Chapter 526: True Word Incantation

Richard scattered a ring of salt across the table and placed the Carthaginian lead scroll squarely in the center.

The curse remained suspended in the dead water thanks to the mouthful of vacuum Richard had just exhaled.

Pressing the ether of Unsealing into the Carthaginian lead scroll rapidly forced the curse out from the lead surface, where it threatened to disperse the moment it emerged.

Before it could scatter, he exhaled the vacuum and sealed the edges, trapping the curse in the dead water it created.

Richard had already processed the curse inside the Carthaginian lead scroll once before.

The last time he forced it out, he had collected the tiny bit of clean ether left inside and stuffed the curse back into the lead scroll exactly as he found it, keeping it as a sample.

Tonight was his second time forcing out this exact same cluster of curse.

With the Carthaginian lead scroll placed directly in the center of the salt ring and the Viking Trade Bead set on the outer edge, a palm's width of space separated the two.

Three lines of text lit up in the dead water, one after another:

"Bind the hooves of their horses, bind the eyes of their charioteers, bind their hands so they cannot hold the reins."

Richard's eyes lingered on the third line. Whoever carved the curse had misspelled the Latin word for 'hand', even writing the final letter 's' backwards. He raised an eyebrow at the typo. Tonight, the target for his blade would be that misspelled 's'.

In the past, Richard had only one method for making a cut: first, he would locate the ridge on the curse, make a slanted slash with the tip of a needle, and then wait.

What he waited for was sometimes a chilling sensation on the inside of his wrist—a coldness that would linger for days.

MacFie called this coldness a "backlash." If the backlash was strong enough, the chill wouldn't just stop at the wrist.

Tonight, Richard added an extra step before making the cut. He reached out, pointed at the Viking Trade Bead sitting outside the salt ring, and softly whispered a word in Latin: "i" (Settle).

The two immortals in the book, standing on scorched earth to force Ashvatthama's weapon to strike a designated spot, had used an ancient language Richard couldn't pronounce.

He only had Latin at his disposal, so it was all he could use.

After speaking, he brought the needle tip back to the ridge on the third line and made a slanted slash.

Snap.

The stroke was severed.

The backlash seeped out from the fracture, paused in midair for a fraction of a second, and veered toward Richard.

But then it turned back, skirting the edge of the salt ring until it reached the bead, plunging headfirst into the glass.

Richard sat up straight in his chair.

A streak of light-black curse appeared inside the bead, slowly swirling against the inner glass wall. It probably hadn't figured out why it had landed in there either.

After a while, Richard looked down and touched his wrist.

There was nothing on the inside of his wrist. It was completely dry, and its temperature was normal. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

It wasn't time to call it a night just yet.

The marginal notes in the book were clear: the summoning and the withdrawal had to be taught together.

Knowing how to cut but not how to retract would just make him another Ashvatthama, and he didn't have a pregnant woman's belly around to use as a landing spot.

Richard picked up the bead, gripping it in his palm, and attempted to retract it.

Holding the bead, he extracted the third of the curse he had cut off and placed it back onto the lead scroll, aligning it with the original ridge.

The stroke reconnected seamlessly in an instant.

Now, when he used the Branch-Cutting Technique to make a cut, he could reverse the direction of the backlash and the target, sending all of it to a different landing point.

Furthermore, after making a cut, he could retract it and reconnect it perfectly, leaving it completely intact.

With these two foundational changes, his current technique was vastly different from the Branch-Cutting Technique MacFie had initially taught him. It could be considered a half-improvement, half-restoration of an ancient Spell Formula.

Richard could feel that the traces of Moon-Hunting wrapped around him had all been integrated anew.

The panel lit up.

[Speculation lv.4, Progress 99%→100%.]

[Achieved: Independently restored the complete operational logic of a lost Spell Formula.]

[Speculation lv.4→lv.5: Advancement conditions fully met. Required points: 2.]

[Current Available Points: 4.46.]

Richard stroked his chin, feeling somewhat hesitant.

If he invested two points, Speculation would reach lv.5.

He would immediately obtain the Morphostructuring trait: from then on, any ether structure he built would come with an automatic self-check.

But if he invested two points, he would only have 2.46 left in hand.

At 4.46, he was just over half a point away from five, and five points was the threshold to preview lv.7.

He pulled Hecate's piece of paper out from his notebook and placed it under the lamp.

"Winter solstice. Gotthard Mountain. Don't let your people near the mountain pass."

The note below it read: Source of intelligence unknown. Even a Major Adept of the Web Weaving Tradition couldn't determine whether this paper contained the truth or a trap after obtaining it.

Richard folded the paper back up and patted his inner chest pocket. The Antler Tip was very quiet tonight.

He decided to save his points for now. The advancement conditions for Speculation were fully met anyway, so he could upgrade it whenever he wanted.

Besides, leveling Speculation to lv.5 wouldn't bring any immediate boost to his combat strength.

Keeping the points in hand meant he could still invest them into Speculation later;

he could use them to expand his Spiritual Capacity, pull out another strand of spirit, or save them to catch a glimpse of lv.7.

Having made his decision, Richard went straight to sleep.

In the middle of the night, a wild hare approached from outside.

The room he was staying in didn't get any sunlight during the day, nor did it receive moonlight at night.

Yet at this moment, a path of light brushed past the peeling paint on the opposite wall, turned two corners, and finally landed on his window.

Richard was woken up by the light. He noticed a pure white hare perched on his windowsill, a small roll of paper tied around its hind leg.

Richard pushed the window open. The hare shrank back half a step, raised its leg, and stomped heavily on the sill.

"Whose rabbit are you?"

Though he asked the question, he had already used his Spirit Vision to see the ether traces MacFie had deliberately left behind.

The hare stomped its foot again.

He reached out to untie the roll of paper, but the hare tilted its head and lightly bit down on the webbing between his thumb and index finger.

Although it only left a faint white mark, its attitude was crystal clear.

After biting him, it even kicked the back of Richard's hand with its hind leg, shoving him away.

Richard drew back, clutching his hand. After a moment of thought, he dug out a piece of bread and offered it.

It was the midnight snack the landlady had found for him in the kitchen, and it had already gone hard.

The hare sniffed it, then turned its head away, showing him the back of its head.

Out of options, Richard could only go ahead and untie the paper to read its contents first.

While his head was lowered, the hare still snatched up the hard piece of bread.

The letter seemed to have been torn from a hotel ledger. Printed on the back was the name of a certain hotel in Salonika, along with a price list in Greek. The writing was done in pencil with heavy strokes, tearing through the paper in several places.

Richard:

You've received the Chief's letter. Winter solstice. Gotthard Mountain. Don't go near the mountain pass.

But I know that if you decide to go, no one will be able to stop you.

Let me tell you about things on my end. Mount Athos doesn't allow women to go up, so the Professor...

...

This rabbit bites. Don't touch it with hands that have been soaked in hot water.

How's the food over there in the Apennine peninsula?

I heard the meals in Milan are expensive. Don't go ordering three portions for yourself again.

Professor Mortimer is getting on in years, so look after the old man.

It's getting cold and that overcoat of yours is too thin; it won't keep the wind out.

... By the way, make sure you write back!

"Our debts aren't settled yet. —."

Richard read the letter from beginning to end. When he got to "Don't go ordering three portions for yourself again," he felt a sense of déjà vu.

His sister loved saying it, his mother loved saying it, and his aunt would say the exact same thing whenever she brought him roasted pork knuckle;

One day during a makeup lesson in Room 314, Clara had dropped a similar line: "Don't always stay up until the second half of the night. Do you think lamp oil is free?"

Grey had shoved a sandwich into his hands on a bench in Kensington Gardens and told him, "You've gotten thinner again."

On the back of Lillian's laurel branch bookmark was written: "May you be safe."

And now Catherine was saying it too: eat your meals, get some sleep, it's cold, don't get hurt. Her tone was seventy or eighty percent identical to all the others.

Richard stood by the window holding the letter, his expression somewhat complicated.

He pulled his stack of IOUs out of his notebook. The stack was growing thicker and thicker, and not once had the debts ever been settled.

The wild hare had already finished gnawing on the bread and was washing its face with its two front paws.

Richard sighed, stuffed the IOUs back into the notebook, and sat down at the desk with his pen. He wrote two lines and crossed them out, wrote another two and crossed them out again. In the end, only a few sentences remained:

Catherine:

Received your letter. The rabbit bit me.

The food in Milan really is expensive, but I only ate two portions, not three.

Professor Mortimer is doing fine; he's snoring in the room next to mine.

I have other matters to attend to on the night of the winter solstice. I will be careful.

You wrote an IOU back in July. Count this as the interest.

"—R."

He flipped to the last page of his notebook, where a photograph was tucked away.

That afternoon in July, Catherine had shoved the stack of manuscript pages for the Ban Deflection Ritual into his arms, stepped back twice, collapsed into that old sofa, and fallen asleep.

In the photo, the girl was slumped over on the old sofa.

Her long red hair was disheveled, her lips were slightly parted, and not a hint of her usual aloofness could be seen on her face. Richard had just obtained the photography ability from the second metamorphosis of the Sphinx Lamp at the time, and driven by some inexplicable impulse, he had snapped a picture of her rare sleeping face.

The wild hare turned its head, sniffed the paper roll tied to its hind leg, and then looked up at Richard with a somewhat complicated gaze.

After looking at him, it spun around, kicked off the sill, and landed back onto the path of light it had come from. It turned two corners down the alley and vanished.

The north wind poured in through the crack in the window. Richard shivered, his mind clearing up a bit.

He had secretly photographed a girl's defenseless sleeping face, kept it for four months, and tonight he had sent it back to Catherine as "interest."

This was someone who could shatter a rock with a single punch and scatter an evil creature with a crack of her whip.

'...What in the world was I thinking?' he thought.

Richard immediately regretted it. He rushed to the window and looked out.

The alley was pitch-black. That path of light had long since been retracted.

A cough came from the next room, followed by Mortimer's dissatisfied reprimand:

"...You brat, what are you doing opening the window in the middle of the night? It's freezing!"

"Just getting some fresh air."

"What fresh air? You blew out the stove in my room."

Richard closed the window, sat back down on the edge of the bed, and buried his face in his hands.

After a good while, he recalled the letter from Lillian that the old Scholar had passed on to him some time ago.

Honored Envoy:

Thank you for that night. I don't know what to call you. You said that you do not accept food, do not accept drink, and do not accept oaths.

I thought about it for a long time and decided that a letter shouldn't count among those things, so I wrote this anyway.

There are a few things I wish to ask, though you don't have to answer.

When you knocked on the door, you knocked two short and one long. That is a secret signal agreed upon between myself and a certain someone.

Before you left the grand hall, you said a phrase in Latin: 'qui audet adipiscitur' (Those Who Dare Obtain It).

I had once left a note on that person's desk, and that was exactly what it said.

In the first week of December, I will be taking a trip to Helvetia.

Loki is bringing the newly recruited people to gather at the foot of Gotthard Mountain, saying he wants us to familiarize ourselves with the route before the winter solstice. My mentor also has business in Zurich, so we will head there first.

Afterward, a patient needs to go to a sanatorium, so we will arrive in Helvetia ahead of schedule.

If the Honored Envoy happens to be in the area at that time, I would like to thank you in person.

If the Honored Envoy does not know the person I am talking about, please burn this letter.

But if you do know him...

Please tell him for me: winter in Prague is colder than in Briston, and that titmouse on the window is still there.

"—Lil (Crossed out) Skadi."

'The patient going to the sanatorium—isn't that Lillian's mother?'

But she still held back, not stating things too explicitly.

'Is she expecting me to deduce the exact location myself?'

Richard placed the two letters side by side. Now Catherine was telling him to stay away from the mountain pass, while Lillian was heading straight for it. This was truly...

He lay back down on the bed. Out in the alley, a cat jumped down from someone's roof, knocking over an empty flowerpot as it landed. Early the next morning, an argument broke out in the small parlor downstairs.

Mortimer was sitting by the fireplace, locked in a standoff with the landlady.

The landlady held a small dish of sliced lemons in her hands. She wore a highly affectionate expression, looking much like a mother staring down a child who refused to take their medicine.

As Richard came down the stairs, the landlady immediately turned to him and unleashed a long string of words in the Genoa dialect.

Richard only caught the general gist:

When her harbor-pilot husband was alive, he would put lemon in his tea every single morning; after drinking it, he could spend the whole day out at sea without his voice ever going hoarse.

Mortimer's hand, which was guarding the teapot, didn't budge an inch.

"You tell her that I've been teaching at Imperial Capital University for a hundred years, and my voice has never gone hoarse."

Richard translated for him.

The landlady thought for a moment and added another sentence.

"She says that's because you haven't spent those hundred years shouting out on the ocean."

The old Professor's beard twitched. He glanced at the photograph draped in black crepe behind the counter. The harbor pilot in the photo sported a handlebar mustache and stood at the bow of a small boat.

He had one hand resting on the gunwale and was squinting at the camera, likely because he found the photography studio's flash too glaring.

Mortimer moved his hand away from the mouth of his cup.

"...Just one slice."

The landlady dropped a slice in with complete satisfaction, then slipped in another one while he wasn't looking.

Richard walked over to the window with his coffee and smiled in satisfaction.

This whole affair was actually something he had proactively suggested to the landlady when she brought him his midnight snack the night before.

After breakfast, Richard returned upstairs and continued reading the Mahabharata.

In the marginal notes, a diary-like entry completely unrelated to the main text would occasionally appear.

For example: "Scorching heat today; the ink dried on the tip of my pen," or "The rainy season approaches, and the swarms of mosquitoes have arrived first."

Today, he decided to flip further back, turning to the most densely written passage of all:

The subcontinent possesses a bizarre form of incantation that can't be called a ritual, nor can it be considered a Spell Formula. In Sanskrit, this method is called Satya-kriya, which I translate as Actus Veritatis (Act of Truth).

This method is achieved not by spells, but by truth.

The speaker first states their own truth, and then states their request.

The heavier the stated truth, the more likely the request is to be realized.

"It must be the speaker's own truth; the truths of others cannot be borrowed."

When Sita (wife of Rama) stepped into the fire, she also used this method, and the flames could not burn her.

When Savitri walked alongside Yama, she used this method as well.

"When a village woman prays for the recovery of her sick child, she also uses this method. This method does not discriminate between the noble and the lowly."

The last two lines were written very small, the ink faint:

Every time I have used it, it has never once been answered.

"Perhaps my truth is too light, or perhaps there is hesitation in my heart. Hesitation is falsehood."

Richard set the leaf manuscript down. Since he had read this far, he wanted to give it a try. He first dug a box of matches out of the drawer and slid the door latch into place.

He knew a lot of truths, and most of them were very light:

His surname was Williams, he was born in Briston, he was eighteen years old this year, and he had eaten two portions of risotto for dinner last night.

He cleared his throat, feeling like he looked a bit foolish.

If every word I say is the truth...

"I was born in Briston... then let this match fail to strike."

He pressed the match head against the striking paper on the side of the box and struck it down. It didn't light.

He struck it again, and it still didn't light.

On the third try, the red phosphorus on the match head shattered into pieces, and the wooden stick snapped right down the middle.

The matchstick in Richard's hand had broken in two.

A knock sounded at the door, and the landlady's voice carried through the wooden panels:

"Sir? I heard you strike a match several times from out here, but it hasn't lit. The matches in your room are damp. I was hanging laundry upstairs the day before yesterday, and the window wasn't shut tight, so the rain blew in and soaked the matches."

A fresh, dry box of matches was slid in under the door gap as the landlady continued speaking from the hallway:

"This new box is dry. You can use this one."

Richard looked down at the new matchbox, then back at the snapped matchstick.

There was no sound of footsteps going down the stairs; the landlady was still standing outside the door:

There's one more thing, sir. You mentioned yesterday that you wanted some hot milk, so I saved a glass for you.

"It's keeping warm on the stove downstairs. Don't forget to come down and drink it."

Richard had no recollection of saying he wanted milk yesterday. He flipped back through his memories.

When he had returned from the university library yesterday evening, he had stopped at the counter to ask the landlady if there were any letters for Richard.

The word for "letter" in the Apennine language was 'lettera'. Richard had placed the stress on the wrong syllable, and the first two syllables had slurred together somewhat ambiguously. When it reached the landlady's ears, it probably sounded like 'latte', which meant milk.

"...Thank you, ma'am," Richard said through the door.

The landlady replied from outside, "You're welcome. You people from Albion are on the shorter side, so you ought to drink more milk." With that, the sound of footsteps on the stairs echoed all the way down to the ground floor.

Richard tossed the broken match into the wastebasket and opened the dry matchbox.

For his second experiment, he changed the rules. After lighting a candle, he pushed the window open. The sea breeze squeezed into the room from the direction of the Harbor, and the candle flame was flattened by the wind, bending inward toward the room.

He used the Condensed Mirror Method to suppress his Micro-circulation into a completely smooth surface of Still Water, then spoke:

"If what I say is the truth... my surname is Williams. Then let the flame lean toward the outside of the window."

The wind continued to blow into the room just the same. The flame hesitated for a moment, stood straight up first, and then slowly, with great reluctance, leaned out toward the window against the wind.

Richard didn't move. The tree of light in his Seat of the Sun was perfectly steady, and not a single drop of ether escaped from his Micro-circulation. The flame was being supported by a force entirely independent of him.

The flame leaned out the window for the duration of three breaths before collapsing back to its original position.

The sea breeze poured in through the window, once again pressing the flame back toward the room.

Richard switched to a lie and tried again: "If what I say is the truth, I possess the bloodline of the Blackburn family. Then let the flame lean toward the outside of the window."

The flame continued to lean into the room, without the slightest hesitation.

Richard breathed a sigh of relief. The Blackburn family had no blood ties to Richard's family, which made him feel quite gratified. It seemed the ancestors of the Ashford family hadn't intermarried with any Virtuoso families either. If they had, Richard might have inherited a family Spell Formula or two.

Deep down, he felt a bit of pity; he had always been rather envious of Maggie and Montagu.

On his third try, Richard got greedy. The moment he opened his mouth, he raised his demands drastically:

"If what I say is the truth, my surname is Williams. Then let all the windows in this room open by themselves."

The windows didn't budge an inch. Richard had no choice but to take a step back and lower his demands slightly:

"If what I say is the truth, my surname is Williams. Then let the water glass on the table shift by one inch."

The water glass didn't move either, and not even a single ripple appeared on the surface of the water inside.

Richard sat back in his chair and stared at the water glass, pondering for a long time before coming to a conclusion: the weight of "my surname is Williams" was simply too light. It was probably only enough to prop up a flame.

If he wanted the water glass to move, he had to switch to a heavier truth.

The first thing that popped into his head was his mother's name. Richard opened his mouth, but then closed it without making a sound.

Anything involving his family carried immense weight in Richard's heart. He was unwilling to put his mother, Evelyn, and his grandfather on the scales just to weigh them.

Richard finally picked a statement that he considered heavy enough and completely unrelated to his family: "If what I say is the truth, I have read many books. Then let the water glass on the table shift by one inch."

The water glass still didn't move. Richard furrowed his brow and changed the second half of the sentence back to the small demand he had first verified: "If what I say is the truth, I have read many books. Then let the flame lean toward the outside of the window."

The flame didn't move either. The entire sentence was essentially void.

Richard tried it three times in a row, and all three results were exactly the same.

Richard thought it over and over, eventually realizing that the flaw lay in the word "many."

How many books did one have to read for it to count as "many"?

For a dockworker, reading three books was considered reading a lot.

For a Major Adept like Professor Mortimer, reading thirty thousand books was probably just scratching the surface.

In the presence of the Administrator, reading three million books wouldn't be considered a lot—the books of the entire world already belonged to Him anyway.

Richard tossed the matchbox onto the table and flopped down on the bed. It suddenly occurred to him that the True Word Incantation didn't seem to require a circuit.

Following the line of thought from the True Word Incantation, he thought about the oath-taking ceremony for a Minor Adept.

During the oath-taking, Clara had stood in the center of the circle and said, "I stand between lies and the truth," and the veil had copied Clara's oath word for word. His upperclassman's oath had also been a truth, and one carrying immense weight. The person speaking the oath had to offer a wisp of their own spirit as collateral.

...

On the weekend of the last week of November, Mercury treated him to a meal.

The restaurant was located on the breakwater of the old Harbor. The tables by the windows were practically suspended over the water. When the tide came in, the waves would crash right beneath the floorboards, giving the place a unique charm.

Mercury had arrived early and already ordered the food.

Once the dishes were served and the waiter had retreated, he finally raised his wine glass.

"I've followed all the methods you suggested that day, Your Excellency, and business on this street has been better than in previous years."

Richard kept his head down, picking the bones out of his fish.

"That cotton merchant from Marseille placed an extra order himself last month. And that shipowner from Livorno even introduced his cousin to us."

The more Mercury spoke, the more enthusiastic he became.

"Yesterday, a Swiss man I'd never dealt with before pushed the door open and his first words were: 'I saw your name in the General Chamber of Commerce directory.'"

He set his wine glass down, the smooth veneer of a businessman fading from his face as he offered his sincere thanks: "I really must thank you properly this time."

Richard's Mask of Hermes suddenly grew scorching hot.

His knife-wielding hand trembled, scraping out a sharp screech against his plate.

An elderly gentleman wearing pince-nez at the next table looked up with a glance before lowering his head again.

In that very instant, Richard felt that his third Divinely Crafted Armament had successfully condensed.

"Your Excellency?"

"There was a bit of a fish bone; it caught me by surprise."

He suppressed the anomaly, offering an awkward smile, prepared to check what new toy the Mask of Hermes had given him once he got back.

Mercury nodded with great consideration and nudged a piece of fish belly onto Richard's plate.

"Sea bream bones are tough. Eat this piece; it's boneless."

Richard ate the fish belly, the mask branding his chest with a stinging pain.

Halfway through the fish, Mercury brought up the goods. "As for that quipu knot-string from Peru, once it arrives, I'll have the chamber of commerce issue a certificate labeling it as an academic specimen, and I'll send it directly to 7 Flower Moon Street in the Imperial Capital."

"What about the bark paper?"

"We have to wait for a ship to depart from Tampico for the goods from Oaxaca."

Mercury let out a sigh.

"A few factions are fighting over the capital around the Central Sea of the New Continent this year. The ports have been opening and closing intermittently. It might be delayed until next spring at the latest."

The waiter came to collect the plates. Mercury waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

"I also have a piece of information for you, Your Excellency. Free of charge."

"Go on."

He dragged his finger across the tablecloth, tracing a winding line.

"Starting from mid-November, the authorities here on the Apennine peninsula have placed the entire northern border under military control."

"Civilians need a signature from the military district command to leave the country. The wait is at least two weeks, and even then, there's no guarantee they'll sign off."

He moved his finger to the other side of the line. "Things over in Helvetia are even more troublesome. Foreigners must register with the Aliens Police Department within twenty-four hours of entry. What hotel you're staying at, who you've met, when you're leaving—you have to write it all down.

"Their troops are guarding every mountain pass. Even the little trails used for herding sheep have soldiers squatting on them."

Mercury spread his hands.

"As you know, this location has Germania to the north, Franc to the west, us to the south, and Austria-Hungary to the east. There are wars breaking out in all directions, and they're standing right in the middle."

He finished the last sip of wine in his glass.

"If Your Excellency wishes to return to your country, it's best you leave this month."

"And next month?"

"Next month, you might not even be able to buy a train ticket."

Speaking up to this point, Mercury added casually:

"By the way, two travelers came up from Cairo this week. They sat in the insurance agency diagonally across from me for an entire afternoon, asking about nothing but routes to Helvetia."

"Guests from Cairo. That's rare indeed."

Richard smiled obligingly, but he made a mental note of it. 'Cairo? Is the Black Soil River faction making another move?'

After finishing the meal, Mercury bowed slightly to Richard, turned, and walked toward the old city.

After taking a few steps, he looked back and called out:

"When the bark paper arrives, I'll have Piero send you a telegram. Where should I send it?"

Richard thought for a moment.

"Send it to Imperial Capital University."

"The Petrie Building?"

"Room 314."

Mercury raised a hand in an "understood" gesture and turned into an alley.

When Richard returned to the inn, Mortimer surprisingly announced that he was going to take a trip to Helvetia as well.

That batch of copies from the Committee had been sent into the monastery's cellar, and Professor Tagliaferro had sent a telegram over.

The telegram stated that a few of the copies were "in a somewhat strange condition," but didn't specify what was strange about them, so the old Professor wanted to go see for himself. "Past Helvetia is Germania to the north," Richard asked. "How are we going to get back?"

Mortimer said they would cross the Alps over to the Franc side, and from Calais they could head straight back.

He was treating himself like Hannibal and Napoleon.

Richard was reminded of that famous, enduring painting of Napoleon riding his white horse.

"Professor, Hannibal had elephants when he crossed the Alps, and Napoleon had horses... We don't have anything. Are we just going to cross the Alps on our own two legs?"

Just as he was speaking, someone arrived outside the door.

"Mr. Williams."

Sent over to run an errand, Piero walked in and nodded at Richard first, but his hand trembled the moment he caught sight of Mortimer.

"...And good evening to you as well, sir."

Mortimer glanced at him.

"You're the one who brought me tea that day."

"Yes, sir."

"The tea was brewed well."

Piero's face instantly flushed red, though it was unclear whether it was from the praise or the sheer fright.

He had come to tell Richard that the Genoa municipal government was holding an exposition the day after tomorrow, on Saturday.

Mercury had also passed along a message to Richard, saying that because the wars had reduced the number of visitors this year, the goods on display were actually far more varied.

Many people, desperate for cash, had dug out all sorts of old antiques from their homes.

After Piero left, Mortimer stated bluntly that his old arms and legs were too lazy to run around, so if Richard wanted to go, he could go by himself.

Richard had no other choice but to head back to his own room first.

The Branch-Cutting Technique of Shadow Inversion and his new Divinely Crafted Armament were still waiting for him to deal with them.

He had no choice but to make the trip to the Spirit Realm on the winter solstice next month, so he had to make some extra preparations.