Chapter 400: Caduceus

The sound of the ninth toll dissipated into the veil.

Old Phillips gripped the rim of the bell, bent over, and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

He fished a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

He folded it and tucked it back into his pocket.

Straightening up, Old Phillips adjusted his hat.

He looked at the bell, then at the speechless veil behind it.

"Record this," he said. His voice was terribly hoarse, but every word was clear.

"Routine maintenance."

The adjutant froze for a moment, then pulled out his notebook and wrote it down, stroke by stroke.

St. Michael's Old Tower. Early morning of the Day of Mourning. The Chief Inspector conducted a personal patrol. Routine maintenance. All normal.

Old Phillips braced himself against the stone wall, descending the steps one at a time.

The adjutant tried to help him, but he raised a hand to stop him.

Inside the duty room at the bottom of the tower, a stack of official documents lay spread across the table, each with an empty box awaiting his signature.

He sat down, dipped his pen in ink, and signed them one by one.

He finished the final letter and set the pen down.

Then, he bent down and picked up the thermos by his feet.

It held the tea from his youngest son's pot, brewed with sage. It was terribly bitter.

Old Phillips slowly finished the last cup of the night.

He placed the empty cup on the table, stood, put on his hat, pushed open the door, and walked out into the fog.

The fog along the riverbank was heavy, dissolving the light of the gas lamps into a watery haze.

Dawn had yet to break. The river flowed silently beneath the mist.

Old Phillips walked along the embankment, one step at a time.

Before he had gone far, something followed behind him.

It moved up to his side, falling in shoulder-to-shoulder.

Man and hound walked together along the embankment, heading into the depths of the fog.

That night in Whitby, the black dog had watched him for a long time, and had even stood up for him.

Tonight, it looked nowhere else. The black dog recognized this man.

Tonight, all the people in the city had been properly seen off.

The half-open doors had stayed put, and the dripping-wet guests had retreated.

The one who saw others off deserved to have something see him off as well.

The black dog walked shoulder to shoulder with him, seeing him off into the fog.

The adjutant back in the duty room later wrote this night into his testimony.

He wrote: The Chief Inspector walked along the river, and the black dog followed him into the fog.

There was nothing after that. The fog was too thick; he could no longer be seen.

...

The wall of fog blocking the inner section of Flower Moon Street naturally filtered out ninety percent of tonight's guests.

Those sodden things, masquerading under other people's names, crashed into the fog wall. Most scattered outside, losing their way and their sense of direction.

Not even one in ten actually managed to squeeze into the inner street.

In the backyard of Donner's pawnshop, a basin of fire was once again alight at the peak of that waist-high Fire Temple Pillar Fragment.

The dead relied on light to find their way. The hundreds of thousands of homecoming lanterns across the city were all false beacons, leading the returning souls to the doors of the living one by one.

The crossing required a true fire—one capable of burning through to the other side of the veil—to snatch the souls from the false beacons and guide them where they belonged.

That one-and-a-half-millennia-old sacred flame served as that very light.

The sealed walls plastered with talismans on all four sides of Flower Moon Street formed the outer levee.

Mrs. MacNeil had brought her Spirit Lodging Vessels. Having lost two that night in Black Trench, she had five remaining tonight, each performing its duty.

Other hidden ones guarded their respective posts, exerting their own abilities.

Under the coordination of Madam Marie, a Major Adept, a dozen or so people firmly secured this entire section of Flower Moon Street.

Radiating outward from this center, circle by circle, they forcefully suppressed nearly half the chaos engulfing the Imperial Capital.

Madam Marie herself remained perfectly still inside the mirror room.

Tonight, the room full of mirrors served as the registry for this crossing.

The soul of a timid little girl floated to the entrance of the mirror room, cowering there, too afraid to come in.

She did not dare look upon a lady without a face.

From the room full of mirrors, Madam Marie "borrowed back" a face.

Richard watched as that face, forever obscured by a layer of moisture, finally came into clear focus.

It was a very young face, young beyond reason, still carrying a trace of unformed, childish innocence around the eyes and brows.

Madam Marie crouched down, using that young face to gently coax the little girl.

Once the little girl quietly joined the line, her face was shrouded once more in that layer of mist.

Using the mirror as ink and his Breathing as paper, Richard reflected the souls' names into the glass, stroke by stroke, and recited them aloud.

Once the name was spoken correctly, that damp, bewildered soul could no longer be used as a marionette by the corridors of the Spirit Realm to knock on the doors of the living and masquerade as someone's son.

Richard laid out the Rune Glyphs of Journey and the Wheel, one by one, forming trail markers along the line.

In the distance, the pillar fire in Donner's backyard acted as the high beacon illuminating the path home.

At the very end of the line, the Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight automatically recorded the registry.

The Small Bronze Balance weighed the souls crossing the bridge, one wisp at a time.

Pen in hand, Richard ushered them into the line one by one.

Sometime past three in the morning, the fire atop the Fire Worship Temple Pillar in Donner's backyard had been burning for seven hours.

Richard stood to the left of the pillar fire; he had already recited an unknowable number of names.

The root of his tongue was numb. Having clenched his jaw for so long, his temples throbbed with pain.

His shadow surfaced from the other side of the veil, taking the oil-paper package and running between the two ends.

The Rune Glyph of Journey, Raidho, rested atop the mooring stone—the end of the pier where the boat departed.

The Rune Glyph of Thorns, Thurisaz, was buried at the base of the old brick wall, acting as the barricade to keep out things that didn't belong.

The Rune Glyph of the Torch, Kenaz, was affixed to the base of the pillar.

The Rune Glyph of Wealth and Cattle, Fehu, was pressed beneath the Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight.

The Rune Glyph of the Aurochs, Uruz, was buried in the center of the street, shouldering the weight of this boundary.

The final Rune Glyph, Ansuz, the rune of Speech, rested securely in Richard's own hand.

Richard's Spiritual Capacity plummeted from twenty all the way to the bottom, making his vision go black.

At four-twenty, the wind changed direction.

"They're here," Mrs. MacNeil said, yanking her Moonstone Pendant out from her sleeve.

The sound of hooves crossed the border, pressing low against the bellies of the clouds.

Thirty or forty souls scrambled up from the direction of the trench, tumbling and surging forward in a disorganized mess.

Some wore military uniforms, others work clothes, and one wore only a single shoe.

They were the batch that had scattered from various places tonight, followed closely by a pack of hounds.

The pack of hounds charged up to the boundary stone.

With their front paws less than half a foot from the mooring stone, dozens of them skidded to a halt at once.

The leader of the pack strolled out from the group.

Noticeably larger than the rest, it walked up to the boundary stone and paused, lowering its head to sniff the Raidho rune resting on top.

Then it raised its head to gaze at the pillar fire, at the balance rising and falling beneath the flames, and at the long beak of the sacred ibis suspended in mid-air, tilting as it recorded the names.

Finally, it looked at Richard.

Richard's right hand remained tucked in his overcoat pocket, his fingertips pressing against the tip of the antler wrapped in reins.

That gaze lingered on him for half a breath longer—it was impossible to tell if it recognized him or not.

Then, the leading black dog lowered its head toward Madam Marie's position.

It turned around and led the entire pack away.

Those thirty or forty scattered souls were still collapsed on the paving stones inside the boundary, trembling.

"Enter them into the register," Richard called out in a hoarse voice.

The paperweight's long beak began to move.

A hint of amusement touched the voice emanating from the mirror room.

"The biggest one out tonight recognized this boundary. The rest will have to acknowledge it too."

The latter half of the night indeed passed much more smoothly.

The Practitioners split into shifts, taking turns sitting by the base of the wall to drink something hot.

One young Practitioner fell asleep leaning against the wall, only to be slapped awake by Mrs. MacNeil after barely resting for two minutes.

At five-forty, the line finally ended.

The pillar fire had burned all night, yet the flames were just as high.

Only then did Richard remember to call his shadow back.

It had busied itself behind the veil for the entire night.

Wearing the mask, it had run back and forth for him, handing over names and sustaining the glow on the boundary stone.

Right now, it was so thin it was practically translucent, its black mass faded into a sheer layer of smoke.

The morning light crept up from the trench, first illuminating the top of the pillar before washing smoothly down its shaft.

As the light washed down to the base of the flames, the Ancient Bronze Mask behind the veil began to change.

First, its two golden wings folded inward. Then, two golden snakes slithered down from the mask.

The two snakes intertwined in those pitch-black hands, twisting tightly and elongating.

They crossed head to tail, locking together to form a staff about three feet long.

The pair of wings at the head of the staff remained folded, fitting together flawlessly.

At that exact moment, the Sphinx Lamp against Richard's chest also began to grow hot.

[Visage Radiance - Complete]

[Hermes - Caduceus]

[Current Abilities: Inviolability of Emissaries, Ferrying (Core ability not yet unlocked).]

"Your supernatural item has transformed."

Madam Marie had appeared at the backyard entrance at some unknown point.

"A supernatural item transforming alongside one's craft—that serves as the yardstick."

"In your cohort, there probably aren't many who are faster than you."

Richard clutched the Sphinx Lamp, offering no reply.

At six-ten, light spilled over the rooftops.

The wind died down. The layer of fog hovering over the trench began to completely dissipate, and the paving stones dried up one by one.

From a great distance away, a single note from a horn sounded out.

It was brief and sharp—the tune marking the end of the shift.

...

Bone Hill Cemetery, 4:40 AM.

Gerard was still standing there, motionless.

He thought the horn would return. The lord of the hunt was bound to come; he had watched with his own eyes as the invitation was carved into the gatepost.

He waited.

13 Chelsea Road, 5:00 AM sharp.

The butler had kept watch under the porch all night. With the oil in his lamp nearly burned dry, he looked up at the gatepost.

At some point, the tooth-mark-shaped carving on the left stone pillar had faded.

Rainwater trickled down the grooves, and the carving had grown so shallow it was almost invisible, as if something had gradually erased it from the inside out.

The butler rubbed his eyes, assuming his vision was playing tricks on him.

Bone Hill Cemetery, 5:50 AM. A sliver of gray broke on the horizon.

Gerard was still standing.

He had spent more nights keeping watch on the hunting grounds than anyone else in his lifetime.

But he had never kept watch over a scene like this. The ground was littered with the spoils of battle he had cleared with his own hands; the fight was over, yet the one who was supposed to come collect him hadn't arrived.

He extended his Inspiration toward the surroundings.

Not a single trace of the horn's call remained.

The Wild Hunt's procession had departed entirely, never turning its path this way again.

A hound trotted over from outside the cemetery wall.

Gerard's heart leaped. It was here.

The hound ran along the narrow path, stopping in front of him. It was pitch black all over.

It circled halfway around the old man, bringing its nose to his leg to give him a sniff.

Gerard stood ramrod straight, waiting. He had been waiting for this exact moment for two weeks.

Waiting for it to recognize his scent, waiting for it to bark into the darkness outside and draw its master back.

The hound sniffed twice.

Then, it sneezed.

Taking half a step back, it shook the moisture from its coat and looked Gerard up and down once more.

In that gaze, there was none of the sharpness of a hound spotting its prey; there was only a sort of... bewilderment at having found the wrong door.

It turned around and trotted off, exiting through the other end of the narrow path.

Gerard watched that black tail vanish into the fog beyond the cemetery gates, unable to recover his wits for a long time.

On the registry, there was no longer any trace of him.

He didn't know why. He couldn't figure it out.

Outside Bone Hill Cemetery, 6:10 AM. The milk cart arrived.

The horse's hooves struck the wet paving stones with a rhythmic clatter.

The bronze bell hanging from the cart's shafts bumped along with the carriage, ringing out, ding-dong, ding-dong.

The delivery boy huddled inside his cloak, placing milk bottles on the front steps door by door.

As he passed the rusted gates of Bone Hill Cemetery, he cast a glance inside at the withered old man standing blankly in the center.

Muttering something under his breath, he drove the cart onward.

The ringing faded into the distance. Gerard still stood in the center of the pit.

The sliver of gray in the east widened. Day had broken.

A Hunter was not supposed to see the dawn.

Having kept the night watch for forty-nine years, Gerard had never once waited on the hunting grounds until sunrise.

The Wild Hunt was supposed to end before dawn. It was either him returning home alive, or dying in the night.

Tonight, he had achieved neither.

Leaning on his blade, he stood in the cemetery as it gradually brightened.

The mess covering the ground took shape in the morning light.

Shredded rags, shattered bones, and scattered lime—he had fought for all of it, but who was left to see it?

Hearing movement outside, he slowly sheathed his blade and tucked it securely into his leather bag to hide it.

A patrol bicycle stopped outside the cemetery gate.

A young patrolman in uniform gripped his handlebars and peered into the grounds.

Beneath the fir trees, he saw an elderly gentleman in a refined hunting suit, carrying a leather bag, standing entirely alone in the very center of the disorganized graveyard.

The patrolman hesitated for a moment, but ultimately spoke up.

"Old gentleman," he called out through the iron gates.

"Do you... need any help?"

Gerard turned his head, the morning light falling upon his face.

He opened his mouth, yet for a moment, he had absolutely no idea how to answer the young man.