Chapter 78: Arming Permit

Gerard softened his tone slightly.

"The root of your problem today doesn't actually lie with the Fog Wall Spell. If you'd flashed an official identity and a service weapon at those two street punks, nine times out of ten they would have scrambled off on their own. When dealing with someone showing clear hostile intent, inspectors have the authority to shoot to kill. A street thug provoking an armed inspector is just asking for an early grave."

The old man had already arranged everything.

"I've already had the butler pay your fine. I'll also have Wentworth set you up with a few things, including an identity, an arming permit, and the relevant training. Consider this a makeup lesson. You've fallen far too behind."

The call ended.

Richard placed the receiver back on the cradle.

The sweat on his palms had gone cold, stinging in the autumn wind.

Wentworth was leaning against the hood of the van, his bamboo-thin legs crossed.

When Richard stepped out of the telephone booth, Wentworth pulled a cigarette from his uniform pocket and lit it.

"Did Mr. Gerard's words sink in?"

"They did."

"Good." Wentworth flicked his ashes. "Then I won't repeat it. The Branch Office has taken over the entire incident on Central Avenue today. The North District Police Precinct will seal and archive the case file within three days. It will be classified as a 'brief mass epilepsy of unknown cause,' likely related to exhaust emissions from a nearby factory."

He spoke casually, clearly having handled many similar cases.

"A few of the affected citizens went to a clinic, but there were no serious issues. The dizziness and nausea faded within half an hour. The doctors prescribed some sedatives and sent them home. The pie vendor's iron pot tipped over and splashed some hot oil, scalding the back of a man's hand, but it wasn't severe. Two children scraped their knees, and the guy who walked into a lamppost got a bump on his forehead."

Richard nodded. Knowing no one had been seriously hurt was the most relieving piece of information in the entire report.

Wentworth smoked his cigarette down halfway, then pulled a kraft paper envelope from the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. Printed on the envelope was a crest of crossed gears and thorns.

"Here's an appointment commission for a trainee inspector. Fill in the specific details yourself."

Richard took the envelope and broke the wax seal with his thumb. Inside was a folded piece of cardstock. The fields for name, birth year, and address were left blank for him to fill out.

The appointment type read: Trainee Inspector (Non-Permanent).

The appointing authority was printed as: Imperial Public Health Inspection General Administration, Briston Branch Office.

At the very bottom was the administration's official seal, its ink still fresh.

"This is..."

"On the surface, you're a trainee member of our health inspection squad," Wentworth said, flicking his ashes again. "In reality, this document serves two purposes."

He held up an index finger as thin as a dead twig.

"First, today's incident will go on record at the Branch Office. It won't go through the police system or any penalty procedures; it'll be handled according to internal protocol. Simply put: a new trainee messed up, received an internal reprimand, and it won't happen again."

Wentworth held up a second finger.

"Second, the trainee inspector status comes with a privilege: you can legally possess and use firearms."

Richard looked up from the document.

"Administration staff, including trainees and non-permanent members, hold Class B arming permits issued by the Ministry of the Interior. You can legally purchase, carry, and use registered light firearms. At the same time, the training ranges at all Branch Offices are open to staff."

Wentworth dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out with his shoe.

"To be honest, even well-trained Hunters below the rank of Minor Adept rely heavily on firearms. The Path of Blood Ignition can unleash extraordinary strength and speed, but the fists you throw and the clubs you swing are ultimately bound by the physical limits of muscle and bone."

He tapped his temple with an index finger.

"Furthermore, a gun is controllable. You hit exactly where you aim. A shot to the leg hits the leg, and a shot to the hand hits the hand. You won't have a situation where you aim for the shoulder but end up shattering a temple."

Wentworth elaborated, which was rare for him:

"Your problem today, when it comes down to it, was that you lacked a precise, controllable method to subdue an enemy without exposing your extraordinary nature. Firearms perfectly fill that gap. And for someone walking the Scholar path like you, firearms are even more vital than they are for a Hunter."

Richard folded the document, slipped it back into the envelope, and tucked it into his inner pocket.

"Mr. Wentworth, where is your shooting range?"

"Right beneath the Branch Office," Wentworth said. "The building behind the North District freight yard. The sign out front says Municipal Environmental Monitoring Station. Just bring your trainee inspector document; the guards recognize the seal, not the face."

"What about the costs for range use, ammunition, and purchasing a firearm?"

"A trainee inspector is on the non-permanent payroll. You don't get a salary or supply rations. However, Mr. Gerard has already put in a word regarding the range fees and daily training ammunition. They'll be covered by official subsidies. But if you want to buy a gun and bullets to take with you, you'll have to pay market price. Standard .38 caliber pistol rounds run about one shilling for twenty-four. The military .455 rounds are a bit more expensive."

"As for the gun itself, you can borrow a Practice Firearm while training. It's a standard-issue Webley revolver—a bit old, but functional. If you want to buy your own, I suggest saving up some money first. A Webley in decent condition runs somewhere between two and three pounds."

"The range is open all day, but our own people only use it on weekdays. On weekends, Old Biggs, the coroner, sometimes drops by. The guy is friendly enough; if he spots a new face, he'll probably talk your ear off."

Richard probed tentatively, "Speaking of which, how did you track me back to my place so quickly?"

"That commotion on Central Avenue was more than enough for the Branch Office folks to catch the scent."

Wentworth patted his cigarette case.

"As for how we pinpointed your exact door, every Branch Office in our line of work employs people on the Secret path. This is exactly what they do. You'll understand naturally once you've dealt with them."

He pulled the car door open and slid inside.

"Alright. The range is open on weekends. Come if you want, don't if you don't."

The door shut.

The van gave a low hum and slowly drove out of Slag Alley.

Richard pulled the front of his jacket tight and headed back toward Grafton Street.

The matter hanging over him had been resolved by his grandfather. At least on a procedural level, there wouldn't be any further trouble.

The trainee inspector document rested securely in his breast pocket, and the arming permit was a tangible layer of security.

The next time he encountered a similar situation, he wouldn't need to risk close-quarters combat or reach for his Ashcore Grass.