Chapter 76: Health Inspection Unit

The other addict watched Richard take down his accomplice with ease.

Panic clearly setting in, he whipped out a folding knife and began slashing wildly at the air.

A high wall stood between bare hands and a weapon.

Acting almost on pure instinct, Richard plunged a hand into his jacket pocket and pressed his thumb down hard.

Fibers snapped with a faint crackle, scattering dry grass fragments across his palm.

He blew a long, steady breath over the crushed fragments.

Ether surged from his palm.

In an enclosed space, the interference field of the Fog Wall Spell acted like water poured into a cup. The walls formed a hard boundary; once full, it could not spill over.

Casting the Fog Wall Spell in an open area, however, was like splashing water across a table.

It would spread rapidly, growing thinner and thinner, but covering an area far larger than a cup ever could.

The interference field rippled outward from his palm at incredible speed.

The knife-wielding addict's eyes instantly rolled back, and he collapsed into violent convulsions on the spot.

Richard kicked the blade from his hand and took him down with a few swift strikes.

The ether continued its outward surge, blanketing a radius of roughly six or seven meters.

Ordinary people within this range were all affected to varying degrees.

A middle-aged man waiting in line at the pie stand suddenly felt the world spin. His legs gave out, and he crashed into the stall, overturning its heavy iron pot.

Scalding grease splashed outward. The man stumbled backward on pure instinct, stomping hard on the foot of the woman behind him.

The woman shrieked, while two children chasing each other beside her simultaneously lost their balance.

One collapsed onto his rear, bawling loudly, while the other slammed headfirst into a streetlamp, leaving a bright red welt on his forehead.

A gentleman in a top hat had just stepped out of a nearby tobacco shop.

His right foot had barely crossed the threshold when his entire body slipped sideways, as if he had stepped onto smooth ice.

His hat flew three paces away, and his pipe clattered onto the pavement.

With Richard at the epicenter, everyone within a six- or seven-meter radius simultaneously suffered varying degrees of vertigo.

Those standing couldn't keep their balance, and those walking couldn't take another step. Several people collapsed onto the pavement in a daze.

Some dry-heaved, some clutched their heads, and others thrashed on the ground.

When Mr. Hutton first taught him the Fog Wall Spell, he had mentioned one specific detail:

"Short-term sensory confusion is accompanied by mild memory blurring, which can be used to cover one's tracks afterward."

That precise quote now surfaced from his memory.

That's enough, he thought.

Once these people left the street, their memory of the incident would fade into a vague impression that someone had been fighting. That was enough.

But the pedestrians further away stopped in their tracks.

They remained completely untouched by the interference field, giving them a clear view of this incredibly bizarre scene.

There were no explosions, no gunshots, and no visible external forces at play.

That small patch of space formed an absurd yet distinct boundary against the normally moving crowd around it.

Inside that boundary, people tumbled and writhed amidst agonizing wails;

Outside the boundary, pedestrians stared in sheer disbelief, some already backing away.

"What happened?"

"My God... people are collapsing! Look how many are down!"

"Plague! Is it a plague?!"

The moment that word was spoken, panic erupted like water splashed into boiling oil.

The cholera outbreak twenty years ago had claimed thousands of lives in the North District. The shadow of that disaster was still etched into the city's collective memory.

Hearing the word "plague" shouted in the middle of the street carried the exact same effect as screaming "fire" in a crowded theater.

The crowd began to scatter in all directions.

People fled clutching their children, while others huddled by the roadside, too terrified to move. A few rushed into nearby shops and slammed the doors shut.

The pie vendor abandoned his overturned iron pot and bolted.

The shrill, frantic blasts of a patrolman's whistle drifted over from the distance.

Richard stood in the eye of the storm, the panicked crowd fleeing outward with him at its center.

He made a quick judgment.

His goals of taking down his enemies and erasing any memory of his intervention had already been achieved.

For the bystanders closest to him who had witnessed the fight, the sensory confusion inflicted by the Fog Wall Spell had already overwritten their memories of those brief ten seconds.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that the panic had spread far too wide, and the police were arriving.

If he stayed to wait for the patrol, he would no longer have to explain "why did you hit those men," but rather "why did half the street collapse."

He could easily justify the former.

It was clear-cut self-defense. The men were con artists, and one had pulled a blade. The pie vendor could vouch for him, and so could the woman pushing the handcart.

But for the latter, he had no excuse at all.

Time to go.

Richard turned and merged into the scattering mass of pedestrians, lowering his head and drifting along with the flow.

Central Avenue was already packed with people. The moment panic took hold, the number of pedestrians sprinting down the street multiplied.

A single teenager mingling in the chaotic crowd was completely unremarkable.

Matching the hurried pace of a woman clutching a child beside him, he followed her around the next corner.

The shrieking police whistles were swiftly muffled by the buildings behind him.

Richard walked for another two blocks, looped through the north entrance of Grafton Street, and maintained a normal, brisk stride all the way home.

"You're back?" His mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "Lunch is almost ready. Go wash your hands."

"Okay."

Richard scrubbed his hands over the sink several times. The ice-cold water washed away the lingering fragments of Ashcore Grass trapped beneath his fingernails.

Evelyn was setting out plates on the dining table. "You left early today."

"I had some business at the bank."

"Oh."

Lunch was thick potato soup and bread. His mother had added an extra egg to his bowl.

Richard methodically shoveled the food into his mouth, completely unable to taste a thing.

His mind was racing, replaying the morning's events from beginning to end over and over again.

The two con artists weren't a major issue.

He had struck hard enough to give them mild concussions at the very least.

Even when they woke up, they likely wouldn't have the slightest clue what had happened.

The real problem was the innocent bystanders and the collective testimonies of the witnesses up and down Central Avenue.

If someone investigated, their search would inevitably stray from conventional police work.

And an unconventional investigation would eventually brush against the world behind the veil.

That kind of inquiry wasn't handled by ordinary patrolmen.

He quickly finished his meal and helped his mother carry the dishes back to the kitchen.

"I still need to take care of a few things. I might be a little late coming back."

"Don't stay out too long. Be back before dark."

"Alright."

He pushed the door open. Slag Alley was perfectly quiet, save for two children squatting at the base of a wall to dig into an anthill.

Richard had taken barely thirty steps toward Grafton Street.

A black van drove in from the far end of the alley.

The vehicle's timing was too exact; it had clearly been waiting for him to step outside.

Its side panels were stenciled in white paint: [Briston Municipal Health Inspection Unit]

Beneath that, a line of smaller text read: [Epidemic Control · Environmental Sterilization · Public Health Patrol]

Richard's footsteps halted.

He had expected someone from the official system to eventually come looking, but not this fast.

Barely two hours had passed since the chaos on Central Avenue ended.

He had deliberately detoured through several streets to reach home, and he hadn't spoken his name or address to anyone along the way.

To trace his path back here... pinpointing his front door in under two hours required far more than the ordinary police network.

The van stopped directly in front of him.

The man who stepped out of the rear doors made Richard's heart sink.

His Micro-circulation immediately sensed the stranger's ether.

It wasn't overwhelmingly powerful, but it was far more stable than his own, and it had clearly been circulating for many years.

The man's hair was mostly gray and plastered thinly across his scalp.

His high cheekbones strained against paper-thin skin, and his eyes sat buried so deep in their sockets that he looked like a living skeleton.

His build was incredibly gaunt, with narrow shoulders, long arms, and jutting wrist bones.

Richard was familiar with these physical traits.

His grandfather Gerard had this build, and so did his cousin Vincent.

Hunters on the Path of Blood Ignition constantly burned away their own nutritional reserves year after year.

When not actively pushing themselves, they maintained a state of minimal energy consumption, leaving every one of them looking terribly emaciated.

This man was a Practitioner, and a Hunter at that—the highest combat power among the lower Ranks!