I Loaded the Occult Panel

”Right, the ring.”

Richard pulled the Silver Ring out from his collar and bent down.

The cat stuck out its tongue and licked the face of the ring, then raised a front paw to wipe its mouth.

”The seal is replenished. For the next year, the effect will be exactly as before.”

”And after a year?”

”After a year, you might have other methods.”

The cat leaped from the chair to the windowsill.

”If you don’t, you can buy me fish again.”

It turned to leave, but its hind legs slipped on the wet sill.

Its body dropped, and it only steadied itself by digging its front paws into the window frame.”...This body is a bit unruly tonight.”

”I didn’t see a thing.”

By the time the black cat disappeared around the eaves, the only sound left in the room was the faint hiss of the gas lamp.

Richard cleared the table.

He moved the inkwell, the notebook, and the half-finished catalog booklets onto the bed, one by one.

He shifted the desk lamp to the left. The cards were his own deck, the one that had been with him for over a year.

He shuffled, then cut the deck.

Halfway through the shuffle, he stopped.

Normally at this stage, he would revise the question in his head three or four times.

Tonight, he didn’t need to change it.

What do I currently hold in my hands?

He repeated the question in his mind and flipped over the first card.

[Four of Pentacles, Upright].

On the card, a figure had a coin balanced on his head, stood on one with each foot, and clasped a fourth tightly in his arms.

He sat perfectly still—so steadily that one couldn’t tell if he could ever stand up again.

Behind the figure was a city with closed gates.

Richard mentally went through everything he had accumulated over the past six months, piece by piece.

The gilded badge from the essay contest, the fifty pounds, and the qualification for the work to be ”publicly distributed nationwide upon recommendation by the Imperial Publishing Administration”;

The receipt for five thousand copies from Duckworth’s printing house—purchased by the Wartime Abnormal Affairs Coordination Administration, with the funds drawn from the Ministry of Finance;

The commissioning letter from the chief editor of the Century Review—no topic restrictions, no word limit, generous compensation—which still lay unanswered in his drawer.

These three items could all be categorized under his official reputation and influence.

Then, he began to tally his abilities:

A dose of luck settled deep into his bloodline;

A seed—[Quantity, Boundary, Bestowal]—with requirements that were still far off, but which he was already anticipating;

He had chosen the advanced breathing method better suited to him, the Mirror Condensation Method, and entered the Second Stage;

There was also the newly unlocked first Lv5 trait, [Gushing Spring];

The Caduceus had taken shape, granting him two key abilities: Inviolability of Emissaries and Ferrying;

The [Mask of the Reverse Emissary] born from the reversal of the Mask of Hermes;

That antler tip wrapped in reins acting as a token, alongside his identity as the lord of the hunt’s herald;

And the trump card that could place a name on the pursuit list just by speaking it, valid for the next three years.

On the family side, his great-grandfather’s remains, which could unleash a full-power strike from a Major Adept Hunter;

And a certain old man who had survived, who was probably right now either busy moving potted plants from the garden indoors, or organizing his own set of Hunter tools.

Having tallied everything, Richard propped the card upright to look at it.

Four coins, and not a single one had been spent.

[Speculation: Inner Awakening] flared to life at this moment.

The Major Adept remains could only unleash that full-power attack once.

The hunt could also be called upon only once; once spoken, the favor was gone.

If the [Mask of the Reverse Emissary] was activated, the original Mask of Hermes could not be used, and the Caduceus would scatter with it.

That seed had to wait until all four attributes of [Body] reached level five.

[Gushing Spring] had to be stockpiled. It would take a full three months to accumulate enough to use on his mother just once.

Richard leaned back in his chair.

The figure on the card clutched a coin in his arms, stepped on two with his feet, and balanced one on his head.

But if he lowered his head, the one on top would fall; if he lifted his feet, the two on the bottom would roll away; if he loosened his grip, the one in his arms would be lost.

Richard suddenly thought of the lord of the hunt.

That entity had also stored so many treasures in its cabinet, yet he had never seen it use any of them.

He placed the first card to his left and reshuffled the deck.

What have I lost from my hands?

[Six of Swords - Upright].

At the stern of a flat-bottomed boat stood a figure, poling with both hands.

A person with a shrouded head sat in the boat, a child resting a hand on their knee.

Six swords were thrust into the bow, their tips piercing downward into the deck, not a single one pulled out.

The water on the left side of the boat was rippled, while the water on the right was smooth.

The person poling the boat did not look back.

Richard held this card, unable to set it down for a long time.

He pulled out a pale yellow card.

Only two sentences remained on the card: I have received your letter. I am in good health.

Richard sighed and flipped the tarot card face down.

He mentally voiced the third question slower than the first two.

What did I think was mine, but actually is not?

[Judgement, Upright].

This was a Major Arcana card.

At the top of the card, an angel leaned its upper half out of the clouds, raising a long trumpet with both hands.

Below, several open coffins floated on the surface of the sea. The people inside stood up with both hands raised, their faces turned upward toward the trumpet.

They did not look at each other; they only looked at the trumpet.

Richard understood it at a single glance.

On the eve of May Day, so many mouths had sung the exact same tune in the same night.

That night, standing hundreds of miles away, he had completed a Ferrying for five thousand people across that network.

This network was alive, and it was still singing today.

Richard held the card up to the light. Although he hadn’t blown the trumpet himself, his name had already been exposed.

The Black Earth River Master had spent the past few months searching for the one who had torn three syllables from it and handed them over to the lord of the hunt.

And on this singing network—stretching all the way from the Imperial Capital to Devonshire, with millions of mouths singing together—his surname was written as plain as day.

Richard laid down the fourth card the slowest of all.

What did I think was not mine, but actually is?

[The Devil, Upright].

Another Major Arcana card.

In the center of the card, a demon with goat horns squatted on a low pedestal, its wings spread wide.

A man and a woman stood naked before the pedestal.

Horns had sprouted on both of their heads, and the iron chains around their necks were anchored to iron rings at the base of the pedestal.

The chain collars were very wide; as long as they were willing to lower their heads, they could slip them off at any time.

This was a card that couldn’t be turned over in the living room of any decent family.

Many smart diviners would never display this card when giving readings away from home.

Richard felt nothing in particular.

What was drawn on a card and what the card governed were always two different things.

He stared at those two chains for a long time.

That night, when he drew out the ”luck he carried,” he had recited the name Ashford.

At the time, he had felt quite pleased with himself, thinking that from then on, his maternal grandfather’s family would share in his good fortune.

What did I think was not mine, but actually is?

He silently repeated this phrase in his heart.

Was it possible that this was a deeply selfish act?

The injection of luck was exactly the chain from [The Devil] card; acquiring this luck naturally bound them more deeply to him.

He had slipped the chain on with his own hands, wrapping it around the neck of everyone who bore this surname from now on.

In the future, if he advanced triumphantly, his family would all share in his elevation—chickens and dogs ascending to heaven.

But if...

Richard felt a tightness in his chest and did not think any further.

He only felt that in the future, anything involving other people would require far more prudent consideration before making a decision.

He couldn’t take back that luck, and having done it, he shouldn’t regret it.

With all four cards laid out, Richard arranged them side by side and looked at them for a while.

The first two were Minor Arcana; the latter two were Major Arcana.

The Minor Arcana governed his own affairs, and laid them out very clearly.

The Major Arcana governed what he could not control.

Richard sat motionless under the lamp. He very much wanted to flip one more card.

The gathering in mid-June, the highly probable group battle phase, and the mirror cast his way by the Black Earth River Master.

His hand hovered over the deck for two seconds.

Then, he gathered the entire deck and locked it away.

[Inner Awakening] aligned these four cards in his mind.

Everything he had done over the past six months was actually pushing him into a brighter spotlight, turning him into a candle that burned brighter and brighter.

This completely contradicted the book he had seen on his very first day pushing open the door to the mystical side.

Richard pulled out a clean sheet of letter paper and dipped his pen in ink.

The first letter was addressed to the Century Review.

He agreed to write the column.

When he reached the signature line, he didn’t write Richard Williams this time.

He thought for a moment and wrote down a pen name: Mr. L.

He took a couple of looks after writing it; it felt quite unfamiliar, and unfamiliar was exactly right.

The second letter was to Manchester.

He told the printing house and Mr. Dawn that, starting from the next volume, he planned to add a few more names to the editor column.

The Williams Code was already out there; trying to cover it up now with a pen name would be a bit unrealistic.

Thinking about it differently, he could invite people he trusted to compile this set of booklets together.

If everyone wrote together, they could share the heat.

Er... thinking about it that way seemed a bit selfish again. He would have to thoroughly ask for their opinions when the time came.

The third letter was the shortest.

”Phillips:

Catherine’s hometown sent over two bottles of wine. The good one went to the professor, and the remaining one is in my cabinet.

I know there are signs hung up all over the city right now.”

He paused and scraped the pen nib against the rim of the inkwell.

”But the King’s oath is his own, and it has nothing to do with the two of us.

I’ll come find you on Saturday afternoon. Don’t flake on me.”

He folded the three letters, sealed them in envelopes, and stacked them on the corner of his desk to be dropped into the mailbox first thing tomorrow morning.

The rain outside had stopped, but the bucket under the eaves was still catching drips.

A drop, a long pause, and then another drop.

Richard turned down the gas lamp and lay down.

He understood all four cards, but understanding them only made him unable to sleep.

[Wild Sleep] cared nothing for this, cleanly sweeping him into a deep slumber just as usual.

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

May in Briston brought slightly less coal soot than the winter.

Evelyn scraped the last spoonful of honey into the bowl; the jar was empty.

This was the half-jar of honey she had carried all the way from Briston to the Imperial Capital during the Christmas trip, and then carried back untouched. She had never been able to bear using it.

She scrimped at the start of the year, scrimped through February, and when sugar started being rationed by the ounce in March, she scrimped even more.

She scrimped until May, but it had finally hit the bottom.

”Mom.”

”What is it?”

”It’s gone.”

Margaret replied from the outer room but didn’t come over.

This month she had set a rule for herself: if her daughter shouted something from the kitchen, don’t answer the second time.

If she answered the second time, the third time would require running errands.

Evelyn wiped the flour from her hands onto her apron and went out on her own.

The beekeeper lived two streets north of Slag Alley, the few straw beehives in his yard sitting askew.

”It’s all gone,” the beekeeper said, sitting by his door with his hands resting on his knees.

”The people from the Quartermaster Department came by last month and collected everything they could from me.”

”Not a single bit left?”

”Left two pounds,” the old man said bluntly. ”I’m eating it myself.”

Evelyn stood at the gate of his yard, hands behind her back.

The entrance exam for the Royal Culinary College was in June. It tested dough, sauces, heat control, and one subject she couldn’t wrap her head around no matter how hard she thought: ingredient substitution.

”Sir, if an ingredient is missing, what do you use to replace it?”

The old man raised his cloudy eyes and looked at her for a while.

”When I was young, there was no sugar.”

”My family boiled sugar beets. The stuff that came out was sweet, but it smelled of dirt.”

”So what did you do?”

”Add two mint leaves, and you couldn’t smell it anymore.”

Evelyn committed these words to memory.

She turned to leave, but the beekeeper suddenly stood up.

He stood up so quickly that his broken wicker chair toppled backward.

”They’re out,” he said.

”What’s out?”

The old man didn’t answer. He grabbed an old iron bucket by the door and sprinted into the yard, running with a speed that didn’t match his age in the slightest.

Evelyn followed him, looked up, and froze.

A dark cloud blotted out the sky above the yard.

A massive swarm of live bees was roiling and buzzing, the drone so loud it could be heard down the entire street.

”My bees...” the old man shouted as he ran, his voice trembling violently. ”My bees ran away!”

Evelyn took off running after them.

She ran much faster than the old man. She dashed across two streets into her own alley, looked up, and stopped in her tracks.

That massive swarm of live bees had landed on the plum tree in her yard.

At this moment, only one thought swirled in the young girl’s mind: This stuff makes honey.

Without overthinking, she spun around, charged into the kitchen, grabbed her tin cake mold and a long-handled spoon, and charged right back out.

Then she started banging.

”Clang! Clang! Clang!”

She banged with great rhythm, because whipping meringue followed the exact same tempo.

The entire Slag Alley was drawn out by the banging.

Mrs. Weir was the first to poke her head out the window, her face pale. ”Air raid?! Is it an air raid!”

”No!”

”Then what are you banging for!”

”I’m banging my bees!”

”Your what?”

The two boys from the family across the street had already hopped the low wall and rushed in.

Halfway there, they saw exactly what that writhing mass was, and hopped right back over the way they came.

Margaret stepped out the back door and saw her daughter standing under the plum tree, a cake mold in one hand and a spoon in the other, face flushed red from banging.

”Evelyn.”

”Mom, don’t come over!”

”What are you doing?”

”I’m banging them!”

”Why do you need to bang them!”

”I don’t know!” Evelyn shouted at the top of her lungs. ”But I have to bang!”

The beekeeper finally arrived, leaning against the doorframe and panting for a long time.

Then he sat on the steps and started laughing.

”You banged right,” he said.

”I banged right?”

”Old rules. When a swarm flies out, you have to bang all the way as you chase it.” The old man wiped his eyes.

”Chase it while banging, and wherever it lands, that swarm is still yours.”

”And if you don’t bang?”

”If you don’t bang, they belong to whoever’s land they land on.”

The beekeeper looked up at the plum tree.

”A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay.”

”A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon.”

”What about July?” Evelyn asked.

”A swarm of bees in July isn’t worth a fly.”

The men in the alley with folded arms watching the commotion burst out laughing.

May was the peak of swarming fever, when the outside world flowed with nectar.

”We split it in half,” the old man said. ”I’ll take the half with the queen back, and the rest is yours.”

”That’s not fair. They landed on my family’s tree.”

”You wouldn’t even be able to find the queen.”

”...It’s still my family’s tree.”

The beekeeper laughed again.

”Fine, I’ll lead the queen for you. We split the honey forty-sixty.”

”Sixty for me?”

”Forty for you.”

”How does that work...”

”You don’t even have a hive box.”

Evelyn opened her mouth, but was at a loss for words.

That night, she sat at the kitchen table, her nose swollen like a small plum and one eye stung shut to a slit, still writing.

”Six egg whites, four and a half spoons of honey, two mint leaves...”

Margaret pressed a cold towel against her nose.

”Stop writing.”

”I can’t, I’m afraid I’ll forget.”

”Looking like that, people will think you got beaten up at home.”

”Then I’ll say I fought a swarm of bees,” Evelyn mumbled. ”And that I won.”

”You won?”

”They belong to me now.”

Margaret pressed the towel a bit tighter.

”Forty percent belongs to you.”

”Forty percent is still mine.”

Rogers came home later than usual that day.

”Why so late today?” Margaret asked.

”Had a meeting.”

”What kind of meeting?”

Rogers unbuttoned his coat.

”Those railway bridges up north all need reinforcing.”

”The military supply trains are too heavy; the original bridges can’t bear the weight.”

”So you have to travel?”

”No traveling. The blueprints are all being drawn here.”

Margaret moved her hand away from the towel and turned to pour tea.

”That’s nice.”

”What about the pay?”

”Twenty percent more than before.”

Evelyn looked up from beneath her swollen face.

”Then I can buy a second hive box.”

”Get the swelling down on your nose first,” Margaret said.