Chapter 510: The Foundation of the Honorific Name

Horus threw up a hand to block, but the brute force simply overwhelmed him.

The heavy punch caved his metal mask right in.

A feather snapped off its rim, tumbling into the dry grass alongside its owner.

With a short spear driven through his chest, Heracles hadn't fared much better.

Both men collapsed simultaneously.

One rolled through the dead grass; the other dropped to a single knee.

The howling wasteland gale whipped up once more, carving a distinct, turbulent flow of ether between them.

The projected image remained quiet for a long time before Horus finally stood.

With a casual flick of his hand, the short spear tore back out of Heracles' chest and flew neatly into his grasp.

The wound was shallow enough that the hulking man's wife only gave it a passing glance; she didn't rush over.

Heracles just clamped a hand over the hole to staunch the bleeding.

In the projection, Horus stood perfectly straight, but his caved-in iron mask looked undeniably comical.

He spoke.

"You must not be him."

"You can't hide what you are."

He beckoned. Without any interference from Heracles' wife, the peregrine falcon flew back to Horus's shoulder.

Before turning to leave, he offered a flat parting remark.

"Truth be told, I don't actually like our Chief either."

"If your side wants to talk, I can pass on a message."

"Also, you can keep the feather on the ground."

"I don't want it anymore."

The projected image scattered.

Heracles pulled that very feather from his coat and tossed it onto the table.

Everyone present gave it a look.

"It's clean. There are no hidden traps or tricks left on it."

Hecate picked up the feather.

"But just to be safe, I suggest you let me handle it."

The hulking man nodded without a word.

Hecate promptly dropped the feather into her torch, reducing it to ash.

All in all, the battle had ended in mutual destruction.

Heracles had taken a moderate wound to his chest, but with his regenerative abilities, it would heal quickly.

As for the damage he had inflicted on Horus, even Richard felt a phantom ache just watching that punch through the projection.

Horus probably wouldn't be able to show his face for months. He might even need a specialist to reset the bones.

Come to think of it, Horus's fighting style was remarkably similar to how Richard used the Mirror to read an opponent's intentions.

But channeled through his divine mask, Horus's precognitive abilities seemed even stronger.

Hecate's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Last month, Apophis himself came to the Imperial Capital."

At this, the atmosphere in the temple grew heavy.

"Nemesis. Hermes."

"The two of you should have been in the Imperial Capital at the time. Can you tell us what happened on your end?"

Hecate asked this very politely.

Richard exchanged a glance with Nemesis before answering for them both.

"We did encounter him. He was there for about ten days in total."

"How close were you when you ran into him?" Prometheus asked.

"Same room."

"Did you speak?"

"Of course. Mostly it was him talking and me listening."

Dionysus picked his Two-Handled Cup back up, only to pause halfway and set it down again.

"Did he know who you were?"

"I was no different from anyone else sitting in his room and chatting with him. Or at least, that's what I think."

Nemesis typed out a few lines.

"Me too."

The amount of information contained in Richard's words was massive.

Heracles gaped.

"You two stayed right under the nose of a Major Adept of the Abyss Tradition for ten whole days."

"I fought one of his subordinates and ended up like this, but you two sat directly across from the man himself!"

Richard chuckled inwardly.

No, your situation was definitely more dangerous.

Scholars fought their own scholarly battles, but Hunters fought with drawn blades and spilled blood.

Dionysus raised his Two-Handled Cup in a toast toward Richard.

"I'm starting to think you Scholars are far more terrifying than us brawlers."

Finally, Hecate spoke up with a question.

"How did you manage it?"

I knew she would ask, Richard noted mentally.

He had prepared several explanations, but in the end, they all boiled down to a single sentence.

"We simply placed ourselves in an utterly insignificant position."

"We acted completely normal around him, even taking the initiative to ask him questions. On the surface, Apophis is actually a very amiable professor."

Hearing this, the expressions of everyone present wavered with astonishment and doubt.

It was easy to say. But to sit in the same room with a Major Adept of the Abyss Tradition who was actively investigating you, getting questioned repeatedly while keeping a straight face and pretending to be an eager student discussing academics?

Truth be told, when those present searched their own hearts, none felt they possessed that kind of psychological fortitude.

Hecate merely nodded and pulled her hands back from the table.

"Very well."

"Moving on, there is another important issue."

She stood up.

A map materialized in the center of the round table, bracketed by the seven stone chairs.

It highlighted several key locations.

Of course, this map was limited to the Western Continent.

"Since we have some time today, I plan to brief everyone on the status of the other tables using our latest intelligence."

Leaving no room for interruptions, she launched straight in.

"Let's start with Northern Europe."

The northernmost section of the map, Scandinavia, lit up.

"In March of this year, they swallowed the Celtic table whole."

Yet not long after, a Major Adept Scholar from Moon-Hunting showed up at their door with a book in hand and wiped them all out in one fell swoop.

One Minor Adept died. The rest were severely wounded."

"It's been half a year since, and they're still recovering. By and large, they're laying low."

She hesitated for a moment.

"But when I say laying low, they aren't completely dormant."

"How so?" Dionysus asked quickly.

Hecate plucked at the silk threads in her hands.

"Rumors are spreading through Deer Port, the harbors of two neutral countries to the south, and several taverns registered under the Civilian Guild."

"Tracing them back to the source, I suspect Loki is the one behind it."

Hecate snorted coldly.

"That guy always loves playing these petty tricks, treating everyone else like fools."

Richard stayed quiet but kept mental notes. After all, the Skadi he knew sat at that very table.

Hecate moved on to the second table.

"Next is the Rus table."

The easternmost region on the map lit up.

"They never cause trouble on their own. They work for whoever pays them."

Hecate kept her description brief, seemingly deeply wary of the Rus table.

Noticing this, Richard mentally bumped the Rus table's danger level up a notch.

If Matthew were here and knew what Richard was thinking, he would surely laugh out loud and say, 'Kid, you're thinking exactly like someone who sits in the First Seat now.'

Meanwhile, Hecate had already moved on to the Iberia table.

"That table had internal strife last winter and ended up replacing two members."

Right now, they possess the weakest overall strength of all the tables. They're frantically searching for a backer."

"They've already offered non-aggression pacts to at least two other tables."

The non-aggression treaty delivered to us last time came from them."

"Did the Chief reply?"

"Of course not."

"Then there is the Germanic Pantheon's table."

The colored section occupying the center of the Western Continent on the map appeared much more solid than the rest.

"Their inherent strength is merely average, and they even took a beating during the group battles in March."

But after April 30th, they gained the backing of a newly ascended Virtuoso."

"I believe everyone here knows exactly who that Virtuoso is."

The poison gas clouds of Flanders—everyone present had discussed the incident. Naturally, they all knew.

"Relying on this newly advanced Virtuoso, coupled with a temporary tilt in national resources and some support from the munitions department, no one dares touch the Germanic table right now."

"Finally, there's the Black Earth River."

On the map, the southernmost region of the Mediterranean only held a faint glimmer along the Black Earth River itself. The vast deserts stretching inland were completely blank.

"This is the table that has shown us the greatest hostility recently."

They are led by a Major Adept Scholar from the Abyss Tradition, and there are suspicions that a Virtuoso stands behind them as well.

They sound like the hardest to deal with, but in reality, their organization is the most scattered."

After finishing with the Black Earth River, Hecate casually tapped another spot on the map—the Apennine Peninsula.

"And then there was Rome. They no longer exist."

Hearing this, Heracles rubbed the wound on his chest.

Dionysus stared at the crack along the rim of his Two-Handled Cup, while Prometheus thought of that puppet.

Richard noticed that Hecate didn't seem finished.

Sure enough, her next sentence was:

"Let's talk about ourselves. Based on overall strength and background, we safely rank in the top three."

She extended her fingers, listing off their merits one by one.

"We swallowed the entire Roman table, and we even brought in a Virtuoso to hold the line."

"Behind us stand two Major Adept Scholars and one Major Adept Craftsman."

"Moreover, our Divinely Crafted Armaments have all fully manifested, and quite a few of us have even condensed a second Divinely Crafted Armament."

Hecate swept her gaze around the table, without specifying who.

Then, her tone shifted.

"But the price for ranking in the top three is that, from today on, no one will view us as soft targets anymore."

"The probers Black Earth River sent last month—the next time they come, it likely won't be just testing the waters."

Heracles raised a hand.

"Chief, even though we absorbed a lot of the divine names and power from the Roman table..."

...aside from the tangible items and knowledge we gained, I haven't felt any concrete boost to my divine mask."

Hecate nodded, having fully expected the question.

"To answer that, let's first go back to the Northern Europe table."

"In March, they swallowed the entire Celtic table. Because that table was overall much weaker than them, it went very smoothly."

Hearing this, the others at the table looked questioning.

Hecate continued.

"Newly swallowed divine names require a period of digestion—roughly three to four months."

"Once fully digested, the power boosts everyone receives through their divine names will collectively increase."

But during that digestion period, the names bound to you will clash with one another.

If someone seizes upon that weakness, even a Major Adept will be unimaginably fragile."

Dionysus understood.

"So the victors of a group battle have to keep their tails tucked between their legs for the next few months."

"Correct."

Hecate swept her gaze across the entire table.

"Now you should understand why I immediately tightened the rules after June 17th."

For the three months following June 17th, meetings continued as usual and intelligence was still gathered, but they had fundamentally cut off all interactions with outside tables.

Hecate had even suppressed all the olive branches extended by the other tables, ignoring every single one.

Hearing this, Heracles couldn't help but raise his hand again.

"Chief, I have a question."

"Speak."

"According to what you just said, we recently swallowed the Roman table and are at our most vulnerable state."

The hulking man scratched his head. "If another table initiates a group battle now, wouldn't we be in immense danger?"

Hecate tapped the tabletop with her finger.

"They wouldn't be in time. The battle for seats is a full-scale ritual. It requires preparing a venue, negotiating for foreign aid, and organizing logistics."

"From the initial intent to actually striking, the fastest it could take is two to three months."

"By the time they lay all that groundwork, our four-month digestion period will be almost over."

Dionysus swirled his cup.

"And if someone doesn't mind the trouble and insists on taking a bite anyway?"

"Then they'll be the ones getting eaten for the next meal."

Hecate tilted her Golden Mask.

"Even if they win, they'll be crippled, and they'll be stuck trying to swallow an even larger, undigested meal."

"A third table would just have to sit and wait to pick up two free tables."

Sitting in his stone chair, Richard silently finished the thought.

...Which is why someone like Professor McPhee, who operates entirely outside the rules of the game, could strike so smoothly.

Having said this, Hecate raised her hand.

A very faint silhouette surfaced among the seven stone chairs.

"This is the shape of our table behind the veil. It is a ship."

"When a person descends into the Deep Realm alone, they rely on their own meager Micro-circulation."

"Inspiration acts as the lamp, Rank is the rope, and the signature artifact is the anchor."

"Only when all three meet the standard does anyone at the Major Adept tier or higher dare to venture down alone."

Richard thought of Madam Marie. Even a Major Adept of her caliber preferred to borrow cats or spirits, rarely diving down in person.

"But a table is different."

Hecate traced a circle along the faint silhouette.

"Seven divine names, each occupying a cardinal point. The aspects you brought in... Heracles's might, Demeter's roots, Dionysus's intoxication, Prometheus's fire, Nemesis's scales, Hermes's staff..."

"Pieced together, the seven of us form a ship."

"The sturdiness of the ship depends on the resonance of the entire table, the compatibility of our divine names, and the ship's own structural integrity."

Watching the faint ring of dark light slowly spinning in the center of the table, Richard remembered a passage from ancient Greek mythology.

When Athena built a ship for Jason, she embedded an oak branch chopped from the sacred grove of Dodona into the prow.

The wood could speak. A ship full of heroes rowed, steered, fought for glory, and plotted against each other, but that piece of wood at the prow always knew exactly where the entire voyage needed to go.

"What's down there?" Nemesis projected a line of text, cutting straight to the point.

"Natural precipitation sources of Deep Ether Condensate."

Hecate turned toward the red gold mask.

"Prometheus, even for your Major Adept master, acquiring that stuff is a massive hassle, am I right?"

Prometheus nodded.

Hecate continued.

"It's also the origin point for Silent Ferns, Night-Jade Stones, and Wick-Core Copper."

"You can only get scraps from the middlemen, but down there, it's everywhere."

"The original vessels of lost Spell Formulas—that's where they were first transcribed."

"And most importantly."

The entire table waited.

"The gate leading to Virtuoso lies in the Deep Realm."

"To climb the Ranks, one actually has to dive down."

She folded her hands on the table.

"I told you last year: the moment the group battle begins, the seven chairs link into a single ring."

It elevates the weakest and suppresses the strongest."

"That is why I have been pushing your resonance this past year. Today I am telling you, that resonance and your Ranks serve another purpose in the Third Stage."

Heracles asked a question.

"Chief, when will we be qualified to go down?"

"When all seven of us reach Minor Adept." Hecate looked at the two sitting at the end, her words carrying a pointed meaning.

In the final minutes before they adjourned, Hecate gave instructions on a few trivial matters:

The next gathering was set for mid-December; for the next two months, no one was allowed to venture deep behind the veil alone; and if their tokens turned cold instead of hot, it meant an enemy table had arrived at their doorstep.

Sitting in his stone chair, Richard's mind raced.

For the ship to dive, all seven chairs had to meet the criteria.

Right now, they were short by two people: Nemesis and himself.

Which meant the entire table's descent was currently bottlenecked by him and Catherine.

Back when that man with hair like dry weeds leaned back in the chair in his dorm, he seemed to have spoken offhandedly.

"After that night, find a chance to overthrow her."

"Three years, five years, ten years—it doesn't matter. I can wait."

At the time, he had thought it was just a Virtuoso deliberately amusing himself to maintain his humanity.

Tonight, he actually felt that Matthew knew the inside story and had been warning him.

Because if this ship truly descended into the Deep Realm, all seven of them would be grasshoppers tied to the same rope.

At that point, whoever held the helm held the lives of everyone at the table.

And as for Hecate, Richard had zero trust in her.

In that case, his next goal was exceedingly clear...

"Did you hear me clearly?" Hecate asked again nearby, sounding uneasy.

Richard answered in unison with the other five.

...

On the morning of October 17th, the entrance to Clara's house was quite restless.

Sophia hadn't slept at all. She ran over from her dorm just past six o'clock.

When she arrived and received no response after three knocks, she paced back and forth at the bottom of the steps.

She paced until almost seven, when the hourly maid finally came walking from the intersection with a shopping basket.

Seeing the light-blonde girl walking in circles by the steps gave her a bad start.

"Miss, who might you be?"

"I'm Clara's classmate."

"Then why don't you knock and go in?"

Sophia looked a little embarrassed.

"What if she's still sleeping? I didn't dare disturb her."

The maid walked up and unlocked the door.

The lights inside were still on. Clara sat at the dining table with several sheets of drafting paper spread out before her.

Sophia quickly asked, "What time did you get up?"

"I didn't sleep last night."

"Clara!" Sophia cried, deeply worried.

"I couldn't help it. I just couldn't sleep."

Clara stacked the papers neatly and stuffed them into an envelope.

"As soon as I lay down, my mind was full of everything Mentor told me."

During the morning, she did something Sophia didn't quite understand.

Clara moved her violin case from the wall to the center of the living room, opened it, took out the violin, and wiped it down all over again.

Rosin, fingerboard, pegs—she wiped them all, doing so even more meticulously than she did before rehearsals.

When she was done, she put the violin back, fastened the clasps, and locked it.

Then she stood the case upright right in the middle of the dining table.

It was a very strange spot. Sitting there, the violin case would be the first thing anyone saw upon opening the door.

Sophia opened her mouth to say something.

Richard patted her on the shoulder and gave a faint shake of his head.

Isabella had also come along.

Upon entering, she scanned the room. Spotting the violin case standing on the table, she didn't say a word, simply pulling an oval object from her pocket and pressing it into Clara's hand.

Richard peered closely and realized it was actually a boiled egg.

"Mentor..."

"Eat a little. You'll be standing in the circle for hours, and if you get hungry, who knows what could go wrong."

Obediently, Clara peeled the egg, but the shell stuck all over her fingers.

It seemed she was just as nervous; hands usually so deft at playing the violin ended up covered in crushed eggshell.

At six o'clock that evening, just at dusk, everyone assembled on the second basement level of the Petrie Building.

"Recorder, Richard Williams."

"Present."

"Assistant, Sophia Hardy."

"Present!"

"Why are you yelling so loudly?" Pendleton rubbed his forehead.

"...I'm nervous."

The narrow door inlaid with silver wire opened, revealing nothing but pitch blackness behind it.

The shallows spread out beneath their feet. Richard observed silently.

After being reinforced beforehand last time, the overall environment here had become much more stable. A ring of white marks floated on the ground right at the center.

For hundreds of years, generation after generation of Scholars had stood in that exact spot—chanting, reciting, or coughing up blood in failure. The shallows had faithfully recorded it all.

"Step one," Wyndham spoke up.

He was the witness tonight, standing due south of the center.

"Verify the instrument."

Otto Farfield stepped forward.

The old craftsman pulled a wooden box from his coat, opened it, and placed a brass tuning fork dead center in the circle.

His voice was exactly the same as when he chewed people out in his workshop—devoid of any politeness.

"Gentlemen, no talking while I verify."

He wiped his hands on his knees, then reached out to feel the ring of indents on the tuning fork.

"First metamorphosis, winter of 1911."

"Second, autumn of 1912."

"Third, August 19th of last year."

"...All three marks are present."

Standing at the recorder's position north-northeast of the center, Richard scribbled continuously in his notebook while simultaneously calculating his own progress in his head.

When he measured the third mark on the Sphinx Lamp this morning, he found it was already nearing a third of the way complete.

At this rate, he had hope of reaching this step himself by next year.

Wyndham said, "Step two, the officiant opens the field."

Isabella stepped forward, wearing her dark gray formal suit today. Raising her right hand, she silently wrote in the air before her.

When his aunt finished writing, Richard felt the entire shallows sway slightly.

The ether circled outward following Isabella's hand, completely sealing the ritual pedestal shut.

Greer, crouching in the outer ring, Pendleton holding the lamp, and the other graduate students there to help—they all seemed to grow further away.

From this moment on, the people outside the circle could only watch whatever happened inside.

"The circle is set." Sweat was already beading at Isabella's temples.

"Step three, clearing the slate."

Clara walked to the center.

She stopped in front of the white ring of marks, letting her hands hang by her sides.

"Declarer." Wyndham's voice was full of heavy pressure.

"Over the years, how many things that do not belong to you have tainted your body?"

"Declare them one by one."

"Miss one, and from now on, it will rot inside your Ether Circuit."

"Lie, and the circle will throw you out."

Standing at his post, Richard suddenly felt a bad premonition. He had always assumed cleansing the foundation was a mere formality of the ritual.

Clara spoke quickly but clearly, reciting words she had memorized long ago.

"The first item. In 1910, during my first field mission with Mentor, I borrowed..."

Richard recorded from his spot, mentally calculating his own tally.

First item: the Silver Ring hanging over his chest, the one that had been licked.

Second item: the Eagle Hook.

Third item: Hermes' mask.

Fourth item: the antler wrapped in reins.

Fifth item: a sealed name that he couldn't even allow himself to think of...

He stopped counting there, realizing he couldn't even finish the list.

Hardly any of the items bound to him had a clean origin.

When Clara reached more recent events, her voice slowed down.

"This spring, at the sanatorium, someone guided my energy for me."

"They mended the broken part in my left ear, and the old ether burn scars on my lungs, bit by bit."

No one in the shallows made a sound.

Wyndham's eyebrows twitched, while Clara's uncle repeatedly scrutinized Richard with a sizing gaze.

"Cleansing complete. Step four."

The old man took a half step back.

"Offering the spirit."

Clara raised her right hand to her chest.

Richard had seen this step countless times in books and through his aunt's explanations.

But seeing it for real, those textbook records proved entirely useless.

Clara pressed her fingers just behind her breastbone.

Then she drew outward, and a wisp of spirit emerged from her chest.

It was incredibly thin—thinner than a hair. Its color was indescribable; though clearly glowing, it illuminated absolutely nothing.

The moment it emerged, Clara swayed unsteadily on her feet.

Isabella gripped the hem of her skirt tightly, her face turning just as pale as her student's.

The old craftsman, standing to the north, clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

Sophia stood on her tiptoes, deeply anxious.

Clara cupped the wisp of spirit in her palm and offered it forward. The spirit hovered above the center of the circle, roughly a foot above the brass tuning fork.

The shallows were terrifyingly quiet.

This was a person extracting the most crucial part of themselves and holding it up in midair for the veil to see.

Undefended, undisguised, and impossible to retract.

That wisp of spirit wavered in the air.

The darkness within the shallows began to flow.

From deeper within the veil, many restless evil creatures simultaneously turned toward this direction.

They were waiting—waiting for her to speak.

Standing in the center, Clara lowered her hands.

Raising her head, she saw the young man with brown hair and gray eyes standing north-northeast, gripping his pen, ready to record at any moment.

And then, she spoke.

"All that passes through mortal hands is marred by fragmentation."

Her voice wasn't loud in the slightest, yet as it fell upon these shallows, every single word seemed to solidify into substance.

The evil creatures and wandering spirits waiting beneath the shallows were pushed aside, immensely unwilling.

"I bring no new things with me."

Clara declared:

"I shall excavate no unexcavated graves, walk no untrodden paths, and add no new words to this world."

"I shall only return what already exists to its rightful place."

She took a half-step forward.

That half-step landed perfectly on the white ring worn down by four centuries of history.

"Thus, I stand here: between fallacy and truth."

"Together with the voices not yet lost."

"m na v va mant, t. (So long as a single true note remains, I shall stand.)"

In the shallows, nothing happened.

One second.

Two seconds.

Standing at the circle's edge, Isabella dug her fingers into her palms inside her sleeves.

The old craftsman shifted a half-step forward, but Wyndham raised a hand to stop him.

On the third second, Richard felt all the ether beneath the narrow door align at the exact same moment.

It was completely different from any kind of surging tide he had witnessed during his fieldwork this past year.

Every wisp of ether in the entire area—from the crude work laid down on the outermost ring nine years ago, to the places below he couldn't see, and all the scattered fragments floating above the shallows... all of it simultaneously tuned to the exact same frequency.

Identical to the perfect pitch struck by that tuning fork.

In that instant, Richard's Still Water illuminated the scene.

Above the center, right beside that suspended wisp of spirit, a line of text materialized.

It was just there, as if it had always belonged there.

Richard couldn't recognize the language.

Learning: General Knowledge sifted through thousands of existing scripts, but it wasn't a descendant of any of them.

He could read the structure. The sentence's skeleton was very simple.

The first half was a location.

The second half was a companion object.

They were connected in the middle by a single word, a word governing the concept of "together with..."

Suddenly, Richard's mind cleared.

Clara had just said:

"I stand between fallacy and truth."

"Together with the voices not yet lost."

A location, a companion object.

She had used the first person. When the veil recorded it, it automatically translated the phrasing into the third person.

"...The one who."

...The one who stands at the peak of the clouds, as one with the wind;

...The one who walks the road of no return, sharing the footsteps of the path traveled;

...The one who sits atop ten thousand tomes, as ancient as the carved runes;

...The one who gallops through trackless wilds, sharing hooves with the wind;

...The one who sinks into the rift between twin seas, swirling as one with the gulf streams;

...The one who encircles the genesis of ten thousand cities, sharing foundations with the walls.

This format: location plus a companion object—it was practically identical!

The Minor Adept promotion ritual's declaration—that was the foundation of the Honorific Name!