I Loaded the Occult Panel

The two retraced their steps through the tunnel in tacit silence.

As he walked, Richard sorted through the scenes he had just witnessed.

The ghoul’s combat prowess in that residual image far exceeded anything he had imagined from written descriptions.

Iron shuttles, fabric shears... those would be considered handy weapons for ordinary people.

More than a dozen people had surrounded a single bottom-tier evil creature, and it had still ended in a one-sided slaughter.

They climbed out of the electrical room. The night wind poured in, snapping at the front of their clothes.

A single lowest-tier evil creature had cost several lives and forced a factory to close.

If no one had set up a seal, or returned every few years to patch the silver inscriptions and replace the wax seals...

...the deathly resonance would have continued to permeate the surroundings, relentlessly interfering with the ordinary people nearby.

Perkins had merely been brushed by it, yet he was bedridden for two weeks.And that was just a single ghoul.

Appendix C stated it in black and white: within the mystical danger classifications, ghouls were relegated to the very bottom tier.

So what made up the middle tier? And the top?

He thought of the things Mr. Hutton had mentioned in class:

The voices described by survivors before the New Continent expeditionary force vanished, the large-scale anomalies that spawned after indigenous ritual sites were destroyed, and the government reports with heavily redacted conclusions.

”We recommend halting all further investigation.”

What tier was the thing behind that report?

And how many lives were lost behind the ”expeditionary force loses contact” headlines that the newspapers downplayed so casually?

Richard walked through the shadows of the enclosing wall, untouched by the moonlight. He hadn’t felt afraid in the moment, but thinking about it now sent a terrifying chill down his spine.

The vast majority of ordinary people—Father, Evelyn, the old woman who set up her stall early every morning, the classmates dozing on the school bus—were completely oblivious to the world behind the veil.

They had no idea what they were stepping on, nor what floated in the air around them.

The two returned to the teaching building, where Mr. Hutton unlocked the door to an empty classroom.

He left the overhead lights off, only switching on the desk lamp on the podium.

The light illuminated two desks, leaving the rest of the room shrouded in darkness.

He sat down at a desk and pulled an Iron Box from his leather bag. Inside were two items.

The first was a Silver Coin, the exact same one he had placed in the center of the silver plate while reinforcing the seal earlier.

A layer of grayish-blue frost coated the coin’s surface.

”This is a byproduct of the sealing process,” Mr. Hutton said, placing the Silver Coin on the desk.

”The Silver Coin acted as a ’filtration medium’ within the core area of the seal. You can think of it like the scale left on the inside of a kettle after distilled water boils away.”

”Is it dangerous?”

”Not to ordinary people. But to you...” Mr. Hutton slid the Silver Coin in front of him.

”It is actually quite useful. The ether deposited on it is relatively pure because it has been filtered by the seal.

”You can hold it while practicing your breathing method. It will provide a little boost.”

”I am giving this to you. Consider it compensation for nearly having an accident.”

Richard nodded and did not refuse.

The moment his thumb brushed the silver surface, the Panel lit up in the corner of his vision.

[Available Points: +0.03]

His heart rate spiked.

Throughout the entire trip to the basement, even when faced with the dense ether permeating the air, the Panel had remained completely lifeless.

Yet the moment he touched this old Silver Coin, the numbers jumped.

He already knew the answer, but to verify it further, he conducted a quick experiment.

He placed the Silver Coin on the desk, and the moment he removed his hand, the numbers stopped.

The conclusion was undeniable.

Antiques capable of generating points shared common characteristics: they were all of a certain age, and they had either been saturated in ether or used in occult rituals.

The pendant was an artifact from the East Continent, the Spirit Board was a ritual prop, and the Sphinx Oil Lamp was a priestly implement.

Now, this Silver Coin had been used in a sealing ritual, accumulating ether residue, and it was a vintage piece of silver in its own right.

Age + supernatural saturation = usable.

Age + no supernatural saturation = unusable.

No age + contains ether = unusable.

With this in mind, he naturally steered the conversation.

”Sir, this Silver Coin looks quite old.”

Mr. Hutton, who was cleaning his Engraving Tool, glanced up.

”You have a good eye. It is an old coin.”

”How old?”

”Flip it over and look at the front.”

Richard flipped the Silver Coin over.

Embossed on the front was a profile relief of a man wearing a laurel wreath, though his facial features were largely blurred.

”Is this... a coin from the Old Dynasty?”

”It seems you paid attention in my history class. I thought your mind was entirely focused on Holland’s subject.”

Mr. Hutton cracked a rare joke to lighten the mood before continuing.

”This Silver Coin was produced by a mint during the late Old Dynasty. It is an antique from before the constitution, roughly between three and four hundred years old.”

He placed the velvet-wrapped tool into his leather bag.

”This batch of Silver Coins was handed down alongside the seal.

”The predecessor who established the seal used Silver Coins from that same era as the medium. The silver purity is high, and since they had been saturated by the ritual, this exact same batch is reused every year to reinforce the seal.

”They have been in use for forty-three years, so the deposits accumulating on them have steadily grown thicker.”

”So these Silver Coins have themselves become supernatural artifacts?”

”Barely.” Mr. Hutton snapped his leather bag shut.

”They are far inferior to true supernatural artifacts. A three-to-four-hundred-year-old Silver Coin participating in decades of sealing rituals can only accumulate a very limited amount of ether.

”It is more than enough to assist a beginner with their breathing method practice, but that is where its usefulness ends.”

He spoke dismissively, but Richard committed every word to memory.

As for the cultivation boost, he did not really need it; his breathing method progress was already on track.

The Silver Coin’s true value lay in the points.

He slipped the Silver Coin into his pocket, his thumb rubbing against the cold metal.

The second item looked rather unremarkable.

It was a small section of a grayish-green withered grass stem, about the length of a pinky finger. The snapped ends were already shriveled and yellowing.

”Ashcore Grass.” Mr. Hutton pushed the grass stem under the light.

”It is a plant that generally grows in ether-polluted areas. A few stalks will occasionally pop up in the damp crevices around the periphery of the seal.

”After processing, its fibrous tissue retains trace amounts of ether, allowing it to be used as a spellcasting medium.”

He closed the Iron Box and tapped his fingers lightly against the lid twice.

”In an environment like the one beneath Greenwood’s foundations, the continuous permeation of low-concentration ether acts as a hotbed for plants.

”Apart from Ashcore Grass, there are also certain mycelia, mineral crystals, and salts precipitated from the scale—all of which are supernatural resources.”

”Is there a market for these things?”

Mr. Hutton did not elaborate.

”Within specific circles, yes.”

Richard did not press the issue.

The older man had drawn his boundaries very clearly:

I am already teaching you what I can. As for how that circle actually operates, you do not need to know right now.

”Then what can the Ashcore Grass do?”

Mr. Hutton pulled an old sheet of paper from the side pocket of his bag and unfolded it under the light.

Written on it in small print was a set of operational steps, completely different from the cipher-like style in that book’s appendix—it was straightforward, clear, and unencrypted.

”You can use it to perform a little parlor trick.” He handed the paper over.

”In our line of work, it is called a Fog Wall Spell. It barely counts as a proper Spell Formula.”

”The Fog Wall Spell causes brief sensory confusion in a target, lasting roughly five to ten seconds.

”Their sense of direction, vision, and hearing will all misalign simultaneously. It is the equivalent of being blindfolded and spun in circles dozens of times.”

”And against non-ordinary people?”

Mr. Hutton shook his head. ”Any properly trained Practitioner can easily neutralize it, but it is more than enough to deal with blind thugs.”

Richard took the paper and scanned its contents.

The steps were indeed simple: snap off a tiny section of Ashcore Grass, crush it in your palm, and blow over it using the exhalation rhythm of Fourfold Breathing.

The residual ether within the Ashcore Grass fibers would be activated by the breath, forming a Perception interference field right in front of the palm.

The effective range was about three meters, and the duration depended on the caster’s proficiency in their breathing method.

”Ashcore Grass is a consumable. You lose a piece every time you use it.”

Mr. Hutton indicated the length of the stem with his fingers. ”The one I gave you can be used eight or nine times. That is enough for self-defense.”

Richard folded the paper and tucked it away in his pocket alongside the Ashcore Grass.

”Thank you, sir.”

”Don’t thank me.” Mr. Hutton stood up and fastened his leather bag.

”You are not to speak a word of anything you saw today to anyone, including the location of the seal, the entrance, and the structure of the silver inscriptions.”

He added a second later, ”Not even your family.”

”I know.”

Carrying his bag, Mr. Hutton walked to the classroom door.

”Williams, your performance today was much better than I expected.”

He turned sideways, the desk lamp illuminating only half of his face.

”Your breathing fell out of rhythm for two beats when you were enveloped by the residual echoes, but you pulled it back yourself.

”To be afraid but not run, to lose control but reel it back... that is more important than talent.”

He pushed the door open, letting a gust of cold wind rush in from the hallway.

”But don’t be too brave, either.”

”In our line of work, the bravest people usually die the earliest.”