Chapter 440: I Should Go to Heaven

Of course, she also had a few ailments common among women, all brought on by years of neglecting her health.

"Notice anything? This is a good opportunity to test how your mirror-condensation technique is coming along," Isabella asked with a touch of curiosity.

She knew the mirror-condensation technique enhanced Perception.

Naturally, the Classical Records Tradition had its own exclusive Spell Formula to block probing, though she hadn't bothered to use it around her nephew.

"Do you often have to press a hot water bottle to your stomach?"

Isabella's expression shifted.

"You..."

Her face went from astonishment back to perfect calm, and she returned her hands to her lap.

"Alright, begin."

Richard aimed his palm at her right shoulder. Within his Seat of the Sun, the tree of light began seeping luminous beads.

For the first fifteen minutes, nothing happened.

"Is that it?"

"I haven't even started."

"I don't feel a thing."

"It's seeping in."

"For how long?"

"About half an hour."

"I could grade ten papers in half an hour."

"Then grade them."

"I can't. You're holding down my shoulder."

Richard didn't reply. He waited another fifteen minutes.

Isabella's breathing slowed, and the neck she had kept rigid all afternoon finally relaxed a fraction.

Over by the window, Clara turned a page of her rubbing. Isabella suddenly sat bolt upright.

"Stop!"

"What is it?"

"You said you need to save this up, right? How much is left in reserve?"

"Enough."

"Enough, my foot." She twisted her head to glare at Richard.

"You need to save it for your mother. These are just minor aches."

By the window, Clara finally spoke up.

"Mentor, if you sit up again, those last twenty minutes will have been for nothing."

Isabella shut her mouth. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

For the remaining half hour, the only sound in the office was the wind outside.

The moment Richard withdrew his hand, a gust of wind pressed the potted mint against the windowpane.

Isabella opened her eyes and rolled her neck.

She rolled it twice, paused, and then rolled it a third time.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

She picked up her red pen, then set it back down.

"...My neck hasn't felt this loose in over ten years."

She looked down at her right hand, extending and curling her index finger.

"You didn't touch this spot."

"That's from grading papers," Richard said. "If I smoothed it out, holding a pen would feel wrong to you."

Isabella stared at the finger for a moment. Under the lamplight, the thick callus on its pad carried a slight sheen.

"You certainly think of everything."

At noon the following day, Sophia tracked Richard down in the cafeteria, tray in hand, and dropped heavily into the seat across from him.

"Something happened."

"What is it?"

"Mentor went back to her room to rest at nine o'clock last night."

She shoved her tray forward and braced both hands on the edge of the table.

"Nine o'clock! I went to Room 314 to drop off some proofs, but the lights were off and the door was locked."

"I thought she was sick, so I ran to her dorm and knocked on the door."

"And then?"

Sophia's expression turned incredibly complicated.

"She was washing her hair."

Richard looked down and took a sip of his soup.

"She asked me through the door what I wanted. I said it was nothing, I just came to check if she was still alive."

"What did she say?"

"She told me to get lost." Sophia stabbed her fork into a potato. "But she sounded pleasant enough about it."

..................

When the lord of the hunt broke away from the procession, he offered no explanation, and no one in the ranks asked.

Centuries of riding together had taught the host a single lesson: you could joke around with the lord of the hunt in normal times and he'd just ignore you, but if you tried to pry into his business when he walked away, you were absolutely going to suffer for it.

The lord of the hunt headed south alone. As he passed over the sea, the troop transports cutting through the waves below didn't detect the slightest disturbance.

Circling the lowlands, he found something that made him pause.

The spirit of a young man, still endlessly repeating the motion of hauling people up from a communication trench.

The lord of the hunt leaned down and read a remarkably clean Spell Formula. It followed the path of Moon-Hunting, anchored deep to drag the caster back a single inch from the brink.

The person who stitched it had clumsy technique, but the spacing of every needle strike was identical—not a single stitch too many, not a single stitch too few.

This Spell Formula had been taught by someone else, and that someone was the exact person who had laid out dry hay for him on Chelsea Road half a month ago.

A thin layer of frost condensed on the lord of the hunt's antlers as he folded his hands over the pommel of his saddle.

Tonight, without losing a single hair, he had simply scooped up the very person that the envoy was searching for.

The envoy was definitely searching, and might come asking later.

And if he came asking, there would be room to negotiate.

The first thing Coleman did upon regaining consciousness was close his eyes and wait. He waited a long time, but nothing came.

He tried to take a breath, but the air simply wouldn't flow in. He muttered to himself.

"...I wonder if I'm going to heaven or hell. I really ought to go to heaven. I saved so many people, after all."

Opening his eyes, Coleman realized there was absolutely nothing beneath his feet. Far below lay only the clouds.

He was sitting on the edge of a saddle, his legs dangling into ten thousand feet of empty air.

It was heaven. Coleman breathed a sigh of relief.

The procession gathered around him from all directions.

Seeing a newcomer, they swarmed closer.

"Reaped tonight?"

"Not reaped," the figure holding the reins replied. "The lord of the hunt brought this one back himself."

The surrounding riders let out a collective "Oh."

Coleman had heard that exact tone of "oh" back in the military academy.

It was the sound veterans made on a recruit's first day when they took one look at his luggage and realized he had connections high up.

"How many did you kill?" A young man hefting an axe shoved his way to the front.

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Not even one?"

"I was hauling people up."

The young man stepped back, deeply disappointed, but quickly leaned back in, unwilling to let it go. "How many did you haul up, then?"

"Nineteen."

"You counted?"

"I counted up to eleven," Coleman said. "Someone else counted the rest for me."

"Counted for you?" The young man's eyes went wide. He whipped his head around and bellowed into the procession.

"Did you hear that! Someone down there was counting for him!"

A massive buzz swept through the ranks, and hundreds of heads craned toward them.

Coleman only slowly realized later that the one thing this host lacked above all else was fresh gossip.

Some of these riders had been riding along for six hundred years. Every argument worth having had been exhausted centuries ago, leaving them to just cycle through the same old sentences over and over.

A man wearing a red coat shoved his way through and gave him an incredibly respectful military salute.

His hand snapped up high, palm facing completely outward, his elbow raised almost to his ear.

Coleman froze for a second before returning the salute.

He used the modern salute: palm facing down, elbow kept firmly below the shoulder line.

The red coat's face fell.

"You call that a salute?"

"It's the modern salute."

"Why is the modern salute so limp?"

"The sergeant said showing the calluses on your palms was unseemly."

"In our day, we wanted people to see the calluses!" the red coat yelled, his voice instantly shooting up in pitch.

"If you don't show people your calluses, how is anyone supposed to know you've shouldered a musket!"

Someone next to him immediately jeered, "You got paid two shillings a day to carry a musket, of course you'd want to show it off!"

"What's wrong with two shillings!"

"In my day, it was six pence."

"You didn't even have shillings back in your day!"

Coleman stood in the center, turning his head back and forth as they bickered, completely unable to get a word in edgewise.

By this point, he was gradually realizing that he probably wasn't in heaven at all.

An old scholar pulled a pen from behind his ear and wrote a line on a scroll.

Coleman hesitantly ventured a question.

"Excuse me, sir, but... do we get military pay here?"

The pen on the scroll froze.

"What did you just say?"

"Get paid." Coleman was perfectly serious—his family wasn't well-off, after all.

"Down there, I made one shilling and three pence a day. After deducting meals and laundry, I took home about nine pence. I just wanted to ask how the pay is calculated up here."

The procession exploded.

The laughter swept back row by row, and by the time it echoed back, the story had morphed into: "The new guy is demanding his wages from the lord of the hunt!"

The young man with the axe was laughing so hard he was bent double over his saddle. "Six hundred years! In six hundred years, no one has ever asked that!"

"Three hundred and twenty years."

"...You're just counting from the year you got here."

The old scholar didn't laugh. He readjusted his grip on his pen and answered in a methodical voice.

"We divide the accounts by merit."

"How is merit calculated?"

"Those who chase the furthest, strike the truest, and ride at the front to scout the path take the largest cut."

"Do I get any merit for tonight?"

"Tonight, you are the cargo."

Coleman thought it over, then actually nodded. "That's fair."

"...You're surprisingly agreeable."

"I washed out of the military academy once," Coleman said.

"The day I was dropped, the instructor told me I'd better never try to be a clerk, because if I did, I'd just get ordered around to run errands."

The old scholar looked at him, letting the comment pass.

"Aren't you upset?"

"Upset about what?"

"You're dead."

"When I was fourteen, I was told it was already over." Coleman reached back and rubbed his spine.

"For the past five years, I've treated it as borrowed time. Now that it's run out, I'd feel bad asking for more."

The lingering laughter in the ranks finally scattered.

"Besides, I always figured I'd end up in the Spirit Realm when I died," Coleman continued.

"A good friend of mine told me what the Spirit Realm was like once, and I couldn't sleep a wink that night."

"This isn't so bad. At least I can still do something."

"Do what?"

"I have no idea," Coleman answered honestly. "But it beats soaking in the water alone."

The old scholar lowered his head and wrote another line on his scroll.

"What is your name?"

"Coleman."

"Full name."

Coleman gave him his full name.

The old scholar wrote it down.

"Say your mother's name again."

Coleman opened his mouth, but it took him three seconds to remember the name.

Three seconds wasn't long, but it was enough for him to realize something was wrong.

The old scholar tucked his pen back behind his ear, turned around, and walked away.