Chapter 449: Walking on Air

The two golden snakes wrapped around Richard's ankles and stopped moving.

He looked down and saw his shoes hadn't changed. They were still the same old boots with worn-down heels; nothing extra had appeared on the surface.

Only two very fine golden threads had appeared on the outer shafts of the boots. The snake heads bit their own tails, their bodies pressing down against his ankle bones.

At the heel, a small wing had sprouted on either side.

They tucked in tightly, hugging the boot shafts. Unless someone looked closely, they just seemed like scuff marks worn shiny over time.

Seeing Richard standing there, Kasalis asked from behind his white cloth mask, "Mr. Williams, you haven't moved. Have you thought of a way?"

Richard pulled up his Mirror Condensation.

The surrounding broken glass, scorched wood, and half-collapsed roof were all reflected in that pool of water.

Although this was the inner street, it was still the material world. There was ether, of course, but it was so thin it was almost imperceptible.

That Fire Worship Temple Pillar suppressed everything unclean, which was exactly why it was here.

That was fine. Thin as the ether was, it was still there.

Richard pushed the ether down the inside of his right leg to the small wings on his ankle. The wings immediately began to flap.

To an onlooker, however, nothing appeared to happen. This was exactly what Richard wanted.

If he had actually triggered a burst of golden light, it would have caused far too much of a scene.

Richard simply felt something suddenly pad the soles of his feet.

He lifted his left foot and took a half step out over the pit, planting his foot squarely on thin air.

"Good Lord!" Kasalis gasped behind him.

Richard didn't look back. He kept the lantern in his right hand level and walked forward.

He walked very slowly. Since his feet didn't touch the ground, the stone slabs couldn't send tremors through him.

He didn't have to step over obstacles or jump, so his body didn't bob up or down.

The tiny tongue of flame in the lantern stood perfectly straight, barely flickering from start to finish.

At that moment, Richard suddenly connected the Caduceus's "Inviolability of Emissaries" with the flying shoes on his feet.

The messenger god only needed to deliver his goods. He held the scepter so no one would dare intercept him, and the flying shoes ensured that whatever obstacles lay in his path were no longer barriers.

Soon, he landed on the opposite side of the pit, placed the lantern on a clean brick near the base of the wall, and turned back.

On his second trip, he took the lantern from Kasalis's hands. On his third trip, he went to fetch the bronze urn from Clara's uncle's arms.

The old craftsman didn't let go immediately. He sized Richard up and down from behind his white cloth mask.

"A Practitioner like you mastered a Levitation Spell Formula this fast?"

"Yes."

"Not bad, kid. Even as a Minor Adept craftsman, I need my creations to drag me along to fly," the old craftsman replied, sounding a little disgruntled.

He finally let go, and the heavy bronze urn pressed down into Richard's arms.

"It's a bit heavy. I reinforced this bronze urn."

Once the three fires had crossed the pit, it was time for the people. This was even easier. Clara's uncle simply took three steps back, got a running start, and leaped across.

At this distance, it was just an ordinary ditch to him. When he landed on the opposite bank, his knees didn't even bend.

Kasalis didn't manage it so gracefully.

The man didn't seem to be a Practitioner from the mystical side.

He stood at the edge of the pit for a long time, tucking the hem of his coat into his suit trousers with visible hesitation.

"Mr. Williams, the last time I jumped this far was during a standing broad jump test on a school playground over a decade ago."

"Did you pass?"

"I passed, but I landed flat on my ass in the sandbox, and my ankle hurt for weeks afterward."

The man shut his eyes and charged forward, arms flailing wildly in midair.

His toes just barely missed the mark on the landing, and his entire body started pitching backward.

Richard grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up from the edge of the pit.

The old craftsman pursed his lips from the sidelines, offering absolutely zero commentary.

The three of them began walking toward their destination. The un-swept broken glass from yesterday crunched under their boots.

The items were delivered, and the fires were handed over to Donner.

Clara's uncle pulled the white cloth mask down from his nose and mouth, casually wadding it into his pocket.

"I don't look at other people's fires."

Richard understood. This line of work had its taboos; it was the same principle as a butcher staying out of another's slaughterhouse, or a locksmith refusing to look at another's lock cylinder.

"I'll see you out."

The quarantine rope on the outer street was still up, with two police officers pacing back and forth behind it.

A girl was waiting outside the rope. The May evening breeze still carried a slight chill.

Her hair was down, and she was dressed rather thinly.

"Uncle."

Seeing them emerge from the doorway, her large, dark brown eyes scanned her uncle from head to toe before finally landing on Richard.

"Was everything delivered?"

"It was."

The old craftsman suddenly patted Richard on the shoulder and dragged him toward the base of the wall.

"What is it, sir?"

"Let me tell you something..." the old craftsman lowered his voice. "This thing between you and Clara. I forbid it!"

Richard was somewhat confused.

"What thing, exactly?"

"You know perfectly well."

"I really don't."

The old craftsman glared at him. "That Rubbing Machine."

He sneered. "Clara picked that Latin phrase herself. I used a chisel to engrave it for her, and if I made a single mistake, she had me wipe the material and start all over."

He stared at Richard.

"The kid recovered from her illness but wouldn't even go home. She threw herself straight back into school. Why do you think..."

"Uncle."

Clara had somehow slipped past the rope and was now standing just two steps away.

The old craftsman jerked as if poked hard in the back, instantly standing up straight.

"What are you two talking about?"

"Just talking about tonight," the old craftsman replied rapidly, avoiding his niece's eyes.

Clara shifted her gaze to Richard's face. When she looked at someone, she stared unblinking, projecting a strong sense of pressure.

She would make a formidable teacher one day.

"Right!" Richard played along, rubbing his hands on his overcoat.

"We were just talking about the fire tonight. It almost went out while we were escorting it."

The old craftsman chimed in, "Right, exactly! Good thing I'm still quite agile despite my age."

Richard sighed in agreement. "It was a close call."

"Yes, thanks to you, kid."

Clara glanced back and forth between their faces, ultimately asking nothing.

"Keep talking. I'll wait over there."

She turned and walked back, her footsteps even quicker than when she'd arrived.

Only when she was far away did the old craftsman let out a long breath.

Then, apparently deciding that sigh had been too pathetic, he hardened his face again.

"Anyway, I forbid it."

"Sir, I think I understand what you mean now."

"What do you understand, kid?"

"I understand that my life is probably safe."

The old craftsman glared at him and turned to walk toward the quarantine rope.

Clara saw her uncle into a carriage, watched the wheels turn the corner, and then took a different route back.

Meanwhile, Richard returned to the courtyard and found that white cloth masks had been distributed to everyone.

Corbin held his piece of cloth, turning it over and over under the light for a long time, clicking his tongue in marvel.

Donner sat on a low stool in the middle of the courtyard, unwrapping the gauze around his hands layer by layer.

By the time he reached the last layer, even Mrs. MacNeil beside him couldn't bear to watch.

Both of his palms were completely covered in burn blisters.

Yesterday afternoon, to prevent the rioters from touching the brazier, he had shielded it tightly with his hands, taking several consecutive lashes from iron rods in the process.

Mrs. MacNeil asked, "Shall I take over for you?"

"No!"

"You won't be able to hold the tongs like that."

The short manager was exceptionally stubborn.

"My grandfather passed it down to my father, and my father passed it down to me. For over a hundred years, it has never gone through anyone else's hands."

Donner reached for the long-handled bronze tongs. As he slowly raised them to chest height, his arms trembled.

Richard stepped up and took the tongs from him.

Donner looked up, frowning as he was about to speak.

"Mr. Donner, I won't touch the fire. I'll just hold the tongs for you. You tell me where to drop it."

Donner stared at him for a moment before relenting.

"...Everyone from Ashford House really is too sharp for their own good."

The sixteen fires were arranged in a ring around the outer edge of the charcoal ash. Donner had someone bring out half a box of sandalwood from the back room.

He mentioned that his father had left it behind, bought from Mumbai before the war.

This year, you couldn't buy it on the market for any amount of money.

Richard knew that, according to Grey's family's situation, the shipping routes to the Eastern Continent had essentially all been blockaded.

By the time they started kindling the fire, it was almost the middle of the night.

The sixteen fires were ignited simultaneously. The only sound in the courtyard was the faint crackle of burning wood chips.

No one spoke. Corbin crouched in front of his assigned fire, counting in his head as he kindled it.

He wanted to take notes, but after a moment's thought, he gave up; he didn't have a free hand.

Richard guarded the goldsmith's fire. This small flame, separated from the furnace the Blackburn family had kept burning for two hundred years, was yellower than the others.

He kindled one chip and counted it, then pushed the charcoal onto the next piece.

Looking up, he saw Kasalis still crouching motionless in front of fire number nine.

Above his white cloth, his eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, and his lips were moving as he counted silently.

After a while, Donner began to speak.

The moment the first syllable left his lips, Richard's [Erudition] triggered automatically.

What he was reciting didn't sound like any version of the Avesta manuscripts (the core sacred texts of fire worship) that Richard had read.

The consonants were rounded off, the long vowels had all collapsed, and the inflectional suffixes at the ends of the words had completely fallen away.

This passage had been passed down by word of mouth for so many generations that only the tune remained.

[Erudition] compared it with the few fragments of Sassanid-period prayers in his memory bank, identifying several off-key notes.

Most likely, Donner didn't know the ancient language either; he had simply learned how to recite it from his father.

Corbin's head suddenly snapped up. His mouth opened, and his eyes shone with alarming brightness.

He wanted to speak.

Richard quickly pressed a hand against his shoulder from behind.

Corbin turned around, and Richard shook his head firmly.

Corbin scrunched his eyebrows together, his eyes screaming: 'This is all wrong! It's been skewed for over a hundred years. If we don't fix it now, when will we?'

Richard just shook his head again.

Donner was reciting the fourth line. His blister-covered hands rested limply above his knees.

Copying Catherine's habit, Richard fished a notebook out of his coat, tore out a page, and quickly scrawled a line with a pencil.

"This fire has listened to three generations of their family recite it for a hundred and ten years. Whether it's grammatically correct isn't that important."

Corbin held the paper up to his eyes, sighed, flipped it over, scribbled a line on the back, and handed it back.

"Then I'll just record it as a living dialectal variant."

He had added another half-sentence at the end.

"If I open another course on this, the enrollment will probably be cut in half again."

Richard almost laughed out loud beneath his white mask.

One by one, the sixteen fires were merged into the bronze urn in the center of the charcoal ring.

As the last one was merged, Donner finished reciting his final line.

He stood up from the low stool and walked over to the remains of the stone pillar.

The basin of fire atop the pillar was still half a palm tall, without a trace of smoke rising from it.

Richard held out the long-handled bronze tongs.

"Where should I drop it?"

"The innermost piece. The one my father placed in there all those years ago."

Richard reached the tongs in. The instant they entered the fire, a burst of white exploded across the surface of the Still Water.

He tightened his Mirror Condensation and steadied his wrist.

What he pulled out was a small piece of charcoal, smaller than a fingernail.

Donner held out his hands. The blisters had long since popped, leaving his palms a mess of blood and pus.

He brought his palms together facing upward, forming a very shallow bowl.

"Mr. Donner..."

"I'll catch it with my hands," Donner said. "The tongs are yours, but it must be me who catches it."

Richard released the tongs.

The tiny piece of charcoal dropped into his palm. Donner's whole body shook, but he gritted his teeth and kept his hands firmly together.

Even watching from the side, Richard felt the pain.

The short man carried it like this for eleven steps. Reaching the bronze urn, he turned his hands over, letting the charcoal fall into the sixteen fires.

Not a single person in the courtyard made a sound.

The tiny piece of charcoal rolled half a turn on the fresh kindling and came to a stop. Nothing happened.

One second, two seconds...

The old archivist snapped the unused wooden chip in his hand.

At the fifth second, a tiny cluster of flame bulged up in the dead center of the kindling within the bronze urn.

It was yellow at first, but it quickly faded to an incredibly pure color, standing perfectly straight—exactly like the fire in the basin on top of the pillar.

Mrs. MacNeil pulled her shawl down a bit, revealing half of her face.

The butcher next to her slumped to the ground.

Kasalis stood completely still, his bloodshot eyes blinking twice above his white mask.

Donner let his hands drop to his sides.

"Seal it up."

The Deputy Director's reporting documents were already filled out.

"Mr. Donner, once this urn reaches the other side of the sea, I'll have someone send a telegram back every three days."

"To whom?"

"To you."

Donner began winding the gauze back around his hands, layer by layer.

"Tell the gentlemen escorting it that they are not permitted to speak to it on the road."

"If they want to say something, they can wait until it arrives."

Once the fire had been distributed, the people of the street returned to their respective shops.

Only three people remained in the backyard.

Donner sat on the low stool while Mrs. MacNeil changed the bandages on his hands.

"Mr. Donner," Richard spoke up.

"I'd like to take another look at the pillar."

The hands changing the bandages paused.

Donner looked up, studying him over the freshly wrapped bandages.

"Take a look?"

"A closer look."

"Last year you stopped three steps away and backed off."

"This year is different."

Donner was silent for a moment before pulling his hands away from Mrs. MacNeil.

"Fine."

"Tonight, consider this street in your debt."

"But I'll say this right now: no touching!"

"No touching."

"And no probing it with your Inspiration either."

"I know."