I Loaded the Occult Panel

Catherine didn’t change her move this time. It was the same straight punch aimed at his left ribs, her starting stance identical to the first strike.

Richard’s Still Water reflected his instinct to dodge, but the next instant, her small chisel sliced down.

As the blade cut down, Richard’s mind went completely blank.

Every thought of dodging or circulating his Stone Armor for defense was entirely erased by that single stroke.

The next moment, the fist landed solidly on his left ribs.

Richard let out a muffled groan. The area where the punch landed burned fiercely.

The breath in his chest scattered, and the water surface of the Condensed Mirror Method shattered into pieces.

Catherine didn’t press the attack. She stepped back two paces and stood watching him.

In truth, she had held back; normally, her punches could crack solid stone.

”...”Richard leaned against the wall to recover for a moment before smoothing out his breathing.

”Again.”

This time, he pressed his water surface even deeper, reaching the point where he could hear the heartbeat of the person opposite him.

Catherine moved again. The chisel spun lightly between her fingers, and the short blade fell forward in a diagonal slice.

Richard had learned his lesson. Since she could erase his thoughts, he just needed to dodge ahead of time, at the exact moment she raised her hand.

He took a step back. The fist brushed past his jaw; he could feel the wind of the punch on his chin.

”Phew...” He had dodged it, at least. It seemed she was also a beginner and wasn’t too familiar with the technique yet.

In the sparring that followed, Richard grasped the trick.

He couldn’t read where she was going to hit, so he only needed to read her breathing.

Moon-Hunting breathing had a rhythm, and that rhythm would change right before she spun the chisel.

He dodged with increasing proficiency.

Seeing that Richard had completely cracked it, Catherine simply stopped.

She slipped the chisel back into her pocket and rested her hands on her knees, panting heavily.

Sweat coated her collarbones, dripping down the side of her neck and plastering her red hair to her skin.

Richard picked himself up from the floor and rubbed his left ribs.

”...This trick of yours is a lot nastier than Montagu’s wall of light.”

Catherine fished out her notebook.

”Does it hurt?”

”Yeah.”

Catherine flipped to a new page, turned the notebook around, and held it up.

”Want to learn?”

The smugness in those green eyes was impossible to hide.

”I’ll teach you.”

...

Catherine spread the notebook on her lap as the two sat facing each other on the training room floor.

”Using this spell formula takes three steps,” Catherine wrote.

”The first step is to read. Read what the target is about to do in this exact moment.”

”When a person raises their hand, that motion leaves a stroke in the ether.

When an evil creature lunges, that lunge is also a stroke.”

Richard looked up.

”So what you read just now was the stroke of me trying to dodge to the right.”

Catherine nodded, her pen moving down.

”The second step is to cut into that stroke.”

She took out her chisel and held it at an angle, slicing down through an invisible line.

This motion was exactly the same as when she had severed Richard’s thought earlier.

”...You have to cut across the edge, right?” Richard jumped in.

Catherine’s hand paused in mid-air, surprise flashing in her eyes.

”The professor taught me at the doorway of that stone house in Covered Fire Village,” Richard explained.

”Ogham script is carved on edges; the edge is the boundary.”

Catherine sighed and resumed writing: ”The final step is to consume ether to erase it. Delete that stroke.”

Richard flipped the notebook back two pages.

”What are the limits?”

Catherine’s pen hovered over the paper for a long time.

”It works worst on people.”

”Why?”

She scribbled out a long paragraph and held it up.

”Because a person is a text that has been rewritten over and over again. You carry dozens of names: son, brother, student, Practitioner, Auxiliary Investigating Scholar, plus the one sitting in your own chair.”

”Cross out one stroke and you still have others. That’s why, against humans, you can only delete the current stroke. Once it’s gone, they can just write another one in the next breath.”

Richard remembered that punch. He really had only blanked out for half a second. Half a second later, all his thoughts had rushed back.

But half a second was plenty of time to do a lot of things in a fight. Like landing a solid punch, as he had just experienced.

”The lower the intellect, the better it works,” Catherine continued writing.

”Wandering spirits, ghouls—they only have one name on them. One stroke and they dissipate on the spot.”

”What about mid-tier and High-Tier Evil Entities?”

”The higher up you go, the harder they are to read. They start bearing other marks.”

Writing this, she added another line.

”The professor said not to read anything with a rank higher than your own.”

Richard nodded. He had heard too many variations of that advice already.

”What about the medium?”

”Silver Needles, carving knives, chisels—they all work.” Catherine held up her tool. ”This is the handiest.”

After writing, she twirled the chisel a half-turn, leaving the polished ring of antler on the handle pointing up.

Richard stared at the gleaming mark and suddenly remembered something. ”The professor seemed to write it barehanded.”

”Right. Once you’re skilled enough, you don’t need a medium. All spell formulas are the same.”

”And he can’t just cross out one stroke—he can cross out many, until a person is completely erased.”

”As for us, let’s just master this first stroke.”

After Catherine finished writing, it was time for practical training.

She dug out a lit candle and placed it in the middle of the floor.

”Start by reading this. Every flicker of the flame is a stroke.”

Richard spread out his Still Water, and the small cluster of fire fell into the reflection.

The flame danced without rhyme or reason, but every flicker left a faint trace in the ether.

He watched it for about twenty seconds before looking up.

”I’ve read it.”

Catherine’s hand paused on the notebook.

”...What?”

”That upward stroke. It starts slightly left of the flame’s core and ends right at the very tip.”

The training room fell silent for a moment.

Catherine had half-written ”Look again,” but scribbled it out.

”Cut.”

Richard pinched a Silver Needle between his fingers.

On his first strike, he cut too early. The needle tip passed through empty air, hitting nothing.

On his second strike, he was half a beat too late.

On his third strike, the needle tip sliced diagonally down along that impossibly shallow edge.

The candle flame paused halfway through its upward leap.

The little tongue of fire simply froze in mid-air for about half a second before falling back onto the wick.

Richard gripped the Silver Needle, his palms slick with sweat.

Catherine sat perfectly still across from him.

It had taken her over a week to reach this step when she first trained.

For the first two days, she couldn’t even read where the flame’s stroke started. MacFie had been anxious for her as he watched, but the more anxious she got, the messier it became.

”...Let me try again,” Richard said.

He switched the Silver Needle to his left hand and pressed down his Still Water once more.

This time, he cut across the flame’s downward stroke.

The fire didn’t fall. It hung suspended at its peak for two whole seconds, while a small trickle of wax melted down the side of the candle.

Catherine snapped her notebook shut.

She stood up, walked to the corner to grab her coat, and pulled out another, thinner booklet from its pocket.

”This is for you.” She shoved the booklet into Richard’s arms.

”...What’s this?”

”My practice notes.”

”Then what will you use?”

Catherine stuffed the chisel back into her pocket, looking thoroughly defeated.

”I’ve already memorized them.”

”I covered the three steps today. The rest... practice on your own.”

She raised the notebook to shoulder height so he could see.

”Why?”

She took a long time to write this line.

”Because I can’t teach you any more than this.”

After writing it, she closed the notebook and stuffed it into her pocket.

Clutching the two booklets, Richard watched the red-haired girl push open the iron door.

”Right.”

She paused at the doorway and opened her mouth.

”Our debt isn’t settled.”

After speaking, she shut her mouth, let out two forceful coughs, and turned to walk down the corridor.

Richard sat on the floor, taking a moment to realize what she meant.

He reached into his coat’s inner pocket and pulled out that thick stack of IOUs.

”...It’s not going to keep piling up, is it?”

Returning to his practice, Richard took out Venus’s silver mirror from his canvas bag.

As someone from the Mirror Tradition, there was no reason he strictly had to follow someone else’s path when practicing this Moon-Hunting Tradition spell formula.

But at this beginner stage, it was better to play it safe.

Richard raised the silver mirror and brought out a wax-sealed glass jar containing a layer of black mud.

Out of the pile Heracles had dumped on the round table back in April, this was the filthiest piece. It was soil dug up from the no-man’s land that cut right across the continent.

It had no real value, making it perfect practice material.

He opened the Frost Branch Box and placed it near his hand, then sprinkled a ring of coarse salt around the jar before prying off the wax seal with a knife tip.

The intellect within the layer of mud at the bottom was as low as it could possibly be. It couldn’t even be considered a wandering spirit; all it had left was one final obsession: to crawl forward.

To crawl out of the crater at night, scavenge clothes and rations from the dead, and shrink back before dawn.

That small clump of black mud oozed out of the jar’s mouth. It bumped against the salt ring twice before attempting to crawl out.

Richard spread out his Still Water, and that ball of intellect fell into the reflection.

It was vastly easier to read than the candle flame. From start to finish, it was only a single stroke.

The stroke began at the very front tip, lacked any twists or turns in the middle, and the end of the stroke hadn’t even been written yet.

Richard held the silver mirror horizontally across his chest, and his needle tip slashed diagonally down.

The clump of black mud inside the salt ring halted, then entirely collapsed.

Gripping the silver mirror, Richard flicked the Silver Needle in his hand.

He sat outside the salt ring, watching the residue in the jar that had thoroughly devolved into ordinary dirt.

This cut felt faster than Catherine’s, and deeper, too.

Stepping out of the training room, there wasn’t a single soul on the main road of the Academy District.

After taking a dozen steps, Richard suddenly stopped and rubbed his left ribs.

That spot still hurt a little.

...

After signing the paperwork for early graduation that day, Isabella called a carriage to the entrance of the Petrie Building to return to the Ashford Residence together.

Richard climbed in, noticing his aunt had uncharacteristically left her exam papers behind this time.

”Did you bring everything?”

”Everything’s here.”

”What about the Rubbing Machine?”

Richard hoisted his canvas bag and shook it slightly. The machine inside was heavy enough to weigh down his shoulder.

Back at the residence, the butler had already tidied up the small south-facing sitting room. The curtains were drawn wide, and a recliner sat by the window.

Margaret was still bickering with her sister as she sat down.

”Why make such a big fuss?”

”We can’t delay this any longer.” Isabella draped a blanket over her lap.

”You have to rest just from climbing the stairs now.”

Richard placed the canvas bag on the table and first pulled out the Rubbing Machine.

”Mom, I need to take some rubbings first.”

”Rubbings of what?”

”I need a baseline of your circuits on the other side of the veil, so I can use it as a reference while I treat you.”

Margaret eyed the machine and furrowed her brow.

”Will it hurt?”

”It won’t hurt. Just sit tight.”

Isabella pulled out some grid paper from the side and smoothed it out for her nephew.

Standing behind her to the side, Richard could see his aunt’s shoulders were wound completely tight.

”Starting.”

The crank turned a half-circle, and an image began to appear on the grid paper.

Richard’s hand was shaking a little, too.

When the rubbing was finished, the main circuit area on the paper was completely blank. Even the cylinder felt lighter as the silver wires passed over that section.

It was the exact same conclusion given by the three Major Adepts: unrepairable.

Then came the idling of the residual circuits. That area on the paper was densely packed with tiny, spinning loops, tangling into knots in several places.

Tracing down from those knots, her lungs were a chaotic mess.

This manifested physically as spending half the night propped up by the window, needing extra breaths just to climb the stairs, and enduring an endless, hacking cough.

Beyond the ether field blurring Margaret’s body—burnt out by sixteen years of idle cycling—something else hung suspended.

It didn’t belong to the circuit or her physical body. It was simply a sentence.

Richard’s breathing slowed as he pressed his water surface against that sentence.

—A declaration.

Erudition dug up what had been mentioned in On Ascension Within the Veil: advancing to Minor Adept required completing the ”first oath” (prima juratio).

A Practitioner would place a supernatural item in a location where the veil’s permeation was strongest, issuing a declaration behind the veil through the item.

Once the declaration was sent, the veil would respond.

Upon response, the internal ether structure would undergo a fundamental, irreversible change.

This alteration was why Minor Adept was known as the beginning of the Intermediate Rank—it was the first step toward becoming inhuman.

At twenty-six, Margaret had sent out that declaration.

Then the ritual failed, her circuits blew apart, and she was carried down.

That sentence was never withdrawn, nor was it answered.

So it hung there, suspended for over a decade.

A declaration sent out but yet to land would endlessly wait for an answer.

”...Richard?”

His mother’s voice called him back.

He lifted his head to see her turning her face toward him from the recliner.

Her eyes were very much like Evelyn’s, only quieter.

”Done looking?”

”...I’m done.”

”How is it?”

Richard set the rubbing on the table and crouched down beside the recliner.

”Mom, let me treat you first.”

He raised his hand, aiming his palm at her back.

Inside his Seat of the Sun, the inverted tree of light began to seep beads of light from the edges of its leaves.

He had been saving up Gushing Spring for three months.

”...Mhm,” Margaret responded softly.

”What is it?” Isabella instantly leaned in.

”It’s warm.” Margaret closed her eyes.

Not daring to lose focus, Richard spread out his Still Water and guided it point by point, heading first for the idling circuits.

Drops of Gushing Spring surged over the endlessly spiraling circuits, and the knotted portions began to loosen.

...With every knot loosened, his mother’s breathing grew lighter.

Twenty minutes into the treatment, the chaotic patterns over her lungs began to straighten out.

The compensatory stagnation mostly dissolved. The ordinary hidden injuries she had sustained from years of sitting by the window and coughing—the ones unrelated to the mystical side—were the easiest to handle.

At the fifty-minute mark, Richard pressed his Still Water toward the dead zones along the main path.

He already knew the outcome, but he pressed against them anyway. The blank spaces yielded no reaction.

Richard paused there for three breaths before moving his hand away.

Finally, he lifted his Still Water to the other side of the veil, right in front of that suspended sentence.

The aura of Gushing Spring washed over it.

The sentence didn’t twitch in the slightest; it was waiting for a reply or a retraction.

By the time Richard lowered his hand, the Gushing Spring within his Seat of the Sun was completely empty.

What took three months to hoard was spent in a single afternoon.

He grabbed the edge of the table to stand up. His vision went black for a moment, and he had to steady himself before finding his footing.

On the recliner, Margaret opened her eyes.

She sat in the chair for a moment before pushing off the armrests to stand on her own.

”Mom...”

”Let me try.”

She took two steps across the room and stopped by the window.

”Sister, how is it?” Isabella’s voice trembled slightly.

Margaret raised a hand and pressed it to her chest.

”My chest doesn’t feel tight anymore.”

”...What?”

”Here.” She patted her chest.

”Something’s been blocking it for over ten years, but when I walked just now, it felt completely clear.”

Isabella turned her back to them and wiped a hand across her face.

Richard stood up and rolled the rubbing back up.

”Mom, I’ll give you another treatment every so often from now on.”

Margaret walked over and reached out to brush away the sweat-plastered strands of hair from Richard’s forehead.

”This is enough.”

”Mom...”

Her hand rested against her son’s cheek.

”Richard, when I sat up in bed at the age of twenty-six, I already considered the rest of my days a free bonus.”

”I’ve had over ten years for free, and I had the two of you.”

She smiled briefly.

”Today, you’ve added another twenty or thirty years to my life.”

Richard lowered his head.

”Any more than that would be greedy,” Margaret said.

”I’ve seen plenty of what happens to greedy people in our line of work.”

She pulled her hand back and turned toward the door.

”What do you want for dinner? I have my strength today; I’ll make a proper meal.”

”Sister, you should rest!”

”I haven’t rested in over ten years; missing one day won’t matter.”

His mother cooked dinner herself that evening.

Sitting in the living room, Richard spread the rubbing out on his lap and studied it once more.

That sentence was a declaration sent behind the veil.

Come to think of it, he wondered if the spell formula he had just learned would work on it.

Richard conceptualized it in his mind and felt this direction held some possibility.

This spell formula specifically severed the formless. Wasn’t this half-finished declaration a formless thing, too?

But that would have to wait until he was fully proficient in it. When that time came, in addition to Shadow Inversion, he would be able to help his mother.

Speaking of which, what would the inversion of [Severed Branch] be?