I Loaded the Occult Panel

That night, he organized the results of his three improvements.

Three manuscripts lay spread out side by side across his desk.

The first was titled On Variants of Shadow Armor (Draft). The cover was already filled out.

For the second, he had taken a piece of cardstock of the same thickness and labeled it The Batch-Push Method for Stone Armor.

On the cardstock cover of the third, he had written Moon Nail: Multiple Preheating and Derivative Attacks.

He had drafted the inner pages of each manuscript in strict academic format.

Abstract, Research Background, Methodology, Experimental Records, Conclusion, and Directions for Future Research.

Sitting at his desk and looking at the stack of papers, Richard felt a sense of unreality.

This ”secondary processing” of knowledge was the true value of [Speculation].

[Erudition] solved the ”raw material” problem, allowing his mind to hold enough source material.[Speculation] solved the ”processing” problem, letting him spot the load-bearing structures within that material—structures the original authors might not have even recognized.

Even if someone else were handed these three papers, they wouldn’t necessarily be able to reproduce the train of thought behind them.

The working process of [Speculation] itself could not be recorded.

In the papers, he could only write out the ”conclusions” and the ”experimental records.”

The deductive process behind why those specific conclusions were reached was something the reader would have to piece together for themselves.

He wondered if these deduced and modified models could be traded for anything at the gatherings.

Now that he had [Speculation], the snowball had slowly begun to roll.

As long as he had enough original text material on hand, he could refine and process it to generate extra value.

From there, he could continuously trade it, allowing knowledge and wealth to fully circulate...

...

At two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Richard stood punctually at the main entrance of the Branch Office.

He had intentionally worn his most presentable suit jacket and polished his leather shoes twice.

Just as Mrs. MacNeil had specifically emphasized over the phone the night before, when you took money for a job, you had to keep up appearances.

When Mrs. MacNeil emerged from the revolving door of the Branch Office and caught sight of him, her eyes visibly lit up.

”Not bad. You’re quite the handsome young man.”

She patted Richard’s shoulder and tipped her chin. ”Get in.”

A familiar sedan pulled up; the driver was the old man from the front desk, the one who read horse racing magazines.

A faint scent of cedar lingered in the car—an incense commonly used by spirit mediums.

”Today we’re going to the Holbrook Textile Mill.”

Mrs. MacNeil didn’t speak again until the car bumped out onto the main street. ”The one with the densest cluster of smokestacks out in the Western Suburbs.”

”Mm.”

”The owner’s name is Holbrook. He took over the family business twenty years ago, and expanded into a night-shift workshop last year when orders picked up.”

She stroked the wooden box in her hands.

”The trouble only started after he expanded the night shift. The female night-shift workers collectively claimed someone was counting behind the cotton carding machines. Two foremen quit in a row, and the orders are going to be delayed.”

”Has he hired a medium to look at it himself?” Richard asked.

”He brought in two groups, plus a parish priest.”

A faint touch of irony showed on Mrs. MacNeil’s face; Richard couldn’t tell if it was directed at the two groups or at Holbrook.

”The priest’s methods were useless. The first two groups of mediums were just street-level hacks from the Civilian Guild. They went over, took one look, and came back with two words.”

She lifted her eyelids and glanced at Richard.

”’Fine’ and ’stable.’”

Richard understood. That was the standard script for the half-baked charlatans in the Civilian Guild.

If they couldn’t get a reading, they just said everything was fine to save face.

”Holbrook runs a sizable business, so he actually has a bit of common sense regarding the mystical side.”

”He didn’t fully believe them, and transferred the job to me through Old Biggs’s channels.”

Mrs. MacNeil thought for a moment before adding:

”Actually, if it really were a dangerous evil creature, the Branch Office would automatically intervene with extermination measures.”

”But this time the target is a neutral spirit. If we use overly ruthless methods to shatter it, the lingering resentment would be very difficult to cleanse.”

Richard nodded. He had also been wondering—although there were no Minor Adept experts native to Briston, there were still a fair number of Practitioners around; they shouldn’t have been completely helpless against an ordinary haunting.

Looking at it now, the matter wasn’t dangerous; it was just troublesome.

”How much did you quote him?”

”Five pounds for the consultation fee. The handling fee will be calculated separately depending on the situation.”

Richard silently did the math in his head. Five pounds was enough to buy a basic supernatural item.

The figure sounded high to an outsider, but considering she was a Minor Adept spirit medium, the price actually wasn’t expensive.

Seeing through his calculations, Mrs. MacNeil calmly added:

”I’m just stopping by on my way. I have to participate in Briston’s spring seal maintenance, and this happened to coincide with it.

My teacher also had a rule: for side jobs taken during field assignments, we aren’t allowed to quote exorbitant rates.”

”Why?”

”We’re already snatching business from the local Practitioners. If we charged exorbitant prices on top of that, we’d draw hatred.”

Richard nodded in understanding.

Mrs. MacNeil changed the subject. ”You’re following me today. Your cut is one pound.”

”Whether I can actually give you that pound will depend on your performance this afternoon.”

Outside the window, the flagstones receded tile by tile, and the density of smokestacks grew visibly thicker.

After a while, she spoke again. ”I mentioned before that your Spirit Vision has a decent diffusion range and precision, but you don’t use the slightest bit of concealment when you activate it.”

Richard pursed his lips. He had heard this from many people.

”When you look at people, the act of ’looking’ itself deforms the ether currents.”

She reached out and made a faint wiping motion in the air:

”An insider catching that glance of yours feels as if they’ve been shoved. They instantly know someone is looking at them.”

”On this trip today, I’ll teach you a technique along the way called ’Concealed Spirit Vision.’”

”Concealed Spirit Vision?”

”An entry-level trick within our discipline,” Mrs. MacNeil explained.

”The principle can be summed up in a single sentence: stop ’staring’ straight at people.”

”...How do I look without staring?” Richard managed to ask.

”Just borrow other things to look, the same way you use a mirror to look behind you.”

The car fell silent for a moment as Richard began to ponder.

”When you used Spirit Vision before, you pushed the ether out from the Seat of the Sun, coiled it around the target once, and read it back in.

That pushing and pulling motion makes a disturbance, no matter how small.”

”Concealed Spirit Vision takes a different path. There is already ether flowing naturally in the environment.

The wind, the sunlight, the dust leaking through cracks in the wall, the air currents stirred up by walking people—every single one of them contains thin traces of ether.”

She pointed out the car window.

”Don’t push your ether out. Follow the things that are already flowing.

Let your Inspiration act like a thread in the water, resting on the current and drifting along with the ripples.”

Following her gesture, Richard glanced at the car window.

”How do I do it exactly?”

”Don’t lock your gaze onto any specific object. Let your eyes lose focus, like the state right after you wake up but haven’t opened your eyes yet.”

Richard did as told.

The details inside the car—which he could have mapped out with his eyes closed—actually blurred in his vision.

Mrs. MacNeil’s voice sounded as if it were coming through a layer of cloth:

”Don’t try to anchor onto anything. Just drift along with the natural flow of air inside the cabin.”

She intentionally used her own ether field to guide the tendrils of Richard’s Inspiration, allowing them to flow naturally with the environment.

Riding along that ether field, Richard didn’t focus his mind on any specific thing.

Yet he could feel something steadily breathing inside the small wooden box resting on Mrs. MacNeil’s lap.

He immediately shifted his gaze away.

”...The box on your lap.”

Mrs. MacNeil looked faintly surprised.

”You read it?”

”Just a little.”

”What, exactly?”

”...Something is asleep inside.”

She turned the small wooden box a half-circle on her lap, neither confirming nor denying it.

Immersed in practice, the time passed quickly.

The carriage came to a halt at the gate of the Holbrook Textile Mill.

Two men wearing top hats stood at the gate.

One was middle-aged and plump, sporting a curled mustache; this was Holbrook himself.

The other man was thinner with a slight hunch to his back—the manager.

”Mrs. MacNeil.” Holbrook tipped the brim of his hat toward her. ”I’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

”Mr. Holbrook,” the medium replied with a nod.

”And this is?” Holbrook’s gaze shifted to Richard.

His eyes lingered successively on the buttons of Richard’s suit jacket, his collar, and his leather shoes.

”My assistant.”

”His age...”

”He is more reliable than others his age.”

Holbrook didn’t press the matter, extending a hand in a gesture of invitation.

On the way to the workshop, Mrs. MacNeil casually inquired about the land’s history over the past thirty years.

Holbrook’s initial answers were perfunctory, but when he reached the claim that ”the area where the night-shift workshop stands used to be empty land,” he swallowed hard.

”What was there before the empty land?”

”An old warehouse.” Holbrook’s voice dropped a register. ”Torn down by my father’s generation.”

”Why was it torn down?”

Holbrook stammered for a moment before answering.

”In my father’s generation... the mill still employed child labor back then.”

He cleared that point first, establishing a defensive line for himself.

”According to the laws at the time, it wasn’t illegal. But a child had an accident inside the warehouse.”

”How did it happen?”

”He went to take a nap inside a pile of cotton.”

Holbrook wiped the sweat from his forehead.

”When the workers changed shifts, they didn’t see him in there, and followed standard procedure by dumping more cotton onto the pile. They only realized someone was missing at roll call the next day.”

”My father’s generation tore the warehouse down.”

Holbrook continued speaking of his own accord:

”It sat empty for over twenty years. Last year I utilized the land to build the night-shift workshop. Before building...”

He hurriedly added, ”We followed the rules and invited a parish priest to perform a consecration.”

”Which priest performed the consecration?”

”Reverend Hawkins of St. Andrew’s Parish.”

Mrs. MacNeil’s face remained expressionless. She merely uttered an ”Mm.”

Richard knew what that ”Mm” meant.

Parish consecrations were practically useless against true evil creatures, and Reverend Hawkins himself likely knew it.

Yet for a factory owner, the procedure was a box to check—externally he could say he had invited the clergy, and internally he could feel at ease.

Arriving at the entrance to the night-shift workshop, Mrs. MacNeil stopped.

”My assistant and I will go in first to take a look. Please wait here a moment, Mr. Holbrook.”

”...You don’t need me to accompany you inside?”

”We don’t require the client to be present while we inspect the scene. I’ll explain everything in detail when we come out.”

Holbrook frowned, but he didn’t argue. He merely nodded.

”Then... please go ahead.”

Inside the workshop, the day shift was still operating.

Cotton carding machines lined up one after another along both sides of the room; the noise of dozens of machines was as dense as a torrential downpour.

Mrs. MacNeil stopped dead in the center of the workshop and glanced toward the cotton carding machine deepest inside.

”Is it this one?”

”It’s that one,” the manager’s voice carried over from behind her.

Holbrook hadn’t been able to resist after all, following them as far as the doorway.

Mrs. MacNeil said no more, offering a very slight nod toward Richard.

Richard understood what that nod meant, and began letting the tendrils of his Inspiration drift naturally with the air currents.

Under Spirit Vision, at the base of the wall behind that innermost cotton carding machine, there was a slight blockage in the flow of ether.

Richard shifted his gaze away, turned his head, and took two steps toward Mrs. MacNeil.

”At the base of the wall behind the innermost cotton carding machine, there is a cluster of stagnant matter.”

”...Density?”

”Compared against the measurement notes you showed me earlier, this cluster falls below the standard for an evil creature.”

”Shape?”

”I can’t read it clearly.”

”Mm.” Mrs. MacNeil nodded. ”You’ve only just gotten started with Concealed Spirit Vision; it’s normal not to be able to read too much. You can keep practicing it over time.”

”I’ll take over now.”

The medium crouched down before the base of the wall and took out her Tarot Cards.

She only took out the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana.

”Come here. Watch closely how I handle this.”

Richard stepped closer.

She instructed him as she shuffled the cards:

”When you’re practicing, you can shuffle however you like—your questions, your mind, you read for yourself.

But when you handle matters for others, you must read for them.”

She transferred the cards from her right hand to her left hand and back to her right hand three times.

”The key to shuffling is to clearly separate ’what I myself want to ask’ from ’who I am asking for today’ during this process.

If you can’t separate them, every card you read will just be yourself.”

Finishing her final shuffle, she set the stack of cards on the concrete floor in front of her and reached out to draw one.

She flipped the card over.

[The Hanged Man, Reversed]

Richard’s chest tightened slightly.

”...Someone trapped between two ends, wishing to get down but unable to,” Mrs. MacNeil said to the card on the floor.

She reached out and pressed her hand against the surface of the card.

”A child, suffocating inside a pile of cotton, with no one hearing him call out.

With no one answering him, he just stayed there, counting over and over the numbers he had counted in his final moments.”

She drew a second card.

[The Moon, Reversed]

”Illusion. An illusion within an illusion.”

”...What does that mean?” Richard couldn’t help asking.

She didn’t answer immediately, drawing a third card.

[The Star - Upright]

”The reversed Hanged Man represents his state—being trapped.”

She reached out and tapped the three cards in sequence. ”The reversed Moon is the reason he is trapped. He believes he is still alive.”

Richard’s breath caught.

”...He doesn’t know he’s already dead?”

”He knows he’s in the dark, and he knows he can’t move or get out.

But he refuses to admit that he’s already dead, so he found something for himself to do.”

”Counting.”

Mrs. MacNeil’s fingertip rested on [The Moon]:

”When he finishes counting to one hundred, he only remembers that he ’hasn’t reached it yet,’ so he starts counting all over again.”

”...He’s been counting for thirty years?”

She pressed down on the third card.

”The upright Star is the exit.”

”An exit?”

”He built a cage for himself.

Since the cage was built by him, the key is also in his own hands. As long as he admits it once, the key will appear.”

”Admit what?”

”Admit that he has finished counting.”

She gathered the three cards and shuffled them back into the deck.

”What we are doing today is giving him that sentence.”