I Loaded the Occult Panel

”Come in.”

Richard pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The office had been completely rearranged.

The stack of lesson plans usually sitting in the middle of the desk had been shoved aside. In its place lay a sheet of wax paper.

A complete sealing circle was drawn on the wax paper, ringed by twelve Silver Needles with their tips pointing outward.

Mr. Hutton sat behind the desk, finishing the final stroke of the circle’s inscription.

”You’re just in time,” he said without looking up. ”Take out your Bronze Fragment.”

Richard fished the Bronze Fragment out of the deepest compartment of his satchel.

Mr. Hutton set down his quill.

He retrieved his parchment scroll from a drawer.At the end of the winter break’s sealing ritual, this scroll had fallen to him when they divided the spoils. They had agreed to study it together once the term started.

He had kept the scroll in immaculate condition; its edges were perfectly flat, and its color hadn’t darkened at all.

Mr. Hutton pushed the parchment over from the left side of the desk, then pointed at Richard’s Bronze Fragment.

”When you accompanied the team to Whitcom, you worked on reinforcing the Boundary Stone Array.”

”The Boundary Stone Array marks the ’bounds’ of that seal.”

”A boundary is a dead thing. It only dictates what is inside and what is outside; it doesn’t operate on its own.”

”But a seal that can truly hold cannot just have bounds.”

”A seal also needs a ’core.’”

Richard suddenly realized something.

”...Do the scroll and the Bronze Fragment record the original ’core’ of that seal?”

”Yes.”

Mr. Hutton leaned back in his chair.

”Boundary Stones are buried underground, serving as the skeletal framework for the outer ring of the Whitcom Seal. The work you did with us was essentially tightening the screws on that framework.”

”The people who originally built this entire system performed a ritual on the very first day of construction. The record of that ritual was split into two parts, kept by different people. After all these years, those two records were scattered and passed around, only to end up back on the same desk at the end of this field mission.”

Richard’s gaze fell between the parchment on the desk and the Bronze Fragment from his bag.

”We’ll decipher this material together over the next few days. It should give a helpful boost to your probatio text.”

”Let’s begin.”

The old gentleman placed the parchment and the Bronze Fragment on opposite sides of the sealing circle.

”Look.” He pointed. ”The symbol structures are similar.”

Richard leaned in.

Two samples: one of animal hide, the other of metal.

At first glance, their symbolic styles were completely different.

The strokes on the parchment were thin and fluid, while the strokes on the Bronze Fragment were thick and sharp.

But the longer he looked, the more he noticed a genuine structural correspondence between them.

”Similar, but not identical.”

”Yes, tell me your thoughts.” Mr. Hutton nodded.

Richard tapped the parchment. ”This line of symbols runs from left to right, and every stroke hooks upward from the bottom.”

”Go on.”

”Take the corresponding line on the back of the Bronze Fragment.”

Richard moved his finger to the metal.

”The symbols run from right to left, and every stroke falls from top to bottom.”

A hint of a smile appeared in Mr. Hutton’s eyes.

”This is a form of ’duality.’”

”Duality?”

”A very common structure in ancient Celtic rituals.”

Mr. Hutton took out a tightly wound coil of hemp rope.

He placed one end of the rope on the parchment and the other on the Bronze Fragment.

”The same set of symbols was written twice: one for ’Below’, and one for ’Above’.”

He pointed at the rope. ”Opposite directions, complementary meanings.”

”So this parchment and Bronze Fragment were originally two records of the same ritual. Why separate them?”

”The separation happened later. Originally, they were a pair.”

Mr. Hutton put the hemp rope away.

”Keep looking, and you’ll find that the true core of this pair of symbols isn’t in their direction.”

Richard carefully compared the two samples again.

He anchored his Spirit Vision on the set of three linked symbols right in the center of the parchment.

The moment he locked his vision on it, a leaf on the tree of light within his chest gently trembled.

Richard immediately withdrew his Spirit Vision. That feeling...

”Is it the name of the entity being worshipped?”

”A true name,” Mr. Hutton corrected. ”In Celtic rituals, the entities being worshipped all had a ’true name.’ A true name can only be written; it cannot be spoken aloud.”

”Why can’t it be spoken?”

”Any true name spoken aloud is released into the realm of language.”

Mr. Hutton traced an imaginary line across the desk.

”Language is an extremely active vessel on the etheric plane. The moment a true name is spoken, the worshipped entity is ’summoned’ over.”

”What about writing it down?”

”Writing it down follows a different logic.”

Mr. Hutton pointed at the three linked symbols on the parchment.

”When writing the ’Below’ copy of the true name, the strokes go from bottom to top; when writing the ’Above’ copy, the strokes go from top to bottom. When the two halves are brought together, the worshipped entity is ’locked’ within its two aspects.”

”One name, two aspects?”

”The worshipped entity inherently possesses two aspects.”

Mr. Hutton closed his eyes to think for a moment.

”You can understand it like this: the Celts believed that any divine being existed simultaneously in the material world and behind the veil.”

Richard understood.

He thought of ”On the Construction and Evolution of Ciphertext,” the document he had deciphered in the Imperial Capital University Library.

That book had discussed a similar concept, calling it the ”Dual Naming Method.”

But it had only mentioned it in passing on a theoretical level, never providing a concrete example.

The parchment and Bronze Fragment right in front of him were living specimens of this ancient naming method.

”These paired symbols are separated now.”

Richard had a sudden realization.

”What would happen if the two names were deciphered and put back together?”

Mr. Hutton looked at him, the hint of a smile vanishing from his eyes.

”You don’t want to know.”

Richard wisely dropped the subject.

The old gentleman took out a small pair of tweezers and another wooden box.

”We’ll seal them up for today.”

He used the tweezers to pick up the Bronze Fragment from the edge of the sealing circle.

The instant the tweezers touched the metal, Richard heard a very faint hiss.

Mr. Hutton lifted the Bronze Fragment, moving it outside the sealing circle and setting it down into the wooden box on the other side of the desk.

A layer of powder lined the bottom of the box. Richard took a glance with his Spirit Vision; it was fine salt mixed with silver dust.

As the fragment settled onto the salt, the faint ether floating across the desk instantly stabilized.

Mr. Hutton closed the lid, completing the foundational seal for the item.

He then took out a second wooden box and repeated the exact same process for the parchment scroll.

The two wooden boxes were set aside at the left and right ends of the desk.

Richard watched this smooth series of actions.

”Sir, your technique...”

”Scholars run into a more mixed bag of things than anyone else.”

Mr. Hutton brushed it off casually. ”Sealing, divination, trace regression—anyone in our line of work has to know a little bit of these ’self-defense’ skills.”

”When did you learn them?”

”During my university years. I had free time, so I picked up a bunch of odd tricks.”

He handed the wooden box containing the Bronze Fragment back to his student.

”Did you memorize today’s procedure?”

Mr. Hutton glanced at Richard. ”Seal them separately, and never let them come into direct contact within the same space.”

”I’ve memorized it.”

”From now on, whenever you handle samples with a dual structure, follow these rules.”

”I’ve sealed off the true name section,” he continued, explaining the work they needed to do next. ”There are still records of their rituals on the parts that don’t involve the true name, which we can study.”

Mr. Hutton sat back in his chair and picked up his white porcelain teacup.

”The things left behind by the Celts are savage and bloody.”

He took a sip of tea. ”But their understanding of the ’veil’ is, in many ways, far deeper than our modern academic system.”

”They traded blood, bones, and centuries of rituals for their minute observations of the veil.”

”It’s a price people today cannot afford to pay, but we can still learn from their results.”

”Learn, but do not replicate,” the old gentleman finally added, a warning in his eyes.

...

By the time Richard left the office, the sky had grown dark.

He detoured out through the side gate of Greenwood and walked to a public telephone booth on the street corner.

He dropped a coin in and provided the number for Clement Antiquities.

The receiver rang four times before it was picked up.

”Clement Antiquities, who’s calling?”

”It’s me, Richard.”

”Oh.” The voice through the receiver was wrapped in a layer of static. ”I thought you’d forgotten about my old bones. Where did you run off to over the winter break?”

”Up north.” Richard shoved his free hand into his overcoat pocket. ”Went to see the world with some seniors.”

”Seniors?” Clement chewed on the word for a moment. ”Came back with all your arms and legs attached?”

”All attached.”

”Good.” The old man chuckled, coughing through the laugh. ”It’s good for young folks to get out and see the world, but seeing it is one thing—don’t go getting yourself swallowed by it.”

Richard steered the conversation back to business, asking if there had been any new unsold auction items recently.

Clement took a sip of something; the sound of his cup returning to the desk was very soft.

”None,” the old man answered honestly. ”Before the next quarter, nothing with Stuart’s ’Category Two’ mark will trickle down here.”

”What about the retired colleagues’ channel?”

”That’s dried up too.” Clement’s voice was a little raspy. ”The wind’s blowing strange over in the Imperial Capital. A few of the major auction houses have been hoarding their stock lately, clutching onto whatever they have. The minor channels below them are completely bone-dry. You can’t even see a splash.”

”The wind’s blowing strange—what does that mean?”

The receiver went quiet for a moment.

”The people up top are settling scores,” the old man finally said. ”As for what scores, exactly, a junk seller like me doesn’t know. I just know one rule: every time they start settling scores, the common folks down below have to tighten their belts.”

Richard gripped the receiver, his mind swarming with thoughts.

”If there’s no stock in the short term, what I have on hand is enough to digest for a while.”

He switched to a lighter tone. ”You don’t need to rush around scrambling for things. Take advantage of this downtime to rest your feet.”

”Heh, that’s what I like to hear.”

Clement played along.

”These old bones of mine really can’t run anymore.”

”Let’s leave it at that, then. If there’s nothing else, I’ll hang up.”

”Alright. I’ll call you if I get any news.”

Richard hung up, the receiver making a dull thud as it settled back onto its brass hook.

Richard’s gaze fell on the window of the pharmacy diagonally across the street.

The glass medicine bottles normally stacked in the display had been pushed aside to clear a corner, and a white paper notice was pasted in the empty space:

”Iodine and hemostatic gauze temporarily out of stock. Restock date unconfirmed.”

A shortage of iodine and gauze wasn’t exactly rare in Briston.

This city was propped up by its factories. Machines crushed hands every other day, and molten steel burned through arms. The rate at which these supplies were consumed was already a cut faster than anywhere else.

His gaze shifted to the side of the pharmacy.

Next door was a funeral parlor with a narrow front and an old signboard.

In previous years around this time, there would be, at most, two or three unpainted pine coffins leaning against the front of the shop, covered by a tarp.

Today, the shape piled beneath the tarp was noticeably taller. The lid of the outermost coffin wasn’t closed tight, revealing a narrow black sliver of the interior.

On one side, supplies to bandage wounds were out of stock; on the other, supplies to bury the dead were being hoarded.

The two things were separated by a single wall, the snow falling equally thick at both their doors.

Richard stood in the booth, putting the two together in his mind.

Briston was changing.

It was changing very slowly, hiding in out-of-stock notices and surplus coffins, hiding in places ordinary people couldn’t see or even imagine.

By the time the majority of people could see it, the situation likely wouldn’t be something a single notice could explain away.

He pushed open the door of the telephone booth, and the cold wind blew snow pellets down his collar.

By the time he returned to Slag Alley, the sky was completely dark.

Hearing the door, Evelyn poked half her head out from the kitchen, a flour-dusted wooden spoon clenched in her hand.

”Brother, why are you so late today?”

”I took a detour to make a call.”

”Who?”

”Mr. Clement.”

Evelyn stepped out from the kitchen doorway and wiped the wooden spoon on her apron.

”The old man who sells junk?”

”Yeah.”

”Why are you always thinking about his junk?” The little girl crinkled her nose. ”We’re not missing anything at home.”

”It’s not his wares I’m after.” Richard unbuttoned his overcoat. ”It’s chatting with the old man.”

”...What is there to chat about with a junk-selling old man?”

”The market.”

Their mother’s voice drifted out from the kitchen:

”Evelyn, stop blocking the door and bantering with your brother. If you don’t check the dough in the mixing bowl, it’s going to over-proof.”

”Coming, coming...”

Evelyn darted back into the kitchen in a flash, flicking a few drops of batter onto the floor as she ran.

Outside, the snow was still falling. Inside, it was warm.