Chapter 88: How Dare Mortals Assume Divine Names?

In Slag Alley, the clock downstairs had just struck ten.

At the end of the street, a heavy silence fell.

There were no footsteps, no carriage wheels, and even the stray cat that always yowled at this hour made no sound.

All the ordinary, fragmented noises of the night were gently pressed down into nothing.

A silhouette drifted into the mouth of the alley.

The shadows beneath her feet supported the tips of her shoes. The hem of her cloak hung straight down, unmoved by the wind.

Whatever carried her was invisible.

Mrs. MacNeil clutched an Ebony Plaque.

Her gaze swept over the low eaves of Slag Alley and landed on the second-floor window of the Williams residence.

A wisp of shadow stretched from the soles of her shoes, bypassed the courtyard gate, and slipped under the front door.

The window never opened, yet she was already standing inside Richard's room.

The medium's eyes fell on the young man's face, and she let out a sigh.

She was still a step too late.

By the time she received the call, the boy had already been drawn into the dream.

It took at least twenty minutes to rush from her temporary hotel to Slag Alley.

In those twenty minutes, the deed was done.

Mrs. MacNeil stood at the foot of the bed for a moment before taking a small, pitch-black Iron Box from her cloak's inner pocket.

After checking her ritual components, she scattered a pinch of salt at each of the bed's four corners.

The salt grains hit the wooden floorboards without making a sound.

She crushed olive leaves and placed the fragments one by one in the four directions around Richard's pillow.

Finally came the pure water.

She pulled the cork, dipped her index finger to catch a single drop, and pressed it against the center of Richard's brow.

The water bead didn't roll down his skin. It stayed perfectly still and was slowly absorbed.

Mrs. MacNeil still gripped the Ebony Plaque in her left hand.

The incantation she murmured caused the spirits around the room to vibrate.

With every syllable that fell from her lips, the thin layer of mist inside the room trembled.

The core of the ritual consisted of three phrases.

The first locked the flesh: If the soul cannot return, let the flesh not rot, but wait for its return.

The second gathered the soul: If the body falls outside, let the soul not scatter, but return to its rightful place.

The third sealed the thread between them: If the link between body and soul is severed, let this plaque act as a beacon to reforge the line.

She stopped after reciting the third phrase.

The medium put away the Iron Box and gently swept her finger over the crushed olive leaves.

The leaves vanished from the floorboards, scattered into the air by an unseen breath, and the grains of salt disappeared right alongside them.

Only after finishing the entire ritual did she spare the energy to observe the young man's condition.

Her Spirit Vision extended, stopping exactly three inches from Richard's skin.

Mrs. MacNeil's brows furrowed, then slowly relaxed.

The boy's Ether Micro-circulation was operating with absolute stability. There were no traces of it being torn by an external force, nor any of the chaos that usually came with a dragged consciousness.

His soul was still sitting securely inside his physical body, even though the "person" was temporarily absent.

He had gone somewhere else, but he was unharmed.

That was good.

Mrs. MacNeil stood at the foot of the bed for a little while longer.

She recalled the words her teacher had once told her:

"In our line of work, our greatest fear isn't being too late, but being too early. If you extend a hand too often, a child will never grow their own bones."

The ritual she just performed was only a safety net.

The one who truly had to support this boy was himself.

Mrs. MacNeil allowed the shadows to rise from the floorboards once more and cradle the soles of her shoes.

The medium phased straight through the wall.

Back at her hotel, Mrs. MacNeil stared at the Ebony Plaque.

The ebony surface bore no traces of consumption; the safety net ritual had not been triggered.

She picked up the telephone. "Teacher, the boy is fine."

The other end of the line was quiet for a long moment.

"Did he take a seat in that circle tonight?"

"He did."

A very faint sigh drifted through the receiver.

"Alright. Then let him walk his own path."

...

Meanwhile, in the Theogony Salon within the dreamscape.

Just as Richard was busy brainstorming, Hecate moved.

She raised her left hand from the seat of honor, her palm facing where the two newcomers stood, and hooked her closed fingertips downward.

The layer of ochre-white canvas draping Richard began to peel away. He subconsciously held his breath.

Once it rolled up completely, he also saw his divine name projection.

The only difference was that this time, it was his own.

The god of messengers and commerce, protector of debaters and scholars, guide of souls, crosser of boundaries, god of words and trickery.

Divine Name — Hermes.

Along with the divine name projection, a golden-winged caduceus and a traveler's pouch condensed above his head.

His own Micro-circulation felt as though it had been gently "aligned" by this concept that spanned thousands of years.

The concept offered an earnest suggestion: Your shape could be like this.

His Micro-circulation instinctively resisted for a moment, then held back.

Richard didn't actively cater to the suggestion, but he didn't push it completely away either.

He remained neutral.

At the same time, a divine name rang out for the other newcomer.

The goddess of retribution, wielder of the scales, keeper of the whip and reins, punisher of the excessive.

Divine Name — Nemesis.

A long whip and a set of scales surfaced. The scales trembled slightly before coming to rest in a deliberate state of imbalance.

Richard glanced sideways at her.

Her figure stiffened for half a second before she seemingly relaxed.

Richard understood that kind of relaxation.

When a person who had been misunderstood for a long time was finally read correctly, it bred a dangerous sense of trust.

Hecate's true trick lay not in the Clay Token, but right in this moment.

Right in front of everyone, she had swapped a "safe compromise code name" for one that made you feel utterly seen through.

He rang an alarm bell in his own mind.

Once the canvas was pulled away from both of them, Hecate glanced up. A voice layering three different timbres echoed out.

The clarity of a young girl, the gentleness of a mother, and the rasp of an old woman—all three sounded at once.

"In the past, we were our respective maidens."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. The temple's stone walls carried every syllable to the round table.

"In the present, we are one another's mothers."

Her gaze swept past Ares, moved over Dionysus, and finally settled on Prometheus.

"In the future, we will jointly become the crones of this era.

The existences who still remember the truth when everyone else has forgotten."

When she finished speaking, Richard forced down the urge to frown.

Was this emotional manipulation, or just an embarrassing theatrical skit?

It sounded as if she were imparting meaning to the members, but if you stripped away the sugarcoating, the underlying logic of those three sentences was:

Your past belongs to us, your present belongs to us, and your future belongs to us.

Three tenses to bind you for life.

Hecate's gaze shifted toward the two newcomers.

"You two newcomers, the tokens you used on your way here have already been replaced."

She raised a hand and pointed delicately.

"Those two Clay Tokens were enough to bring you here, but they aren't worthy of this table.

Before I explain the rules, allow me to tell you where it is you stand."

She reached out, tracing a circle from afar around the entire round table.

"This is a small gathering I put together personally. I call it... the Theogony Salon."

"Theogony is only a salon gathering, not an organization," Hecate continued.

"Organizations have charters, hierarchies, and chains of command. We have none of those.

There is only a table here. On this table lie the things everyone brings, and from this table, everyone takes what they need. No one commands anyone, and no one obeys anyone.

The only rule is: if you sit here, it means you deserve to sit here."

She deliberately emphasized the word "deserve."

The emphasis wasn't heavy, but it was enough to give everyone seated a sense of vetted superiority.

"There are tens of thousands of practitioners within the Empire, and the vast majority of them spend their entire lives spinning their wheels within their own little circles.

The official belongs to the official, the academy belongs to the academy, and the Civilian Guild belongs to the Civilian Guild.

Everyone is boxed in by the system they belong to, blind to everything outside that box."

"But you..."

She tapped her finger lightly on the round table.

"Are the ones who walked out of the box."

Prometheus gave a small nod after those words.

Dionysus saw it and nodded in Prometheus's direction.

Those two clearly felt a sense of familiarity with Hecate's words.

Perhaps they had heard the exact same speech the first time they stood beside this table.

And now, hearing Hecate repeat it to the newcomers was tantamount to seeing the very door they had once walked through being pushed open once more.

Hecate's speech continued.

"This table does not guarantee anyone's safety, nor does it promise anyone a future.

It only does one thing... it gives those who are worthy of sitting together the chance to do so."

"The rest is up to you."

Having finished her speech, her gaze fell back onto the two of them.

Richard took the most appropriate action for the moment, offering a slight bow toward the seat of honor.

Nemesis performed the same gesture at almost the same time.

On Hecate's golden mask, the horizontal line separating the maiden and the crone twitched—she was likely smiling.

She raised her hand, gesturing for them to sit.

When Richard sat down, the stone chair "caught" him with supreme precision.

The chair was a perfect fit, almost as if it had been tailor-made for him.

Nemesis sat down as well.

Her posture wasn't as composed as Richard's, maintaining a ready stance that would allow her to spring up at any second.

After Richard sat down, that lingering question still hung in his mind.

For mortals to claim divine names was considered blasphemy in mainstream Empire culture. Why did these people dare?

Hecate seemed to guess their unspoken question.

"You might be wondering."

The voice layering three timbres rang out again.

"How dare mortals assume divine names."

Her gaze landed on Richard, then shifted to Nemesis.

"I will tell you now, we are not overstepping."

She lifted her hands from the armrests of her chair, spreading her fingers wide.

"Divine names do not belong solely to the gods.

Divine names are the receptacles left behind by the gods for their descendants.

When a mortal is truly great enough, they earn the right to temporarily reside within a certain divine name, bearing the power of that archetype."

She withdrew her hands, resting them crossed in her lap.

"We refer to each other by divine names because we are marching toward those names."

After she said this, Nemesis spoke up, her eyes fixed on the residual ochre-red grains of sand in her palm.

"When my father was alive, he never used a code name."

She shook the sand from her palm.

"He said that a Hunter doesn't need a name. What a Hunter needs is a handy knife and a good pair of legs.

Names are for the living, and a Hunter could become a dead man at any given moment."

She turned her hand over, palm up, completely empty.

"So, I want to confirm one thing."

Her gaze pierced across the round table and landed on Hecate.

"Are the people sitting at this table marching toward that name...

"Or are they being swallowed by it?"

It was a razor-sharp question.

Nemesis had flipped the narrative entirely.

What if it wasn't you marching toward the name, but the name swallowing you?

You thought you were putting on a coat, but the coat was also wearing you.

Richard's estimation of Nemesis rose.

Hecate looked at her for a long moment.

"A good question."

"Whether or not you get replaced depends entirely on whether your own spine is sturdy enough.

The receptacle is empty. It will not actively devour anyone.

But if your own will is not firm enough, you will lose your way inside the receptacle.

You'll start failing to distinguish which thoughts are yours and which are merely echoes lingering within the shell."

"That is exactly why we have this table."

Her finger tapped lightly against the edge of the round table.

"The people sitting at this table watch each other and remind each other.

If the day ever comes when you start speaking words you normally wouldn't speak, or doing things you normally wouldn't do, the others at this table will tell you."

Nemesis did not press the issue any further.

Richard once again felt Hecate's profound mastery of rhetoric.

Her answer was utterly brilliant.

She admitted the risk existed, but repackaged "mutual surveillance" into the very reason the gathering existed in the first place.

The one in the seat of honor never lied; she only distorted.

She had both power and brains—simply unfathomable.

"Alright then, Hermes, Nemesis."

Hecate dispensed with the pleasantries and cut straight to the point.

"Since we have two fresh faces, I will introduce the rules here once more."

"The rules are very simple."

"This round table is sustained by contributions. At every gathering, the members bring their own things.

Intel, Spell Formulas, items, clues—anything goes.

You place what you've brought on the table, the others place what they've brought on the table, and everyone takes what they need."

"First-timers do not need to bring anything. Tonight, all you need to do is watch, and all you need to do is listen."

After she finished her piece, her tone switched from "host" to "bystander," and she raised her hand to give a gentle push toward the center of the table.

"Let us begin."