Chapter 512: First Time Abroad

Isabella stood under the lamp and suddenly began to speak of her past.

"I was nineteen when I began my undergraduate studies. Eleven of us entered the Department of Classics in the same batch, and the first among us to become an associate professor beat me to it by four years."

Richard opened his mouth, unsure of how they had suddenly tumbled into a session of mutually baring their pasts.

"In those years, aside from my work as a teaching assistant, I spent all my free time revising a single paper. It was the one I wrote on the late variants of the Alexandrian School. I revised it all the way to a ninth draft."

"The ninth draft?"

"Yes, the ninth draft."

Isabella reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"In the end, not a single word of those revisions was ever used.

"What actually earned me my promotion was a very short paper I wrote when I was thirty. It only took me a week to finish."

Sophia stood rooted to the spot, unable to say a word.

"So I'm telling you... don't rush. The more you rush, the messier things get."

After saying this, Isabella turned and nodded toward where Clara was waiting.

"...But I know you won't listen."

"That's exactly what my Mentor told me back then, and I didn't listen to a single word of it either."

Richard came to a halt beside Sophia, joining the storytelling session.

"Senior, let me tell you something about my family."

"...Why are you bringing up your family all of a sudden?" Sophia looked utterly baffled.

"Because it's a bit similar to your current situation." Richard felt slightly awkward, but he quickly slipped into the role.

"When my mother was twenty-six, she touched the threshold of Minor Adept. By then, Ashford House had invested ten years of resources into her.

"There weren't many in that generation who could uphold the family's prestige. My uncle was stuck just below the Minor Adept threshold and couldn't break through, and my aunt was still studying. So, the entire family was watching her.

"She hastily performed the breakthrough ritual, and her circuits exploded."

Sophia's eyes instantly widened.

"She was the most promising talent in the family back then, so she bore the greatest pressure. Because of that, her side effects haven't completely healed even now."

"...I didn't know about this," Sophia said, her voice dropping.

"Outsiders don't know." Richard slipped his hands into his pockets.

"I kept wondering where exactly she fell short.

"Not enough foundation? Later, my aunt personally examined my mother—she had a very clean main ether pathway.

"A poor location? No, Ashford House secured the best one for her.

"I think the problem lay in the moment she stood there. She wasn't thinking, 'What must I guard?' but rather, 'I can't make them wait too long.'"

Sophia understood. "...Richard, are you using this in a roundabout way to talk about me?"

"Yes."

He answered so bluntly that Sophia choked on her own breath, coughing for quite a while.

"...Couldn't you have just said that directly!"

"You wouldn't have listened if I said it directly."

"Why wouldn't I have listened?"

"The expression on your face just now while listening to my aunt was exactly the same as my aunt's expression when my mother scolds her... agreeing verbally, but looking somewhere else."

Isabella immediately lost her composure, slapping her nephew on the forehead.

...

Early the next morning, mist rolled in from over the river.

Richard pushed open the door to Room 314 carrying breakfast, finding the room so cold he could see his breath.

Sophia was huddled by the desk, rubbing her hands together, while Thomson had his scarf wrapped all the way up to his chin.

Clara sat in the chair closest to the window, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, grading first-year assignments.

"Senior Clara, the window is open."

Clara looked up at the window, then down at her own arms.

"...I don't feel cold."

She got up, closed the window, sat back down, and continued grading.

Richard laid out the breakfast, inexplicably feeling that something was off.

Since yesterday, Clara's ether no longer dissipated outward.

Instead, the thin ambient ether in the room drifted toward her, seeping through the cracks of the door and windows and flowing into her cuffs like water seeking lower ground.

He pushed his Still Water closer and saw that a small piece was missing from the Seat of the Sun right behind her sternum. The outside ether was constantly rushing in to fill it.

A wisp of her spirit remained within that brass tuning fork, and the empty space was being supplemented by the environmental ether.

"Clara." Sophia leaned closer.

"Play a piece for us tonight. I haven't heard you play in a long time."

"The violin is out of tune."

"Huh?"

"Since yesterday, every note I hear has been slightly lower than where it should be."

Clara furrowed her brows.

"Not just the violin. The clock in the corridor is ticking too slow, and the ending pitch of the administrator's voice in the downstairs lobby is out of tune."

Hearing this, everyone sitting in the research room began to sense that something was wrong.

Since her promotion, Clara had answered every question with absolute precision. She looked at people the exact same way she looked at manuscript rubbings.

When Sophia told a joke, she would laugh half a beat late, the corners of her mouth lifting to the exact same height each time.

As Richard sat across from her grading papers, he felt for a moment as though he were facing a perfectly tuned instrument.

The tuning fork had set the pitch of the entire world for her, and she herself had fallen into this state of absolute pitch.

Isabella looked up from behind the desk.

"Clara, you don't need to grade any more this morning."

"Teacher, there's still a stack left..."

"Leave it. It will still be there tomorrow."

Isabella placed her red pen back into its groove.

"In the first month after promotion, you will feel like you can see more clearly than ever before, but that is exactly the biggest problem."

"The clearer you see, the fainter your human colors become."

These were heavy words. Sophia hurriedly asked, "Mentor, what should she do then?"

"Do useless things." Isabella pointed at the windowsill.

"First, change the water for my mint. Then go shopping with Sophia."

Clara stood there, watching her for a moment, before setting down her red pen.

When the two returned, Sophia was clutching a small tin of toffee and half a bag of roasted chestnuts. The moment she walked in, she started complaining.

"Clara argued with the owner at the candy shop entrance, saying their scale was off."

"It was off."

"But they sell candy. They aren't tuning instruments for you."

Richard let out an 'oh' and grabbed a chestnut.

By the time chestnut shells had piled up at the corner of the table, Clara brought out her violin case.

She struck a note, dragging the bow across the strings for a single phrase before stopping.

"The strings are loose."

"Then keep playing," Sophia said.

"It's out of tune."

"Play it even if it's out of tune."

Clara looked down at her hands, then tucked the violin back under her chin.

She played a very short Irish folk song. The melody was simple; it was the first piece her mother had ever taught her.

A few notes in the lower register were indeed slightly inaccurate, causing the entire song to sound a bit off-key.

But she just kept her brows furrowed, finishing the piece in visible discomfort.

When Clara lifted the bow from the strings, she said, "...Mentor, I still don't understand."

The atmosphere wasn't quite right, so Richard hastily stepped in to smooth things over.

"Since everyone's here, let's take a picture."

He took out the Colton 120.

"Senior Clara has been promoted. We should keep a memento."

The room instantly dissolved into chaos. Price took charge of arranging the chairs, while Thomson stood awkwardly in the corner.

Sophia went around fixing everyone's collars. When it was her turn, she stared at her reflection in the window glass for ages before re-braiding her hair.

"Clara, sit in the center," Isabella said.

"You sit, Mentor." Clara immediately stood up.

"I'll sit by the window."

The two of them stood in the middle of the room looking at each other, neither willing to budge.

In the end, Price came up with an idea. "Both of you sit. We'll put the chairs side by side."

After the chairs were lined up, they were still short one. Sophia ran to the adjacent research room to borrow one, returning with Croft trailing behind her.

"Return it before two o'clock," he said, standing at the door with a cup of tea.

"Old Croft, want to come in and join the photo?" Isabella called out.

"Never mind. I'm not part of your research office."

He backed away, giving Clara a polite nod.

"...Lecturer Farfield, congratulations."

Ultimately, Isabella and Clara sat side by side at the front, their expressions unimaginably serious.

Sophia stood slightly behind them, directly in the middle, resting her hands on their shoulders.

Thomson stood on the far right, unsure of where to put his hands, looking much like a first-year student waiting to be called on.

Price puffed out his chest on the far left, secretly standing on his tiptoes to appear a bit taller.

"..."

"What's wrong?" Sophia squeezed the words through her teeth, not daring to break her pose.

"There's a slight issue with the lens."

Richard lowered his head and began twisting the lens barrel. He flipped the camera over to check it against the light, then gave its body two gentle taps.

"Is it serious?" Thomson lowered his arms.

"Hard to say," Richard said, looking distressed.

"This camera had its aperture modified. Senior Sophia scrimped and saved for it out of the research funds, and spare parts are hard to find."

"...Right, I saved up for it so painstakingly." Sophia deflated, her hands sliding off their shoulders.

Richard acted completely serious. "You all take a break. Let me fix it. It might take a few minutes."

Everyone in the room instantly relaxed.

Price gripped the back of the chair and hissed as he let his heels drop.

Sophia pulled her braid back to the front, stroking it while she complained.

"Stop swaying," Clara said suddenly.

"Where was I swaying?"

"From the moment you stood there until now, your head has moved a total of seventeen times."

Sophia was utterly dumbfounded.

"...Clara, you even counted that?"

Clara frowned. "I can't pretend not to see it."

Isabella turned her head in her chair.

"Sophia, your collar is crooked again."

"Impossible! I just checked in the window!"

Sophia reached behind her neck to grab it, but couldn't quite reach. In her frustration, she spun around in a half-circle.

Clara sighed, stood up, fixed the collar for her, and lightly flicked Sophia on the back of the neck with her finger.

"You flicked me!" Sophia protested unhappily.

...Right at that moment, Richard raised the camera.

With two Minor Adepts and three Practitioners in the room, the ether was drawn away much slower than when he had photographed his grandfather.

"Click!"

"...Huh?" Sophia turned toward him, her hand still resting on her collar.

"When did you fix it?!"

"Just now." Richard leaned against the edge of the table, catching his breath.

A photograph appeared on the table.

Sophia darted over and snatched it up, her face flushing crimson.

"No! This one doesn't count!"

Standing there, Clara suddenly burst into laughter, laughing so hard that the shallow scar at the corner of her eye crinkled.

In that moment, Richard could see that her ether had once again returned to its former flowing rhythm.

Isabella saw it too. She picked up her red pen, twirling it halfway around her fingers.

"...Alright, stand back in place and let's take a proper one."

"I'm not standing!" Sophia covered her face.

"Then you won't be in the picture."

"...I'll stand."

The second shot used real film, and Price pressed the shutter.

After pressing it, Price looked exceptionally pleased with himself. "This isn't so hard."

"When it's developed in eleven days, you'll see if it's hard or not," Richard said.

As for the first picture.

Sophia spent ages trying to snatch it back, but she couldn't wrestle it from Clara. In the end, the photo landed in Richard's hands.

He flipped it over and discovered a figure standing behind Isabella's chair.

Thin, dusted in gray, with one hand resting on the back of the chair, staring at the tuning fork at Clara's waist.

Richard handed the photo over. Isabella looked at it for a long time.

"This is my Mentor. He always stood behind me whenever we took pictures. He used to say the light in the front row was too bright to capture a person."

"You keep this one."

Isabella stored the photograph in the bottom drawer of the desk.

"What are you two looking at?" Sophia peered over.

"Looking at your crooked collar."

Sophia instantly reached for her collar. Realizing it wasn't crooked, she turned around and glared at Richard.

Isabella brought up business. "Have you packed your things?"

"All packed."

His aunt pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. On it were a few lines written in Apennine shorthand bnn.

(Good morning.) az.

(Thank you.)

, a h pat va?

(Excuse me, how do I go down this road?) t nn l man.

(I don't eat this.) n tè, p fav. nza h.

(Please give me a cup of tea, no sugar.) t n l.

(I'm with him.)

Richard looked up.

"Aunt, this last sentence..."

"If you get lost or stopped by anyone, point at Professor Mortimer and read this sentence out loud."

"Even if the old professor refuses to admit it verbally, plenty of people in Milan recognize him."

Richard placed the paper alongside his passport.

"Got it."

Clara also took out a small booklet tied with a thin string and set it in front of Richard.

"This is my proclamation manuscript for the Minor Adept rank, along with a summary I appended at the back. You can look through it when you have free time on the road."

"Although our traditions differ, the requirements for the location and medium, as well as the sequence for fusing spirits into supernatural items, are universal."

Thomson, standing nearby, grew slightly curious. "Williams, you're going to the Apennine?"

"Yes, Milan."

"...I've never been out of the country." Thomson blushed faintly as he said this.

"The farthest I've traveled was York, to look at a manuscript."

Price leaned against the doorframe. "I went to Franc once. My cousin got married in Calais."

"What were your impressions?"

"Their train schedules were utterly inaccurate, the coffee was bitter, the bread was hard, and customs confiscated the cigarettes I brought."

Sophia hadn't interrupted the whole time. Only when they finished speaking did she offer some solemn advice.

"When you want to eat, don't sit down at the most conspicuous restaurants in the arcade; those are meant for passersby.

"Head toward Scala. There's an old eatery on the right side.

"Order a portion of saffron yellow rice, paired with a veal cutlet that's breaded and pan-fried in butter until perfectly cooked. That's how true Milanese locals eat.

"If you want something sweet, you can go to the cafe next to the cathedral."

The three men stared at her in unison.

"...Senior, where did you learn all this?" Richard asked.

"Read it in a book."

None of them believed her. Richard suddenly remembered that the name 'Sophia' seemed to be favored by the old aristocrats over in Rus.

The last princess of Byzantium was named Sophia, and Catherine was also called Sophia before she married. The name symbolized ancient wisdom.

Well... wisdom really did suit Senior Sophia.

But pairing it with 'Hardy' felt completely wrong.

It was a distinctly native Albion surname. Today, a novelist specializing in writing about the moors and country folk shared that name, as did a mathematician in the Royal Society.

Richard had suspected before that Sophia's family background was likely far from simple.

...

At five forty the next morning, the old and young pair boarded the train to Dover.

The carriage was mostly empty; not many people traveled south at this hour.

Mortimer, bundled up in his dusty gray old coat, started dozing off less than five minutes after sitting down.

The train crossed a switch when a black cat suddenly pressed itself against the glass, giving Richard a massive fright.

"Sit still."

That raspy voice dropped directly into his mind.

"Madam."

"Take out the ring."

Richard pulled the Silver Ring out from inside his collar.

The black cat stretched out a paw and pressed against the glass in his direction. The ring grew so scalding hot that he nearly let go.

"Once you cross the channel, the mark I left will fade," Madam Marie said.

"Fade how much?"

"Fade enough that it can only shield you once."

"Before using it, think clearly whether it's worth expending this single use for that matter."

"Understood."

"Also, over in the Apennine, my name holds no weight."

The black cat stood up, its tail sweeping across the outside of the glass before it faded into the morning mist.

In the opposite seat, Mortimer mumbled vaguely.

"...Don't buy the Franc bread. I can't chew it."

Upon arriving at the Port of Dover, the wind here proved much wilder than in the Imperial Capital, blowing straight down their collars the moment they left the station.

A long line stretched across the pier, the front filled entirely with khaki military uniforms.

The line extended from the gangplank all the way behind the cargo sheds; there was no end in sight.

Boarding the ship, Richard felt a sense of unreality.

Once he crossed this channel, he would be in Franc.

Half an hour after the ship left the shore, Mortimer stood by the railing, leaning on his cane.

The sea breeze flattened his old coat against his back.

Richard stood beside him. "Professor, what exactly are we going to do this time? You kept saying you'd tell me once we were on the road."

The old professor pulled a piece of paper from his coat, unfolded it, and pinned down one corner with his cane.

The letterhead bore the joint names of the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University and the Royal Anthropological Society. Below was a title: Wartime Preservation Protocol for Rare Original Manuscripts.

"The department is spearheading an initiative alongside several universities to make copies of the most crucial original manuscripts across the Western Continent. The duplicates will be stored in a cellar in Helvetia.

"Helvetia is a neutral country bordered by mountains to both the north and south. Even if the war worsens to its absolute worst, the fires won't reach across those mountains."

"We've split into a total of seven routes. Milan is one of them. It's the large city closest to the Helvetian border."

Richard looked down at the paper. Under Milan was printed Mortimer's name, and beside it was a line of small text: One accompanying recorder.

"The second route is to the Black Soil River. Director Wetherby is going personally to copy them jointly with Professor Halaf."

"Professor Halaf?"

"When he came last month, he discussed this matter as well."

"He has his calculations, and we have ours."

"What about the third route?"

"Greece."

"Who is going?"

"Old Mike is taking his student."

Richard recalled that she had seemed to be preparing for something over the past two days. "Catherine?"

"They boarded a ship yesterday, a day ahead of us, departing from Southampton."

Richard felt a sense of unease. "Greece... They're fighting over at Hemus Island."

Mortimer nodded. "The flames of war haven't reached Athens on the Greek mainland yet, but north of Salonika is nothing but trenches."

"It's far more dangerous over there than in the Apennine. That's exactly why Old Mike was dispatched. You've seen his combat capability yourself."

The seagulls squawked endlessly at the stern of the ship.

"Professor, what you mentioned before about paying respects to that person..."

Richard finally asked the question he cared about most.

But halfway through, he was interrupted as a sailor shoved a life jacket into his arms.

"Sir, put this on and don't take it off. Wait until we're safely docked on the opposite shore before you unfasten it."

Through the PA system, a subaltern's voice drifted across the deck.

"All passengers, gather on the deck."

A long table had been set up on the deck, bearing a stack of precut small slips of paper and a box of oil-paper bags.

"Everyone, write down your name, nationality, and your home country contact address.

"Once you're done, stuff it into the bag, seal the opening tight, and put it in a pocket close to your body."

A lady raised her hand. "Mr. Subaltern, what is this for?"

The subaltern's expression remained exceedingly polite.

"Ma'am, it is to ensure that you do not become a Jane Doe under any circumstances."

The implication was clear: if the ship went down, they would at least know who they were pulling out of the water.

The lady lowered her hand, and the line moved forward in utter silence.

Escort destroyers flanked the port side, matching their course. The entire crossing of the channel took over two hours.

Richard went ahead and bought a portion of the ship's sandwiches for the old professor.

Mortimer lifted the top slice of bread, took one look, and his wrinkled old face filled with disgust.

"Just like more than ten years ago, they're too stingy to add more butter."

Rain began to fall over the sea, splashing against the deck before being swept away by the wind.

Half an hour later, the coastline on the opposite side of the sea pierced through the curtain of rain.

The silhouette grew wider and wider, gradually revealing the outlines of houses and cranes on the shore.

Standing before the railing, across an entire channel, Richard glanced back toward the unseen archipelago he had left behind.

He took out his camera and snapped a photo to commemorate his first time abroad.

Naturally, he didn't dare use the Sphinx Lamp's transformative capability to take the picture.

...

Past the Calais docks, the train rumbled toward Paris, stopping and starting along the way.

Beneath the clock tower of the Gare du Nord, the first thing that struck Richard's eyes was a sea of black.

The platform was covered in black: pinned on women's hat brims, cuffs, and collars, as well as the black crepe armbands half-wrapped around the arms of several children.

Wounded soldiers were being unloaded at Platform 3, stretchers being carried out of the carriages one after another.

At the other end of the platform, someone was singing "Tipperary."

He couldn't be more familiar with the melody, but the lyrics had completely changed.

That song had been sung from last year into this one, crossing the channel and donning a new language.

What surprised Richard the most was a comic cover actually plastered on the wall.

The drawing depicted a minister hiding behind his desk, his belly pressed against the edge.

A stack of official documents was spread out on the desk, the topmost one bearing an oversized stamp.

Standing behind him were two other figures in suits and leather shoes. It was exactly "The Prudent Gentlemen" drawn by Hugh.

Century Review was truly worthy of being the Empire's premier serial publication; its reach had actually extended all the way across the sea to Franc.

Richard felt that he'd just gained new material to brag about with his good buddy when he got back.

The outbound inspection was set up in a side hall at the Gare de Lyon. A uniformed official turned Richard's canvas bag inside out.

When he unearthed the flat wooden box containing the Enchanted Bullets, he stopped.

"Sir."

"These are..."

"Munitions," the official stated categorically.

Richard opened his mouth.

Beside him, Mortimer switched his cane to his other hand.

"Leave them behind."

"Professor, these are..."

"I know what they are." The old man pushed the box over to the official's side.

"Sir, please register these. We will collect them on our return trip."

Stepping out of the side hall, Richard hugged the canvas bag that had been emptied and repacked.

"Professor."

"What is it?"

"They didn't even give me a chance to declare them."

Mortimer walked unhurriedly toward the platform.

"Little Richard, remember one thing."

"I'm listening."

"If you bring a gun across the border, you have to fill out seven forms, sign three names, and have an insider vouch for you."

The old professor tapped his cane against the ground.

"If you bring a box of papers across the border, you only have to fill out one."

"That is why I am a Scholar."

During a final inventory of his luggage, Richard arranged the items he was allowed to bring onto his lap one by one.

One box of Silver Needles and three Soul-Devouring Beast Tooth Needles, declared as drawing tools.

The Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight and Small Bronze Balance, declared as stationery.

The silver mirror from Venus, declared as a personal belonging.

The Sphinx Lamp was kept close to his body, never leaving his chest from beginning to end.

The Webley Revolver and that Ebony Revolver had been wrapped in oil paper and coarse salt, then mailed back to Ashford House.

Back when Wentworth handed the gun to him, he had said: Don't let it misfire in your hands.

Now, it had to go back home first and wait for his return.

On this leg heading southeast from Paris, three Franc military officers and an accompanying clerk joined their carriage.

The officers were all Hunters; Richard smelled it the moment they entered the carriage.

The oldest, a lieutenant in his forties, was missing a segment of his left pinky finger.

He gave each of the two distinguished guests from Albion a window seat.

"Mr. Professor," he said, his Albion Language carrying a heavy accent.

"Passing through that tunnel from Modane, the exit lands right at the Apennine border."

"How long?"

"Including document checks, tomorrow at noon."

After midnight, the train began to climb, and by morning, the valley was shrouded in fog.

Richard woke up early. He pressed his forehead against the icy window, watching the pine forests outside emerge from the mist and then recede back into it.

At some point, Mortimer had also woken up and was reaching up to the luggage net to retrieve his chipped teacup.

Richard reached up and fetched it for him.

"Professor, there's something I can't wrap my head around."

"Speak."

"Why Milan?"

The old professor set the cup steady on his lap.

"Continue."

"I've been leafing through the conference agenda you gave me over the past two days. Most of the manuscripts that need to be preserved are in Rome and Florence."

Richard pulled the agenda out of his canvas bag.

"Rome has the Vatican archives and several private libraries that are centuries old.

"Florence has the Laurentian (the grand library built by the Medici family, housing the original manuscripts of Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others). If we are really doing this, both of those locations would be more justifiable than Milan."

Mortimer pushed his reading glasses back up his nose.

Opposite them, the three officers, who had been speaking in hushed voices, broke off mid-sentence.

Mortimer moved the cup aside, clearing a space on the small folding table between the two of them.

"Let me test you. We're going to play a game."

He pressed his right index finger against the tabletop.

Sand flared up on the table.

The sand blanketed into an endless plain, so flat it looked as though it had been leveled with a ruler.

To the far north, a ribbon of pure white surfaced—the ridges of the Alps.

To the south lay an extremely fine silver thread—the River Po.

Right in the center of the plain, the sand gathered itself into a very slender spire.

The lieutenant's military cap dropped to the floor.

"Mr. Professor, this..."

"Sit still, Mr. Lieutenant. Sand does not bite."