I Loaded the Occult Panel

That morning, Richard walked back into the windowless classroom. The inscriptions on all four walls still suppressed the Ether field completely.

On the silver-inlaid doorframe, someone had written a tiny line in chalk:

”Deadline: October 28.”

The Compilation Group’s work had entered its final stages.

Hollis sat at the head of the long table, a thick stack of compiled seal patterns resting in front of him.

”This is the last batch.” He pressed his palm flat against the stack of papers.

”Everything needs to be verified, bound into volumes, and sent to the front lines by the end of the month.”

The students returned to their seats.

When Richard opened his folder, he found fewer than twenty pages of patterns left to verify.

Montagu was in a similar position. The blond young man was using a pencil to meticulously mark a deviation in one of the seal nodes.Fischer had poured all his energy into a stack of catalog indexes, cross-referencing them by alphabet and era with a level of detail that bordered on unnerving.

The classroom was completely quiet. The only sounds were the rustle of turning pages and the occasional soft clatter of a pencil dropping onto a desk.

As sunlight leaked in from the far end of the corridor, Richard finished verifying his final page.

He rubbed his wrist and glanced around the room.

The bulletin board was plastered with various notices and requisition forms. Some had already been pulled down and filed away, leaving several empty patches marked with thumbtack holes.

Fresh requests were still pouring in from the front lines, but the Compilation Group’s work was almost finished.

Since the end of September, these students had been dragged into this windowless classroom, spending their days dismantling, copying, verifying, and filing seal patterns.

The tedium was enough to set one’s teeth on edge.

Yet, it was precisely within this tedium that Richard’s [Speculation] had inched its way to Lv.3, and his [Learning] had visibly reached ninety-five percent progress toward Lv.3.

He stretched, his joints popping a few times.

Beside him, Montagu didn’t even lift his head as he put the finishing touches on his own batch.

Fischer was hunched over the index tables, cross-referencing page numbers. His lips moved soundlessly, likely counting.

Catherine sat in the farthest corner of the classroom, a stack of verified rubbings piled in front of her.

Her posture was just as rigid as it had been on her first day of school, and the small notebook in her hands never left her side.

Looking at the people in the classroom, Richard suddenly recalled the past.

The classrooms at Greenwood had also seen slanted afternoon sunlight and classmates who buried their heads in their assignments.

Warren would be chewing bread beside him, Hugh would be drawing chicken drumsticks at the base of the wall, and Grey would quietly slip a Tin Box onto his desk before vanishing.

Those days were drifting further and further away from him.

His current classroom had no windows; he couldn’t even see the sky.

”We’re done for the day,” Hollis said, standing up to stretch.

”We’ll continue tomorrow. We need to finish this batch by the end of the month.”

Richard placed his pencil back in its holder, feeling a matching sense of relief.

The next Theogony Salon was scheduled for the sixteenth, the evening after next.

The students left in twos and threes.

At the dining hall, Richard carried his tray to the counter and, as usual, ordered a double portion of steak and a bowl of thick soup.

He took a seat by the window, cut his first steak into four pieces, and ate them one by one in the most time-efficient manner.

Outside the window, a few more sycamore leaves had fallen.

Over the past few days, things had been settling down one after another.

The final rankings for Debate Week had been posted on the bustling bulletin board, and his name had surpassed Montagu’s for the very first time.

The Compilation Group’s workload had finally come to an end.

Furthermore, with the newly matured [Recorder’s Pen], he had spent the last few days carefully testing its temperament.

With everything coming to a close, he finally breathed a rare sigh of relief.

This relaxed state reminded him of a minor matter from before.

Exiting the dining hall, Richard made a phone call to the Royal Academy.

”Oh?” Phillips exclaimed dramatically through the receiver.

”Richard, you actually taking the initiative to invite me for a drink? Now that’s a rarity.”

”Consider it paying off my tab from last time,” Richard said.

”You pick the place. I haven’t been around the Royal Academy.”

”You’ve been the one coming to find me the past few times, so it’s my turn to make the trip.”

”Not going,” Phillips replied quickly, without a hint of hesitation.

”Why?”

”Drinking around the Royal Academy means you have to discuss vintages and estates first. It’s like attending a funeral.”

He paused on the other end, lowering his voice. ”Plus, I don’t want to run into Oliver.”

Phillips had mentioned that name before, with a trace of gritted teeth in his tone.

”Aren’t I the one with a grudge against him? Why are you upset with him now?”

”Some crappy things happened. Just don’t tell Montagu about it.”

Phillips’s voice returned to its usual careless drawl.

”Besides, your Imperial Capital University has a place called the Old Badger Pub. I hear it’s been open for sixty years. I’ve heard of it for a long time and always wanted to give it a try.”

Unable to dissuade him, Richard simply went along with his preference and changed the meeting place back to the Imperial Capital University area.

The next afternoon, just as Inscriptiology class ended and Richard was packing his things, Catherine walked over.

She was still unable to speak these days.

Whenever she went out, she carried a palm-sized notebook with her. Whatever she wanted to say, she would write it down first and show it to others. Her classmates were already used to it.

She jotted down a line in her notebook and turned it for Richard to read.

”Professor McPhee’s birthday is coming up. Do you know where I can buy a suitable bottle of liquor?”

”Have you asked anyone else?”

Catherine flipped to another page and wrote:

”I asked Fischer. He lectured me about whiskey for twenty minutes, and not a single sentence was useful.”

Richard almost laughed out loud.

That certainly sounded like Fischer’s style. If you asked him to collate an ancient manuscript, he could cleanly pick out every single clerical error; but if you asked him to recommend a bottle of liquor, he’d probably just explain the origins of whiskey from an etymological perspective first.

Catherine’s pen hit the paper once more:

”I also asked Montagu. Out of the estate names he listed, the cheapest bottle was worth six months of my allowance.”

Richard wasn’t surprised.

Montagu always aimed for the best, never considering the thickness of other people’s purses.

”So you thought of me?”

Catherine nodded and added another sentence:

”You and Phillips are both more...”

She paused her pen, seemingly deliberating over which word to use, before finally writing: ”Pragmatic.”

Richard thought for a moment and told her about his plans for tonight.

”What a coincidence. I’m grabbing a drink with him tonight at the Old Badger Pub, two alleys east of here.”

”He knows more about liquor than I do. If you don’t mind the place being a bit small, you can tag along.”

Catherine seemed to weigh the offer before finally writing down a line.

”Then we’ll go together.”

...

Two alleys east of the academy district, there was a small pub with an extremely narrow storefront.

A poorly drawn badger was crookedly painted on its wooden sign, looking as though it had too much to drink and was leaning against a wall to keep from face-planting.

The interior of the pub was much more spacious than its facade suggested.

An entire wall of bottles lined the shelves behind the bar, holding everything from pale spirits to whiskey to abbey dark ales.

Several tables in the row of booths along the wall were already occupied, mostly by students and young lecturers from Imperial Capital University.

Phillips hadn’t driven that convertible of his that always stalled halfway; this time, he had arrived on foot.

Constance was already seated in the corner.

She wasn’t wearing her aristocratic dress today, having swapped it for a plain gray coat, her hair casually tied into a ponytail.

The Hunter girl held a glass of water, an open book spread out in front of her.

As Richard walked over, he glanced at the title: ”History of the Evolution of Modern Imperial Weapons”.

Phillips sat down across from him and shouted toward the bar.

”Boss, two glasses of your rye whiskey. Make them doubles.”

”Phillips,” Constance frowned. ”Last time you drank, you threw up all over the floor.”

”That was because I mixed it with gin last time,” Phillips chuckled. ”I’m only drinking grain today. I’ll be fine.”

Just as the drinks were served, another person walked through the door.

Red hair, mask taken off.

A plain-colored scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, covering most of her chin.

Catherine stood in the doorway and swept her gaze over the pub’s interior before her eyes landed on the row of bottles behind the bar.

She walked up to the bar and wrote something down for the owner.

The owner took down several different bottles of whiskey from the shelves and lined them up.

Phillips tilted his head and glanced over.

”Blackwood?”

Catherine turned around and saw the three of them sitting in the corner.

She walked over, carrying two unopened bottles of liquor.

”You’re buying alcohol?” Phillips asked, a little surprised.

Catherine pulled the small notebook from her satchel, wrote a line, and showed it to Phillips.

”It’s for Professor McPhee. His birthday is coming up.”

Piqued, Phillips leaned forward.

”The professor is a Highlander, isn’t he? He definitely needs peated whiskey.”

Catherine wrote another line.

”I’m not sure. I only know he drinks strong stuff.”

”Strong is easy.” Phillips took the two bottles from her hands and held their labels up to the light.

”This one won’t do.” He set down the bottle in his left hand.

”Lowland whiskies are too sweet. A Highlander would think you’re insulting him.”

He raised the bottle in his right hand, his thumb rubbing against the label.

”This one is okay, but it’s not the best choice.”

He stood up, walked to the bar, and mumbled with the owner for a while.

From the corner of the innermost shelf, the owner pulled out a bottle of liquor so dark it looked black.

The label on the bottle had already yellowed, bearing the printed silhouette of a mist-shrouded island.

”Isle of Islay, twenty-five years.” Phillips placed the bottle on the table.

”The peat flavor is strong enough, and it’s soaked in the sea breeze. An old Highlander will know it’s the right stuff the moment he smells it.”

Catherine looked at the bottle and wrote a line in her notebook.

”Is it expensive?”

”Not cheap.” Phillips quoted the price.

The owner poured three small glasses for the group to taste.

After tasting it, Catherine nodded and dug her wallet out of her satchel.

She could afford it, but the cost made her wince inwardly.

Still, no matter what, it was much cheaper than what Montagu had recommended.

She handed the money to the owner and tucked the Isle of Islay bottle into her satchel.