teacup on the edge of the desk.

"If you want to bump a name off that register, you have to put something of sufficient weight on the other side of the scale."

"The ritual itself isn't complex. The Nordic tradition breaks down into three steps: present, weigh, and trade."

"First, present your offering to the lord of the hunt. Make sure he sees it."

"The location is particular. It cannot be indoors, and it cannot be on this side of the veil.

"It must be placed behind the veil, right on the border between the shallows and the Deep Realm—a place where the hooves of the lord of the hunt can tread."

"Second, the lord of the hunt will weigh your offering to see if it carries enough worth.

"If it does, he crosses out the name you want to trade from his register.

"If it doesn't, he won't even spare you a second look."

"Third, the moment that name is crossed out, your offering belongs to him. Once he takes it, it's gone for good.

"If your offering is an object, the object is gone. If your offering is a life, the life is gone."

Richard's fingers clenched on his knees, then relaxed.

"I understand."

"You don't understand shit," MacFie said bluntly.

"You only understand the rules of the Hunting Register. You haven't grasped why the lord of the hunt would ever make this deal with you."

"The lord of the hunt is a Virtuoso. Virtuosos can hardly be considered human anymore; their logic doesn't align with ours in the slightest."

"You use a lost hound's head to knock on his door, and he'll open it.

"But he opens it because he finds it amusing, because he thinks you have guts."

"Amusement and guts are worth a single look."

"The name currently recorded in that register is your grandfather's."

"To bump him off it, you have to find something that tempts the lord of the hunt even more than he does."

Richard fell silent.

Fenrir's head wasn't enough. His grandfather was the last Major Adept Hunter of Ashford House.

He was also the man who had performed the Rite of the Counter-Hunt all those years ago, sealing the pact in blood with his own hands.

That name carried immense weight on the Hunting Register.

"So, you need to place something else alongside Fenrir's head."

"Something that makes the lord of the hunt think this kid has good merchandise—something worth a serious negotiation."

"What kind of merchandise?"

MacFie and Mortimer exchanged a look.

"The lord of the hunt doesn't care about the same things we do," MacFie said.

"Offer him gold, and he'll refuse it. Offer him an ordinary supernatural item, and he won't even glance at it.

"For centuries, every person collected into his register has carried supernatural items far more valuable than your little pile of scrap metal."

Mortimer narrowed his eyes.

"We can help you with this, but not for free."

Richard looked up, suddenly tense.

"Don't be nervous." The old professor chuckled, his wrinkled face scrunching together.

"These days, I only accept two kinds of gifts."

"What two?"

"Theses," Mortimer said, pointing at him. "And successors."

Richard blinked in surprise.

"Meaning, once this is over, don't expect to have any free time."

The old professor chuckled amiably.

'Successor' sounded like a joke, but its weight was heavy in his hands.

"I..."

"Don't rush to thank me," Mortimer said, waving a hand. "Once you enter my circle, you'll suffer for the rest of your life."

It was MacFie's turn.

The white-haired giant leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight.

"Highlands rules: inspect the goods first, negotiate the price later."

"Wait until the day of the ritual. When you bring out what you're trading, I'll appraise it and decide on my price."

MacFie tapped his finger against the desk. "For now, I'll give you an advance."

He fished a small, blank piece of parchment from his coat and slid it over to Richard.

The paper was completely bare, save for a thorn-wreathed seal stamped in the corner.

"This is a blank IOU. From now on, whenever an old ruin in the Highlands can't be held and needs a Scholar to decipher some text or break a seal—if I call, you come."

"No asking why." He stared straight into Richard's eyes. "No refusing."

Richard accepted the IOU.

The Highlands were a fringe territory of the Empire. The seals established there a thousand years ago were dimming, one by one.

MacFie had spent more than half his life guarding them, and the exhaustion ran deep.

With this IOU, he was transferring a portion of his own burden onto Richard in advance.

MacFie glanced out the window.

The daylight was bright outside. A few pigeons paced the gutters on the roof across the street.

"That girl Catherine has no family in the Imperial Capital."

He said only that, leaving the rest unspoken.

Gripping the IOU, Richard understood.

"I'll remember."

With the terms settled, the two professors began tallying what they could bring to the table.

"A grand ritual like name substitution requires a Virtuoso to act as a guarantor," Mortimer started.

"Just the two of us won't have the weight to tip the lord of the hunt's scale."

"I'll handle that," MacFie said.

"There's a Virtuoso who keeps watch year-round on Stroma Island in the far north of Scotland. He's something of a fellow disciple to me."

"He'd be willing to step in?"

"He owes me one," MacFie said casually.

"Fifty years ago, when he was advancing to Major Adept, things went sideways. I was the one who fished him out."

Mortimer nodded.

"I can also call on someone with enough weight." The old professor stroked his chin.

"Neither of you has probably ever met the old president of the Royal Albion Anthropological Society."

"He's willing to meddle in this?"

"He doesn't meddle in affairs; he manages 'accounts'." Mortimer chuckled.

"At its core, the law of name substitution is an accounting matter spanning both sides of the veil.

"For this ledger to hold up, it requires a guarantor of sufficient weight to stamp it 'approved'.

"Once that stamp is down, even the lord of the hunt has to acknowledge it."

"As for the price..." Mortimer threw a sidelong glance at Richard.

"I plan to trade away pieces from my private collection. I have ancient original texts dug out of Darius's tomb that the old president will definitely be interested in."

MacFie chimed in as well.

"I'll offer a Waxing Moon Stone for the trade."

"It's something that naturally condenses only when one reaches the Major Adept stage of the Moon Hunting Tradition. In the entire Highlands, I'm the only one with two of them."

Richard calculated silently.

Ancient original texts, a Waxing Moon Stone, a Virtuoso's guarantee... Pulling out any one of these in a circle like the Theogony Salon would undoubtedly trigger a bloodbath.

Yet the two professors discussed it like they were figuring out what to have for dinner.

Scholars at the Major Adept level had accumulated networks and resources far beyond anything he could currently imagine.

Mortimer caught his expression and said offhandedly, "You'll have to pay all this back eventually."

"Pay it back?"

"Favors are favors, and resources are resources." The old professor drew a clear line between the two.

"The guarantee is a favor—you'll have to help us out in the future.

"Physical objects like the manuscripts and the Waxing Moon Stone are resources. It's capital thrown in to extend your grandfather's life. Once it's thrown in, it's gone."

"As long as you know the score, you can pay it back slowly later."

As he spoke, Mortimer suddenly remembered something.

"By the way, do you have anything you can bring to the table?"

Richard frowned, thinking hard.

"Since you're the one arranging this, you can't just put up zero capital," Mortimer said.

His tone was casual. "We're setting the stage for you, but you still have to place something on it yourself."

"Nothing too shoddy, of course," the old professor added.

"It has to be at the level of a high-grade supernatural item at the very least."

They didn't actually expect Richard to produce a high-grade supernatural item; it was just an offhand remark.

What kind of high-grade supernatural item could a Practitioner who had just reached the Signature rank possibly have?

Richard frantically combed through his mental inventory.

The Sphinx Lamp was his signature artifact; he couldn't touch that.

The Gargoyle was a gift from his grandfather, and its ether had been drained almost completely.

The Bronze Mirror, the incense burner, the Solar Seal, the Eagle Badge, the Silver Ring... These were either low-tier, completely used up, heavily modified, or serving as mediums.

He had essentially bled dry anything that was truly valuable.

The further he searched his mind, the more inadequate he felt.

Just then, his eyes lit up.

Something floated up from the deepest recesses of his memory.

It was something he couldn't tell anyone about, something he scarcely even dared to think about.

Richard looked up at the two professors.

"Professors," he said, weighing his words. "I won't say what I can bring to the table."

"I just want to ask one question."

The two Major Adepts stared back at him.

"If I can get my hands on something..." Richard said, emphasizing every single word.

"...something that would make the lord of the hunt take an interest in a peer who is actively stealing the harvest from his hunting grounds?"

The office fell silent for a moment. The professors' expressions froze.

Neither of them believed that a mere Practitioner could possibly obtain something that would pique a Virtuoso's "interest" in another Virtuoso.

Yet they also knew that Richard wasn't the type to joke on such an occasion.

The kid usually didn't talk much, but the things he did were increasingly outrageous.

The Cicero Cup, Debate Week, the summer seminar, his several field assignments... He never boasted, but every time he spoke, he delivered.

Mortimer slowly set his teacup back on the desk.

"If you can truly produce something like that..." The old professor's voice dropped.

"Then none of our original texts or Waxing Moon Stones will be needed."

"I didn't say I could produce it." Richard took a half-step back. "I'm just asking—what if I had it?"

MacFie stared at him for a long time.

"If you truly do, then we aren't the ones helping you this time."

"You'll be helping all of us, tossing something into that wolf's den that he dreams of having."

None of the three spoke another word.

Outside the window, the pigeons fluttered away, leaving the gutters bare.

"Let's go back and prepare," Mortimer finally decided, bringing the meeting to a close. "Bring the item with you on the day of the ritual."

"We'll only believe you when we see it for ourselves."