I Loaded the Occult Panel

It was a standard bulletin from the Imperial Capital General Administration, the header stamped with ”High-Level Seal · Battle Damage Assessment · Urgent.”

”The abbey ruins are more than just a pile of stone.”

Gerard flipped the bulletin to the second page, which displayed a hand-drawn cross-section.

”These are the survey notes left by the accompanying Scholar during the first systematic repair of the Whitby seal in 1763.”

Richard took it and read.

”A faint hissing can be heard deep within the karst cave, like dozens of snakes flicking their tongues in unison.

The stone walls are covered in scale-like scratches. Upon reaching the innermost chamber, the main body of the seal becomes visible.

Three layers of silver wire encircle a stone pedestal upon which a creature is coiled. It has the form of a serpent with seven heads, each varying in size.

The largest head has its eyes shut as if in slumber, while the smallest remains open-eyed. The eyes are yellow, with vertical pupils like knife slits.

Lanterns extinguish within twenty feet of it and only reignite upon retreating beyond the silver wire.”Richard set the paper back on the desk.

”A seven-headed snake.”

Gerard tapped a finger against the tabletop.

”The Serpent Mother isn’t native to the area.”

Richard raised an eyebrow.

”Most of the weak points along the Empire’s northern coast, stretching from Northumberland all the way to Yorkshire, are relics from the ancient Celtic or Anglo-Saxon periods.

Those things have been rooted in the land for over a millennium, and their seals were made using local materials.”

”But the one at Whitby was brought over from Scandinavia by the Vikings in the eighth century.”

Richard’s Erudition automatically pulled up the relevant historical entry.

In the late eighth century, Vikings raided the east coast of the Isle of Albion.

Whitby Abbey was destroyed in 867; the nuns and monks were either slaughtered or forced to flee.

The Vikings built their own stronghold over the ruins and stayed for nearly two hundred years.

”The Vikings didn’t just plunder gold and women,” Gerard continued.

”Their ship priests took the things they could no longer keep fed back home, shoved them into containment vessels, and brought them all the way across the North Sea.”

”When they reached Whitby, they found a naturally formed, incredibly deep cavern beneath the cliffs where the ether concentration was far higher than the surrounding areas.”

”The priests opened the vessel and let that thing settle into the cave.”

”They used runic inscriptions, utilizing bone and iron as their materials.”

”St. Hilda wasn’t the one who orchestrated the seal, but the abbey she built before the Vikings arrived naturally functioned as a sealing node.”

”After the abbey was rebuilt in the Middle Ages, the monks of the Benedictine Order layered a Latin seal over it. You saw this kind of layering in Whitcom. It’s crude and effective, but leaves large gaps.”

”The 1763 repairs reinforced the outermost layer.”

”That makes three layers of seals in total, the oldest being nearly twelve hundred years old.”

This sounded all too familiar to Richard. The people who laid the groundwork for these seals always seemed to bank on the wisdom of future generations.

The runic inscriptions were all about ”nailing it to death with iron and bone.”

The Church’s Latin was about ”suppressing the unclean in the holy name.”

And in 1763, they used the standardized silver wire seals promoted by the government at the time.

Three disparate systems talking past each other, just cobbled together to make do.

”That artillery shell on the sixteenth,” Gerard steered the conversation back on track.

”A single shell cracked the lid. The manifest layer’s inscription structure suffered a penetrating fracture.”

”And not just the manifest layer.” He turned the bulletin to the third page.

The third page was a battle damage assessment report, densely packed with test data.

”The shockwave from the shell traveled all the way down the architectural structure, passed through the cellars, and rattled three pivot points of the second-layer Church seal loose.”

”The bottommost rune seal is still holding for now, but it’s been degrading for centuries. With the top two layers loosened, all the pressure has collapsed squarely onto it.”

Richard’s gaze fell to the very bottom line of the assessment.

”Estimated time to complete failure: eight to twelve weeks.”

’Eight to twelve weeks.’ He repeated the timeframe in his head.

In other words, counting from December 16th, it would fail sometime between mid-February and early March of the following year.

Without intervention, all three layers of the seal would be rendered completely ineffective.

He flipped the folder to the next page.

”Within forty-eight hours of the shelling, the Imperial Capital General Administration initiated an emergency assessment.”

”They’re going to execute a full-scale exorcism operation.”

”Once it’s done, the subsequent maintenance costs will drop to zero. We won’t even have to worry about the ammonites along those fourteen miles of coastline anymore.”

”And it’s not just Whitby.”

”The other five sites are scheduled between January and March of next year. They’ll be handled one by one.”

”If all six exorcisms are completed successfully,”

Gerard continued, ”A large portion of the Northern Greater Region’s seal maintenance budget can be freed up and reallocated entirely to the frontlines.”

”The weak points blown open by artillery fire on the frontlines are the real money pits right now.”

”Whitby is first on the list.” Gerard scraped his thumbnail against the edge of the bulletin.

”The operation is slated for around January 10th. The exact date will depend on the actual measured decay rate of the seal.”

”You’re coming with me, under the guise of an observing Scholar.”

”What would I even do there?” Richard frowned.

”Put faces to names.” Gerard looked him dead in the eye.

”It’s a small-scale operation, but the people attending are worth remembering.”

”The Yorkshire Branch Office is supplying manpower and resources, the Greater Manchester Regional Joint Operations Office dispatched a coordination officer, and several old northern families will each have representatives present.”

He pulled a thin sheet of paper from the folder, listing a column of names.

Richard scanned it.

”The Phillips family is going too?”

”He’s the Chief Inspector of the Imperial Capital, personally acting as the general coordinator,” Gerard nodded.

Richard’s eyes moved a line down.

”Montagu.”

”Alexander Montagu and his uncle.”

Gerard tapped his finger next to the name.

”The Montagu Family owns a manor in Northern Yorkshire.”

Richard set the list back on the desk.

January 10th. That was roughly half a month away.

”Before then, your department is going to assign you a batch of prep work.”

”Prep work?”

”Whitby’s three-layer seal system spans three different traditions. Imperial Capital University has very few surviving records on that bottommost layer of runic inscriptions.”

Gerard flipped the bulletin back to the cross-section drawing.

”I already had Isabella put you on the preliminary research roster.”

He pulled the drawing out of the bulletin and smoothed it flat on the desk.

”Your aunt has already submitted the request to requisition those Viking-era manuscripts for you. You’ll get them on the 28th.”

”The 28th.” Richard calculated the timeframe. Today was the 25th, leaving him with just a couple of days.

So much for slacking off during his Christmas break.

Gerard was a Hunter, but clearly an intellectual among them.

”Celtic inscriptions focus on duality—one part in the sky, one on the earth. Runes are all about carving and binding; every stroke is a knot, and if you untie them in the wrong order, the whole thing falls apart.”

Richard thought about his upcoming schedule.

He already had his hands full identifying Heracles’s cursed objects, adapting to his newly swapped breathing method, and going through the materials he’d shared with Catherine.

And now, his grandfather was piling these Rune Glyphs onto his plate...

Gerard put the folder away in the metal filing cabinet and twisted the latch shut.

”Can you handle it?”

”Yes,” Richard answered without hesitation.

Gerard nodded, offering no unnecessary words.

”Go get some rest. Spend some quality time with your parents and sister through Christmas until the 27th, because you won’t have much free time after the 28th.”

When Richard went downstairs, the living room was lit only by the firelight in the hearth and a single floor lamp.

Isabella had already woken Sophia and sent her back to her room to sleep.

Vincent and Baldwin had left at some point, leaving only two stubbed-out cigarette butts on the back porch.

His parents had turned in for the night, and Richard was ready to do the same.

Turning into the hallway, he found his younger sister huddled by his bedroom door, her cake notebook open on her knees.

A pencil was wedged between her fingers; she was awake, but her eyelids were drooping heavily.

She was using the pencil to modify a recipe on the open page.

Richard glanced at it and saw a line of crooked handwriting reading ”whip egg whites with honey,” right next to a doodle of a rabbit gnawing on a carrot.

Ever since she saw the wartime sugar rationing notice on the Culinary College bulletin board yesterday, she’d been tinkering with sugar-free recipes.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up.

”Richard.”

”You’re still awake?”

”I was waiting for you.”

She leaned against the doorframe, shifting out of her huddled posture.

”What were you and Grandpa talking about upstairs? You were up there forever.”

Richard crouched down against the wall opposite her.

”There’s an urgent batch of preliminary research tasks I need to do. The department already assigned it.”

Evelyn looked a bit disgruntled.

”So you’re going to be busy right after Christmas.”

”Pretty much.”

She looked down at the cover of her notebook, which featured Professor Rabbit wearing a graduation cap.

Yesterday at the Culinary College, an admissions clerk had flipped open her notebook and asked why all the rabbits were wearing hats.

”It’s a design choice,” she had stubbornly replied.

The clerk had just smiled and collected her documents.

”The paperwork is all done,” Evelyn changed the subject.

She looked up at Richard.

”So there’s no reason for us to stick around the Imperial Capital anymore, right?”

”Dad’s time off only goes until the 28th anyway.”

Evelyn voiced the thought for him.

”You’re going to be busy with your own stuff, so there’s no point in me and Mom and Dad just waiting around here. I’ve finished registering at the Culinary College, and you already showed me around Imperial Capital University.”

Bracing her hands on her knees, Evelyn stood up.

”I’ll go tell Mom we’re heading back to Briston on the 27th.”

”You don’t want to stay a couple more days?”

”If you don’t have time for us, what’s the point of staying?”

..................

The central-western district of the Imperial Capital had always been lively.

Wartime blackouts couldn’t smother the laughter and singing spilling out of the taverns, and the fresh wealth brought in by military supply contracts had left certain pockets bulging.

While some gnawed on hardtack in the trenches, others raised their glasses in taverns to celebrate their new contracts.

”Old Boone’s” was a modest tavern with an extremely deep interior, stretching all the way back to the base of the alley wall.

It was packed to the brim tonight, and the owner had hauled out the last few crates of Irish whiskey from the cellar.

”We’ll probably be out of this stuff next year.”

He chattered with the regulars at the bar as he wiped down a glass.

”Over in Ireland, half the distilleries have been requisitioned to produce industrial alcohol.”

A man sat in the corner, idly swirling his glass.

The cup’s twin copper handles clashed entirely with every other piece of drinkware in the tavern; it was far too archaic.

He’d been sitting there since the tavern opened its doors.

The owner had tried to strike up a conversation with him earlier, but the man just smilingly ordered a bitter and stayed put.

By eleven o’clock, the tavern’s atmosphere was thoroughly steeped in the restless energy of Christmas Eve.

People were singing and pounding the tables, while someone stood on a stool, recounting a joke about a quartermaster and a young Franc widow.

Halfway through, the joke was interrupted by another patron who believed his own version was funnier.

Both versions proceeded simultaneously, each drawing cheers from their respective crowds.

The man in the corner raised the copper cup to his lips and began to inhale.

Yeast took root in the sugar water, devouring the sugar and excreting alcohol and carbon dioxide.

Fermentation required temperature and time, along with a sufficiently rich base liquid.

The atmosphere in this tavern tonight was just about ripe.

[Radiant Visage: Dionysus’s Kantharos Cup]

He set the copper cup back onto the table, and the air throughout the tavern began to ”ripen.”

A deep purple liquid seeped from the curved handles and trailed down the sides of the cup, looking much like crushed grapes.

The singing in the tavern grew louder; the laughter became more unrestrained.

Someone whipped their coat onto the bar; another person leaped onto a table.

The owner peeked over the counter, took one look, and decided to let it be.

It was the holidays, after all.

The man in the corner stood up and slipped the copper cup into his overcoat pocket.

The owner stared at the five-shilling coin left on the table.

”Generous fellow,” he muttered, dropping the coin into his apron pocket.

The tavern’s revelry should have dispersed after the midnight bell.

Yet the crowd kept drinking, kept singing, kept dancing.

Some had already collapsed beneath the tables, but the remaining patrons didn’t lower their voices in the slightest for their fallen companions.

They sang song after song, going from ”Tipperary” to ”The Green Valley”, and then onto old, nameless tunes that no one could quite identify.