Chapter 504: Tales of Olympus

The form Sophia had manifested behind the veil for her argument was already in shambles.

It had originally been a wooden frame, but all four legs were of unequal lengths. The sentence written across it, "Wartime scholars should...", was broken off halfway.

However, the forms she had manifested when talking about Diogenes and the Pompeii graffiti were still intact:

Beside a wooden barrel sat a sunbathing old man, only the size of a palm.

A little further away stood an ancient Roman city wall covered in volcanic ash, its surface densely packed with crawling text.

But these weren't enough to make Richard pale in shock. What truly put him on guard were the densely packed figures crowding around them.

He counted for a moment and found at least thirty or forty of them.

It wasn't until he spread out Still Water to probe them that Richard finally let out a breath of relief.

These encroaching figures were nothing more than the faintest of residual thoughts; they didn't even qualify as wandering spirits.

Imperial Capital University's sealing array kept out everything that needed to be kept out. The only things that could squeeze in here were weightless fragments.

Lacking weight, they naturally felt no hunger. They had simply been drawn over by the commotion.

One figure in the back row spent a long time trying to squeeze to the front to no avail, and simply sprawled over the back of the one in front of it.

"Richard, what are you looking at?"

Sophia pushed herself up from the desk, followed his gaze, and activated her Spirit Vision.

With a single glance, her perpetually smiling face went instantly pale.

Her right hand reached toward the side of her skirt.

Richard initially thought she was going to wipe the sweat off her palm, but instead, Sophia pulled out a pistol.

It was a lady's pistol, just the right size for her small hands.

Every edge and corner of the barrel bore a personal touch; it had clearly been hand-crafted by an artisan.

Richard silently compared his senior's pistol with his own Ebony.

He found that the craftsmanship was on a completely different level.

Ebony had been made by an old alchemist and originally designed for a Hunter's use, radiating extreme pragmatism in every detail.

The one in Sophia's hand, however, was an extreme pile-up of premium materials.

Richard had a good eye for these things. Looking at its enchanted inscriptions and various precision parts, he secretly clicked his tongue in wonder.

He had always assumed that Sophia didn't go home because she had no home to return to. Now, it seemed things were far more complicated than he had thought.

"Richard."

"Yeah?"

"Did... did I summon something?"

Sophia spoke faster and faster beside him, her voice trembling uncontrollably.

"I didn't use salt or draw a circle when I spoke. I didn't do anything, I was just telling a joke!"

"If my Mentor finds out I caused such a mess, she'll throw me out of a third-floor window."

Richard stood by the window, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Senior, don't shoot just yet."

"But..."

"If you actually shoot, they're going to latch onto you."

Sophia's finger stopped on the trigger.

"They aren't here for you."

"Then who are they here for?"

"Me."

"Huh?"

Richard touched the Mask of Hermes.

It wasn't heating up at all tonight. Honestly, he half-suspected the mask was eavesdropping as well.

"I have an alchemical item that can open a door for dead souls."

He carefully chose what he could share.

"Usually, leaving that door open doesn't do anything because nobody wants to walk through it."

"Today, some did."

Sophia slowly put her gun away.

"...So they came to listen to my jokes?"

"Right. To hear you talk about what Diogenes did in the marketplace."

Sophia's entire face went from pale to bright red.

"What about that half a sentence from Catullus?"

"They listened to that part the most intently."

Sophia covered her face with both hands. "...It's so rare for this many people to want to hear me finish speaking, and it turns out this is all they were listening to."

Richard couldn't hold back a laugh, and the innermost circle of spirits trembled along with him.

"Look, they're laughing too."

"Stop talking!"

Seeing that there was no more entertainment to be had, the spirits dispersed on their own.

They dispersed in a very orderly manner: the back row left first, and the front row left last. As they left, none of them phased through the wooden barrel; they all walked around it.

The teaching office fell silent.

Richard walked over, squatted down, and applied Still Water to Diogenes' barrel, only to find that this thing was far more materialized than the forms she had manifested for her argument earlier.

"Senior Sophia."

"Mhm?" She was still covering her face.

"Come take a look at this."

"...Eh? The one for my argument collapsed, but the one for the joke didn't."

She squatted down and poked the barrel, only to find her finger couldn't pass through.

"...It's way sturdier than my argument."

After this blunder, Richard gained some enlightenment. He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a book.

It was precisely Sir Muller's On the Weight of Judgments.

Sophia leaned closer and read out a line: "The weight of a judgment lies not in the words, but in the audience."

"Whenever a single word carries the weight of a thousand pounds, it is because that word has struck deep into the hearts of the listeners."

She handed the book back. "I know about this."

"You do?"

"Mentor taught it to me in my first year."

Sophia wagged a finger, showing off. "She said that the simplest way for a word to become a name is through a story."

After saying that, she suddenly realized something.

Her two thick braids swung as she looked at him with sudden seriousness.

"Richard, over the past six years, my Mentor dragged me into reading Thucydides countless times, and I've read many different annotated versions."

"Do you know how many lines I can recite from memory right now?"

"How many?"

"Not a single one."

She spread her hands.

"But I remember the stunt Diogenes pulled in the marketplace, and I remember the guy on the Pompeii wall who came here, did that, and went home."

"Do you know why that is?"

Sophia answered her own question.

"If you want someone to remember something, the dumbest way is to lecture them with logic."

"The fastest way is to make them laugh."

"Stories are what truly strike deepest into people's hearts."

Richard lowered his gaze, looking at the Mask of Hermes he had placed back behind the veil.

Hecate had said at the round table: the mask was a conduit, attached to a divine name that had been chanted by people for a thousand years.

By performing the original duties of this divine name more often, one could gain sufficient resonance.

He had always obediently followed that advice, letting his shadow wear the mask behind the veil to carry out Hermes's duties.

But he had always focused on using it in a limited capacity while maintaining his guard. He had never considered turning things around to influence the mask himself.

"Senior Sophia, do you know Hermes?"

"Of course! Even a three-year-old knows him!"

"Then tell me, what's the first thing you think of?"

Sophia blinked, not hesitating at all.

"Stealing cows!"

Richard nodded, looking at her encouragingly.

"He crawled out of his cradle the morning he was born, and by that afternoon, he stole fifty of Apollo's cattle."

Encouraged, Sophia grew even more animated as she spoke.

"He was even afraid of leaving hoofprints, so he drove the cattle backward.

Apollo followed the tracks backward and, after searching for ages, actually ended up right back at the gate of his own cattle pen."

"And then?"

"And then Apollo went knocking on his door, and he just lay there in his swaddling clothes, saying, 'I'm a baby born yesterday. I don't even know what a cow looks like.'"

"And after that?"

"After that, he started playing the lyre he'd made that morning out of a tortoise shell. Apollo was so dumbfounded listening to it that he didn't even want the cows anymore; he just wanted to trade for the lyre."

As Sophia finished, she was so amused she slapped the table.

"Tell me, doesn't this god desperately need a beating?"

Richard stood there, remaining silent for a long time.

"...Senior."

"What's wrong?"

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Anything else?" Sophia thought about it, looking a bit strained.

"...I think he was in charge of something else. Merchants? Or maybe letters?"

She scratched her head. "I can't remember clearly. Either way, ever since a maid told me about the cow-stealing story when I was little, I've remembered it to this day."

Richard slowly stood up and began packing his things.

"Senior, your talent for telling jokes is actually worth far more than your arguments."

Sophia was initially confused, then looked a little embarrassed.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm being serious."

"Serious about what?" She wiped her hands on her skirt.

"I just can't remember proper academic points. Mentor says my head is full of scrap paper."

"That's because Aunt hasn't seen this."

Richard tipped his chin toward the wooden barrel that was still standing.

Sophia followed his gaze. "...Why is it still there?"

"It will be there for a long time."

As they were leaving, Sophia walked to the door carrying that stack of old debate topics, then suddenly turned around.

"Richard, are you coming again tomorrow?"

"I am."

"Then what do I do if I can't fill the whole time?"

"If you can't fill the time, just tell jokes. Everyone loves hearing them, and I do too."

Sophia stood in the doorway, giggled, and skipped away happily.

Her footsteps bounced all the way down the corridor to the stairs, and he could still hear her muttering to herself:

"...Then which part should I talk about tomorrow? I can't talk about Catullus anymore, or Clara will scold me for being a bad influence on Richard."

......

On Wednesday, a new batch of goods piled up in Donner's shop.

As Richard polished a counterfeit incense burner, he suddenly spoke up.

"Mr. Donner."

"What is it?"

"Do you know Hermes?"

Donner pushed his monocle up.

"Who?"

"The one from Greek mythology."

"Greek." Donner thought for a moment.

"I know there's one in charge of forging iron, and another in charge of war. I can't remember the rest."

"Why can't you remember them?"

"Greek names are too hard to pronounce." Donner frowned.

"My father's generation read fire worship scriptures, and I read account books."

"Little brother, I've been in the antique business for a long time.

No fewer than two hundred Greek artifacts have passed through my hands, and nine out of ten buyers only know that the figures painted on them are ancient gods."

"They don't ask which one it is?"

"If they do ask, I just say it's Zeus, Athena, Apollo, or something. Most of them don't know enough about any of the other gods anyway."

Richard finished wiping the incense burner and put it back on the shelf.

"...That makes sense."

Returning to his dormitory that night, he had come to a realization:

"The public's understanding of both domestic and foreign mythological systems is extremely shallow."

The source of power for a divine name mask was the name having been chanted by people for thousands of years.

...Then what if the number of people chanting it increased?

Richard tapped his finger against the desk.

The angel in Mons had been manifested from the belief of tens of thousands of soldiers in a single night.

And Tipperary had been sung by hundreds of thousands of mouths for half a year, sung until a net grew on the other side of the veil... He had seen all of this with his own eyes.

"Then what if millions, or even more, knew who Hermes was? Not just knowing the name, but knowing what he had done and what he had said."

"Stealing Apollo's cattle, ferrying the dead, using his staff to pacify disputes, his shoes to fly over obstacles, his flute to hypnotize giants..."

"...Then, would I benefit from that?"

On Thursday afternoon, after Richard had been transcribing books for half an hour, he brought the topic up as if by accident.

"Professor, I'd like to ask you another question unrelated to transcription."

Mortimer shot him an annoyed glance.

"When have your questions ever been related to transcription?"

Richard put his pen down and spoke seriously.

"If a divine name is chanted more often, it becomes more powerful behind the veil. Is my understanding of this correct?"

The old professor set down his scissors, the cloudiness in his eyes instantly vanishing.

"Yes, but also no."

"How so?"

"Go out onto the street and ask ten people who St. George is."

Mortimer gave an example. "Eight out of ten will know, because they celebrate that festival every year."

"And the ninth and tenth?"

"The ninth will tell you he's the dragon slayer, and the tenth will ask if it's a brand of beer."

Richard couldn't help but laugh.

The old professor shot him a half-smile. "If you ask them who Hermes is, you'd be lucky if half out of a hundred could tell you."

"Why?"

"Because no one tells them."

Richard looked at him. "What if someone did tell them?"

He reached into his canvas bag, pulled out the August issue of the Century Review, and opened it to page twenty-seven.

Two faceless visages stood side by side.

"Professor, I've thought it through. If I don't seize the cultural high ground, someone else eventually will."

Mortimer picked up his teacup and took a sip.

"Speaking of which, that new department established last month is indeed specifically in charge of wartime propaganda."

"They printed twelve million posters. The posters depict a mother buttoning her son's collar."

The old professor set his teacup down.

"They are forging a name, promoting sacrificing oneself for the country.

The effect is excellent. Now, every young person who enlists has the same set of stories tucked away in their hearts."

"What are you trying to forge?"

Richard lowered his head. "I don't know."

He spoke honestly. "But I feel that since this piece of land is sitting there unused, I ought to go and occupy it."

Mortimer set the scissors back on the table and folded his hands in his lap.

"If you truly intend to do this, I will give you a reminder."

"Please do."

"The storyteller can never be a person inside the story."

The wind lifted the corner of a copied manuscript page on the desk, keeping it suspended for a long time.

Richard pressed his lips together, silently savoring the sentence.

"...I understand."

"You don't understand," Mortimer scoffed. "But you will, sooner or later."

That night, the professor's words echoed continuously in his mind.

Richard had self-awareness. He certainly couldn't bear the weight of a divine name right now, but Hermes himself could.

"Let the divine name take the scolding, let the divine name be seen, and let it bear those pointed intentions."

Hecate had said: Rank determines how much you can borrow, while foundation determines how much you can catch.

He had always understood 'foundation' as his own Rank and resonance level.

Now he knew that was only half of it.

The other half was how loudly that name itself echoed in this world.

He sat at his desk, sorting through the entire chain of action from beginning to end.

First, spread the story so more people would know who Hermes was and what he had done.

Then, Hermes's power on the other side of the veil would grow stronger.

The final step, Filtration... Richard's finger paused on the desk.

This train of thought was actually the exact same as the rule he had set for Hugh.

The faces of the ministers, vice-ministers, and the like were not allowed to have facial features. Anyone could project the person they knew onto it, but it absolutely could not be a real person.

A divine name was the same.

Hermes had no face. He was an amalgamation of several contradictory records: a cattle thief, a messenger, an orator, a patron of merchants, and a Ferryman of souls.

Precisely because there were so many facets, he was essentially none of them at all.

Richard pulled the Ancient Bronze Mask from his coat and laid it on the desk.

The thin crack running from the brow bone to the jaw was still there, split open on the night of June seventeenth when Mercury transferred the seat of the Roman envoy to him.

Over the past two months, he had tried nourishing it and illuminating it with the Condensed Mirror Method, but the crack had never closed, though it hadn't split any further down either.

Richard placed his hand over it, conveying his thoughts:

"What would happen to you if many people started telling your stories?"

The mask grew hot—hotter than at any moment since he had acquired it.

Richard retracted his hand as if electrocuted, suddenly understanding.

Hermes was the god of merchants, and what the god of merchants loved most was to keep everything flowing.

And stories were the best-circulating currency in the world.

Richard sat at his desk and pulled a fresh sheet of manuscript paper in front of him.

This time, when those words flowed from his pen, he didn't think for too long.

Tales of Olympus

Below it, he wrote a small annotation:

"Serialized format, sixteen pages per issue, primarily illustrations, supported by text."

Further down was the character roster.

The first one wasn't Hermes, but Zeus.

To make people interested enough to keep reading from the start, the name appearing on the first page had to be one they had heard before.

The second was Athena.

The third was Apollo.

Only the fourth was Hermes.

And for Hermes's first appearance, Richard arranged all of his most famous and funniest exploits:

Stealing cattle on the day he was born, and being hauled in front of Zeus to face confrontation.

After hearing the whole story, Zeus was also amused... and then made him the messenger of the gods.

As Richard wrote to this point, he habitually added a line of commentary on the side for Hugh:

"This sequence needs to be drawn in four panels.

The third panel is Hermes's face pretending to be asleep... Don't draw him like a child, draw him like a grown man's face shrunk down and placed in swaddling clothes.

The fourth panel is Zeus laughing. Don't draw Zeus's entire face; just draw a massive mouth framed by a white beard."

After finishing, he looked it over himself and felt he had increasing potential to be a demanding client.

It was just that Hugh would probably curse at him after reading it.

On the third Saturday of September, Hugh arrived.

The dark circles on his face had faded a bit. The three pounds and two shillings he earned from the manuscript royalties meant that, aside from attending classes at the art academy, he no longer had to take on other part-time jobs this month.

"...Hey, about what you said in your letter."

"Come in and talk."

Hugh walked in without standing on ceremony, plopping down at the foot of the bed.

"Richard, back when we had classes, the ones on Greek mythology were always the last period on Friday afternoons."

"The teacher did nothing but read off names."

"He'd read a name, say this was the ancient Greek god in charge of such-and-such, and dismiss class right after."

He spread his hands. "I didn't remember a single one of them."

Richard nodded. "That's why we're not going to tell it like that."

He slid the four-panel annotation over.

When Hugh looked down and read the third panel, he suddenly laughed.

"...A sleeping grown man's face shrunk down and placed in swaddling clothes?"

"Right."

"You're harder to please than the boss of that soap factory."

"Can't draw it?"

Hugh picked up the paper and pulled a blank sheet from his scroll tube.

"Let me borrow your pen."

Richard handed it over.

Hugh leaned over the desk, sketching for about two minutes.

He pushed the paper over.

A swaddle, the face inside relatively crude, with eyebrows formed by just two strokes. The eyes were shut very properly, while the corners of the mouth curled up ever so slightly.

People pretending to be asleep really did look like that. Hugh's observation of daily life was actually quite meticulous.

"...It's got that feel to it."

"Really?"

"Yes, this is exactly what we want."

Hugh put the pen down and fell backward onto the bed.

"Richard, is anyone actually going to read this?"

Richard walked to the window and pushed it open. Down on the main road of the Academy District, an undergraduate was arguing loudly with a companion about whether they had to hand in a probatio draft for midterms. They were arguing so loudly the whole street could hear them.

Further out, factory chimneys stood against the horizon, one after another.

"Hugh, how many people are in the Empire right now?"

"...How would I know?"

"Over forty million." Richard hadn't expected him to know anyway.

"Out of these forty million people, the percentage who have actually read Greek mythology is quite small."

He turned around.

"But among these forty million, at least thirty million are literate."

Sitting there, Hugh slowly widened his eyes.

"...Thirty million."

"They read penny newspapers every week."

Richard continued, "The newspapers have serialized novels, equestrian competition results, and military recruitment posters."

"They don't read mythology because no one has ever told it in a way they understand."

Richard closed the window. "So we will be the ones to tell it."

Hugh returned to the desk, picking up the paper with the swaddle drawn on it and setting it back down.

"...How many drafts will it take?"

"What do you mean how many drafts?"

"For the first issue," Hugh said. "I'm worried I'll have to draw eighteen drafts again."

Richard laughed.

"If you actually end up drawing eighteen drafts, I'll treat you to eighteen meals."

"Then I'll draw thirty-six drafts."

"...Don't die of overwork."

After Hugh hurried out, Richard touched the Mask of Hermes and found it was still heating up.

That woman, Hecate, was always in a hurry.

Seven chairs formed a ring, and the ceiling of the entire table needed everyone to hold it up.

Yet for the past year, they had been resonating with their divine names in the most strenuous way possible.

Heracles ran to the front lines, Demeter planted in the fields, and Dionysus soaked in wine.

A single person's time has a limit, but what if millions of people were spreading it for you?

Richard wrote down the final line in his notebook: This endeavor will benefit the entire table.

"No matter how much I make Hermes the protagonist, Zeus, Hera, Dionysus, Heracles, and Demeter... their screen time won't be lacking either."

Richard blew out the candle and sat in the dark for a while.

If the second chair was given by someone else, it could be taken back at any time.

But what if one day, the source of power for everyone at this table relied on his story channel?

When that time came, would it still matter who sat in the highest chair?

......

On September twenty-fifth, the departmental affairs meeting convened, with all the major associate professors in attendance.

Pendleton came in carrying a stack of files, his forehead covered in sweat.

The odd jobs he managed this year had doubled compared to previous years, as the young people in the academy who could run errands were being drafted away batch by batch.

"Gentlemen, the first item... Fairfield's application."

He passed the documents down the line.

"I've verified the first four conditions on my end."

"Her Signature item has undergone three metamorphoses. The workshop issued a confirmation letter, signed by the one on Covent Street."

"The three-year record of her ether foundation is complete. The doctor's evaluation is on the second page."

"The venue application has not yet been approved."

"She is still writing her declaration."

The doctor had attached a separate note:

"The applicant's ether originates from a single source. She was initiated with the Golden Path's Fourfold Breathing, taught by her guide in 1911.

In 1912, she transferred to the Classical Records Tradition's advanced method, 'Deep Reading,' and has not changed it since. No traces of a second operation method were found in her three-year record."

The evaluation column was written extremely simply.

"Singular, crystal clear."

As Pendleton read this, quite a few people at the long table nodded.

Such an evaluation was the highest possible praise in a Scholar's physical examination report.

"Very good." Professor Wyndham also nodded from the head seat. "There are no issues with this one. Move on to the next item."

Pendleton flipped to the next page, pausing as he turned it.

"Gentlemen, the next item... is a bit troublesome."

"Speak."

"The recorder's physical examination form."

He pulled out an envelope bearing no letterhead.

"The campus doctor sent it over last week."

"Who is the recorder?"

"Richard Williams."

At the head seat, Wyndham's brow twitched.

"The one from the Department of Classics who graduated early from the preparatory course this year?"

"Yes."

Pendleton tore open the envelope.

"Reserves: Exceeds the median for Practitioners, equal to or perhaps even slightly exceeding direct descendants of Virtuoso families."

Someone at the long table looked up.

"...Exceeding the direct descendants of Virtuoso families? I haven't heard of any nobles in the Empire with the surname Williams?"

"He has no Virtuosos in his ancestry, but that is indeed what is written on the form."

"What about his purity?"

Pendleton's finger moved down one slot.

"Purity: Unreadable."

The room was quiet for a moment, and then several people spoke up at the same time.

"What do you mean, 'unreadable'?"

"The campus doctor is also of the Solar Tradition. He's done this for so many years, how could he find it unreadable?"

"Is the equipment broken?"

Pendleton hastily explained:

"The equipment was just calibrated. The doctor added a note at the bottom."

"Read it."

Pendleton lifted the form a bit higher.

"The sources of ether are too numerous; it cannot be accurately categorized into any single column."

When this sentence dropped, the long table became so quiet that one could hear the heating pipes rattling.

Pollock (the one who said modern ritual languages had lost their teeth) spoke first.

"Too numerous sources, isn't that just impurities?"

"He's only eighteen this year."

Another senior lecturer chimed in, "How many sources could an eighteen-year-old Practitioner possibly have?"

"The form states at least four."

"Four?"

Pendleton set the form on the table and pushed it forward.

"See for yourselves, gentlemen."

Professor Wyndham took the form.

This full professor was eighty-seven years old this year. He had been in the Department of Classics for over sixty years and had presided over the recompilation of two general catalogues of seals. He was the one who spearheaded the compilation of the Emergency Field Sealing Manual last year.

After reading it, he set the form back on the desk and folded his hands over it.

"...This person."

"What about him?"

"This person cannot stand in the circle."

Pendleton was stunned for a moment.

"Sir, he meets the requirement for reserves, and as for the doctor..."

"Having enough reserves doesn't mean he's clean."

Wyndham pushed the form toward the center.

"The moment an oath is sworn, the most important thing inside the circle is stability.

If the recorder loses control first, what happens to the one seeking promotion inside the circle?"

He seemed to recall something.

"I have seen one case like this before."

No one in the conference room replied.

"Thirty years ago, when I was still an associate professor, I taught a young man from the north."

Wyndham slowly narrated a story that had circulated widely within the Imperial Capital's scholarly circles.

"He majored in ritual languages, learned the basics of sealing from Russell, and even went to practice the Hunter's methods with old Graham."

"He wanted to dip his hands into all three paths, and as a result, he didn't become a Practitioner until he was twenty-seven."

"In the end, he stalled right before the threshold of Minor Adept, stuck for over a decade."

The hands Croft used to cup his teacup were trembling slightly.

Wyndham scoffed coldly. "To this day, I still remember his name. It was Hutton."

Pendleton put down his pen.

"Professor, that gentleman is Williams's guide."

"I know," Wyndham waved his hand.

"That is exactly why I must say this. It's quite likely that Hutton ruined a perfectly fine young man."

He pushed the form right into the middle of the long table.

"There must be a re-examination. I want to see him with my own eyes."