I Loaded the Occult Panel

The postgraduate division’s first round drew even fewer people to Iliad Hall than the opening ceremony.

Postgraduate sessions were always like this. Most of the audience were specialists; laymen would nod off within half an hour of taking a seat.

Richard sat down in the seventh row. Sophia took the seat next to him.

She didn’t dare sit next to Isabella right now, otherwise her mentor would undoubtedly pile on the pressure.

”I drew number five.”

”Then you still have half a day.”

Sophia twisted her hands together. ”I’d rather go up right now. The waiting is the worst part.”

On stage, the host announced the topic for the first match.

Postgraduate division, first match.

”Topic: During wartime, should the Empire suspend funding for basic sciences that lack direct military utility?””Affirmative: Reginald Thorpe, School of Politics and Economics.”

”Negative: Clara Fairfield, Department of Classics.”

Sophia immediately forgot her nerves, an expression of eager anticipation crossing her face. ”...Why is it him?”

Richard recognized him too.

The pale, plump young man walked up to the podium from the east side and smoothed the hem of his coat.

Last year, in this very building, this man had built a thick, solid wall and pushed Richard right off the stage.

Richard had known exactly how he lost back then: he won in rhetoric, but lost behind the veil.

But last year, this same guy had also been defeated by Clara. This year...

”This is his last year competing. He graduates next year,” Richard said.

Sophia hummed. ”Then he’s definitely going all out today.”

Thorpe was indeed going all out. His opening statement lasted for six solid minutes, not a single second wasted.

He began citing his sources: a seventeenth-century minister’s speech in Parliament, a nineteenth-century economist’s treatise on wartime resource allocation, and a sitting cabinet member’s Q&A in the lower house just last winter.

The ring of silver threads buried under the hall’s podium began to activate.

Richard opened his Spirit Vision. Behind the veil, a wall was rising.

Thorpe’s performance was much stronger than last year’s. It seemed Richard wasn’t the only one improving.

”He’s very well prepared this year,” Richard noted.

Sophia chewed on the end of her braid. ”What is Clara going to do?”

Clara had her hair tied up today, exposing the faded, pale pink scar behind her left ear.

”I will address only two points from my opponent’s argument.”

The moment the young woman spoke, she silenced the rustling in the hall.

”That 1643 minister’s speech was abridged. After proposing to suspend funding, the minister added: ’Save for the schools of theology and law.’”

People in the hall raised their heads.

”Why were they exempt? Because back then, those two schools drafted documents for Parliament.”

”In other words, what that gentleman truly advocated was: suspend everything I cannot use right this second.”

On stage, Thorpe started to sweat.

”The economist my opponent cited was thirty-one when he wrote that book. When he was seventy, he published a revised edition and rewrote the entire chapter on wartime allocation from scratch.”

After a flurry of verbal sparring, they reached the final segment. Clara pulled a brass tuning fork from her coat’s inner pocket.

Richard frowned. This tuning fork... it didn’t have any wear marks on the handle.

Clara struck the tuning fork against the edge of the podium. The standard pitch hung in the air.

Behind the veil, the wall Thorpe had spent six minutes building—previously seamless and airtight—now had all of its flaws laid bare.

”My side rests.” Clara put the tuning fork away.

The judges’ panel barely debated at all.

”Postgraduate division, first match: the Negative wins.”

Applause erupted. Richard had barely clapped a few times before Sophia shot up beside him.

”Clara!”

Richard pulled her back down. ”Sit down. It’s not over yet.”

”I can’t help it.”

Sophia sank back onto the bench, her hands still clapping.

”Did you hear that? When that note rang out, my heart was beating right along with it.”

”I heard it.”

”Clara shared a bed with me last night, and even when she was sleep-talking she kept saying she wasn’t ready.”

Richard thought back to the conversation he’d had with Clara at his home and nodded.

”She’s been preparing for six years. Once she’s up on that podium, she only needs to rely on instinct to perform.”

Over at the judges’ panel, Isabella was twirling her pen.

Associate Professor Hollis, seated two spots away, leaned over. ”Congratulations to your lab. It looks like you’re about to gain another associate professor.”

Croft squeezed his way over from behind as well.

”Ashford, your student struck a very pure note.”

”Thank you.”

”I always speak the truth.” Croft took a sip of his bitter tea.

”Nine out of ten of the competitors this year treat their declarations like a shouting match. With that single strike, Clara tuned this entire hall.”

Isabella spun the red pen another half circle, trying her hardest not to let the corners of her mouth turn up.

”She still has a long way to go.”

In the empty faculty lounge at noon, Sophia spread a large basket of sandwiches out on the table and grabbed one for herself.

”Clara, did your hands shake before you went up?”

”They did.”

”I couldn’t tell.”

Richard hadn’t said a word.

He waited until Sophia had scarfed down half a sandwich before pointing at the tuning fork on the table.

”Senior Clara, this...”

With a slice of ham still in her mouth, Sophia’s eyes darted back and forth.

Clara picked up the tuning fork. ”When did you figure it out?”

Richard took a bite of his sandwich, his words slightly muffled. ”When you pulled it out of your inner pocket, I saw the handle didn’t have those wear marks.”

”Good eyes.” Clara took a sip of tea, not bothering to deny it.

She set her teacup back on the tablecloth.

”You’re right. This is indeed a replica crafted by my distant uncle.”

”After I left the sanatorium this spring, he measured the original for days and made a one-to-one replica. He tuned it until no one could tell the difference between the notes of the two forks in the same room.”

Sophia and Richard exchanged a glance. With ketchup smudged on both their mouths, they silently agreed not to ask where Clara had hidden the real one.

Clara frowned at a wilted lettuce leaf in her sandwich, then casually stuffed it into Sophia’s mouth.

Sophia dutifully opened wide and ate it.

Clara picked up the conversation where she’d left off.

”From now on, no matter where I am or what I do, this is the tuning fork I’ll carry.”

Sophia chewed and swallowed, licking the ketchup off her lips. ”Clara, who else knows about this?”

Clara shook her head. ”Hardly anyone. My mentor, my uncle, and now you two.”

Sophia cupped her remaining half-sandwich, suddenly losing her appetite.

This girl was carefree and thoughtless most of the time, but right now, she sat bolt upright.

Sitting off to the side, Richard was preoccupied with something else entirely.

”What are you thinking about?” Clara asked.

”I’m thinking about my own Signature item.”

The Sphinx Lamp had been warming against his body all this time, from Briston to the Imperial Capital, from the cellars of Whitcom to that night in the City of Seven Hills.

His aunt had told him at the inn last year: a Minor Adept had to fully transfer their spirit into their Signature item, to the point of no return.

If her Alexandrian School parchment were ever destroyed, becoming a vegetable would be the best-case scenario.

”You can’t be the only one who does this, can you?”

Clara nodded.

”Right. It’s considered an unspoken rule passed around by word of mouth in the field.”

”In the Practitioner stage, even if a Signature item is truly destroyed, you still have a chance to select a new one at a massive cost.

At Minor Adept, it’s completely different. You have to prepare a spare.”

She held up two fingers.

”One is a fake to show outsiders: the same model, the same sound, the same form. It can withstand inspection in almost every situation.”

”The real Signature item is hidden away where no one but yourself can find it.”

...

Meanwhile, Halaf had done nothing but sit and watch for the past two days, refusing to make any rash attempts to test the waters.

The intelligence his subordinates had compiled before his arrival only contained a few facts: at the Greece table, two people were highly likely to be Practitioners in the Scholar track, and they were in the Imperial Capital.

Both individuals had terrifying backing. Hermes in particular was his prime suspect.

With a Virtuoso’s help, they could pull chestnuts from the fire to obtain the true name of the Black Earth River Master, then trade it to the lord of the hunt and escape unscathed. The logic was perfectly sound.

As for why someone with a Virtuoso patron would trade that true name to the lord of the hunt instead of giving it to their own Virtuoso—that wasn’t a question he needed to ponder.

His first step was to eliminate anyone whose Rank didn’t match. Naturally, the entire judges’ panel had to be crossed off.

Sir Muller, Mortimer, and MacFie—all three were Major Adepts and therefore impossible candidates.

The row of associate professors below them were all Minor Adepts. None of them fit the profile; he hadn’t even bothered leaving space for them in his notebook.

That left the students: Practitioner, Scholar, Imperial Capital, tied to rhetoric or balance.

If the person who offered the fragment of the Black Earth River Master’s true name was competing here, they absolutely wouldn’t be a nobody.

A nobody in that kind of position would have been swallowed whole long ago. This person had to show greater prowess than their peers in certain areas.

He focused his attention on the postgraduates.

But after forcing himself to watch for half a day, he found himself losing interest.

That is, until the young brunette woman took the stage. For a Practitioner, her Ether was remarkably prominent, which piqued his interest somewhat.

At first, Halaf merely watched with mild amusement as Clara dismantled her opponent’s citations. Then the tuning fork rang.

He immediately picked up his pencil and began scribbling in his notebook.

Sitting a short distance away, Isabella saw the guest professor taking notes and felt an inexplicable sense of unease.

Halaf jotted down Clara’s basic profile in his notebook, then sketched out a chain of deduction below it:

Tuning Fork -> Calibration -> Balance Scale.

He stared at his own writing for a moment.

The Black Earth River was all about weighing from start to finish. He was incredibly familiar with these concepts.

Calibrating the standard pitch with a tuning fork, and judging equilibrium with a scale—weren’t they effectively the exact same thing?

Therefore, Clara was Nemesis?

Halaf was almost certain of it, until he began to carefully analyze the note Clara had struck.

The note was too clean. A true Signature item would never produce a sound like that.

Halaf raised his head, scrutinizing the tuning fork in Clara’s hand.

He realized that despite its highly skilled artificial aging and disguise, the hollow Ether structure inside couldn’t hide from the eyes of a Major Adept Scholar.

”...It’s a fake.”

It hardly made a ripple in his mind.

There was nothing novel about this. From Minor Adept upward, a Signature item was half a person’s life. Who wouldn’t hide it?

The old woman in Cairo who managed the trade routes—it was only after she died that her family found her true Signature item at the bottom of the well in her own courtyard.

The seal maker in the Port of Alexandria had gone through four different daggers for public use.

And his own Signature item had been seen by fewer than ten people over the last thirty years.

If anyone crossed that threshold and still flashed their real Signature item around, their peers would be the first to laugh at them.

So the brunette girl was doing it right.

Yet it was exactly because the tuning fork was a fake that Halaf scribbled out all his guesses regarding Clara’s identity.

”This person is not bound by the imperative to balance the scales.”

That was the crux of the matter. Nemesis governed retribution.

Those who overstepped must be punished. Anything fake, fabricated, or disguised would inevitably be forcibly leveled by the balance scale.

The intelligence regarding the holder of the Nemesis true name at the Greece table contained only a few fragmented notes, but every single one pointed to the same conclusion: this person was so constrained by their own divine name that they refused to owe even a single fraction of a penny.

Put a person like that in this building right now.

The silver threads buried beneath Iliad Hall weren’t just for show. They amplified every word a contestant spoke on stage behind the veil.

She might get away with it on an ordinary day, but standing here, using a forged Signature item to make declarations and establish form behind the veil—the power of Nemesis would turn around and punish her first.

This was an iron law, taking precedence over every other logical deduction.

It was precisely because Halaf understood this that he crossed her name off.

He suddenly felt like his two days in the audience had been a complete waste.

He had been waiting for that person to shine, but what if they were keeping everything hidden?

”...Time for a different approach.”

The undergraduate division’s matches were scheduled for the afternoon.

Richard drew the topic: ”During wartime, should the Empire impose a naval blockade on neutral countries?”

He debated perfectly by the book. Without stepping out of line once from start to finish, he won by 1.8 points.

The second round was scheduled for the morning. The topic concerned the boundaries between wartime material requisition and private property rights.

He debated the exact same way, winning by 2.1 points.

On the judges’ panel, an associate professor summarized his performance in just two words: steady and solid.

In reality, Richard had seven or eight different strategies in mind. Any of them would have looked spectacular on stage—so spectacular that quite a few judges would have instantly raised their heads.

Unfortunately, the judges wouldn’t be the only ones raising their heads.

And so, he held back.

As the crowd dispersed to either side at the bottom of the stairs, Richard glanced at the exit by the audience gallery.

Phillips emerged, hugging his teapot as he followed the flow of people toward the main road.

Richard was about to raise a hand to call out to him.

Halfway up, he lowered it. Phillips’s brow was furrowed.

The last time Richard had seen that expression on his face was when attending his father’s funeral.

Beside him, Montagu asked, ”Didn’t you say you were going to buy him a meal?”

”In a couple of days.”

”He doesn’t seem to have noticed you.”

After the session ended, Halaf headed straight to the department office at Imperial Capital University.

”Professor.” Pendleton stood up from behind the counter.

Halaf cut straight to the chase.

”Excuse me, could I get a copy of this year’s competitor roster, as well as the public enrollment records for the students?”

Pendleton hurriedly bowed. ”There’s no need to register for those. I’ll copy them for you right away. Will you be attaching these to your visiting report, Professor?”

”For academic exchange records.”

”Then I’ll include the mentor column for you. It’ll make writing your report easier.”

”I appreciate the trouble.”

Pendleton made small talk as he copied.

The old clerk had sat in this position for many years; he knew a little about everything, and loved to gossip about everything.

”There are fewer people in the postgraduate division this year, Professor.”

”Why is that?”

”They went to the front lines.”

The pen scratched across the paper.

”...That Miss Fairfield from earlier is actually processing her Minor Adept application this year.”

Halaf offered a small ”Oh?”

”Application?”

”Submitted last month. The department council has already put it on file.”

Pendleton spoke with great enthusiasm.

”They added a new rule this year: anyone applying for promotion this year can use their Debate Week declaration scores as a probatio reference for the second gateway.”

It really was a fruitful trip, Halaf thought to himself.

Applying for promotion this year... That meant the department possessed a list of all the young Scholars advancing to Minor Adept this year.

If the person he was looking for truly attended this school, they were far more likely to be standing at the threshold of Minor Adept right now than anywhere else.

”Could I take a look at that application?”

He asked with utter casualness.

”I’d like to see how you calculate the conversion for this new rule.”

The warmth on Pendleton’s face remained unchanged, but his hand stopped moving.

”I’m sorry, Professor.”

”Promotion applications are of a slightly different nature.”

Pendleton raised his eyes, the deference on his face unwavering.

”You’ll need to write an access request, state your purpose, and register it with me. Then you must take it to Professor Mortimer for his signature.”

”Once it’s signed, you can view it the same day. I’ll arrange a space for you in the back room and even brew you a pot of tea.”

He offered another fawning smile.

”Why don’t I write out the request for you right now? Professor Mortimer happens to be in these next two days.”

Halaf looked down at the paper bag.

If that request were written, the registry would gain a new line: On such-and-such date, Guest Professor Halaf reviewed this year’s promotion applications for such-and-such purpose.

That old man Mortimer wasn’t truly senile.

The reason he, Apophis, had managed to safely walk the path of the Abyss Tradition to this day was that leaving behind traces of his intentions was his greatest taboo.

”No need.”

”Professor?”

”Since the conversion rules are posted on the notice board, I’ll just go read them myself.”

Halaf pulled his hand back from the counter and smiled. ”I wouldn’t dare trouble the old professor.”

”Shall I copy the publicly available departmental information for you, then?”

”Please do.”

The copy handed to him was only the size of a palm, bearing a mere handful of lines.

Applicant: Clara Fairfield.

Mentor: Associate Professor Isabella Ashford, Minor Adept of the Classical Records Tradition.

Preselected Tradition: Classical Records Tradition.

Division: Postgraduate.

Date Submitted: September 17.

Departmental Council Record Number: 1147.

Below that was a large blank space, stamped with the department council’s cross-page seal.

Halaf’s gaze lingered on the line reading Isabella Ashford.

He had seen the name Ashford far too many times recently. The incident in the Northern Greater Region had spread throughout the entire Empire.

He filed this detail away in his mind and held off on acting for now.

Further down, Preselected Tradition: Classical Records Tradition.

The intelligence had been perfectly clear: the person standing behind Nemesis was a Major Adept Scholar from the Moon-Hunting faction.

Classical Records, Moon-Hunting. They didn’t match.

”By the way, this postgraduate student named Fairfield—has she ever managed accounts for her mentor?”

”She managed research funding for three years.”

Pendleton answered casually, ”I handled the ledgers for those three years once. Every last penny was accounted for.”

Halaf smiled, thanked him, and left.

...It’s a pity you’re not the one.

He spoke to the name in his mind. Fairfield, you were remarkably close.

Elsewhere, Clara, who was on her way to the cafeteria, suddenly felt as if a needle had pricked the top of her head. She grabbed her forehead and stood completely still for a long time.

It was a fleeting warning from her Inspiration.

”Hss...”

”Clara, what’s wrong?!” Sophia hurried over, her face tense with worry.

”Nothing... It just felt as if I narrowly brushed past something...”

Clara murmured to herself, her large dark brown eyes clouded with confusion.

...

There was a teahouse across the street from the Apollo Grand Theater. The sign depicted a hand holding a teapot, though the artist’s skills were so mediocre that it looked more like a hand holding a torch.

On the afternoon of October 4th, the table by the window had been reserved.

Barnaby arrived first. Upon entering, he asked the landlady for a pot of Assam, then quickly corrected himself. ”Make it Darjeeling. The guest is from abroad.”

Phillips followed him inside, clutching his own teapot to his chest.

”Sir, you’re nervous.”

”I am not nervous.”

”You just buttoned your coat wrong.”

Barnaby glanced down, unbuttoned his coat, and redid the buttons.

Phillips lifted his tea and took a sip.

”Sir, I don’t understand.”

”Understand what?”

”If he’s from the Abyss Tradition, why would the Empire...”

Barnaby let out a laugh. ”Because the Abyss is exactly what he fights.”

”Anyone looking into pollution consults him first. The academy sends him invitations year after year.

”This year, Sir Muller invited him over. Nominally, it’s to arbitrate the research rights for that batch of antiquities from the Black Earth River.”

”But for any case within the Empire that deals with Abyss pollution—whether it’s the Department of Internal Affairs, the General Administration, or some county’s Branch Office—

—by the time the reports are filed upwards, half of the containment protocols attached to the files come directly from him.”

”You’ve heard about the Echo Society incident, right?”

Phillips raised his head. ”My father handled it.”

”Then you should know how difficult those situations are to deal with.” Barnaby lifted the lid of the teapot, then set it back down.

”The procedures for tracking down those cultists were written by him.”

Phillips stayed quiet.

”His most significant contribution to the mystical side is being this era’s foremost authority on restoring and executing the ’Overthrowing Apophis’ ritual.”

”This is officially recognized by the Empire. It’s written in the academy registry.”

”Overthrowing Apophis...” Phillips savored the words.

”Is that where you draw a serpent on Papyrus, write its name, and then stab, stomp, and burn it?”

”Correct. And I hear this has to be performed once every single day.”

The landlady brought out the Darjeeling. Barnaby poured for them both, then turned the spout of the teapot to face the door.

”Kid, listen closely to this next part.”

Phillips sat up straight.

”This ritual of his is precisely the core reason he’s been able to persist in the Abyss Tradition for so long.”

Barnaby picked up his cup of tea. ”Of those walking this path, he’s the only one I’ve ever seen reach that far.”

Phillips could tell that his mentor spoke not out of fear, but mostly out of admiration.

Speaking of Apophis, a Clay Token had been delivered to his home the year before last.

Following the rules, he hadn’t even glanced at it, handing it straight to his father.

Afterward, his father had shared some relevant information with him.

Barnaby suddenly said, ”Those tables that use the names of old gods to assign seats—your father should have mentioned them to you back in the day.”

”He mentioned them briefly.”

”The person arriving today...” Barnaby stopped there and glanced at the door.

The door opened. Professor Halaf walked in, carrying only a very flat briefcase.

”Barnaby.”

”Professor.” Barnaby stood to greet him.

The three of them drank half a pot of tea.

Halaf asked casual questions about the theater’s business in recent years, the price of coal in the Imperial Capital, and the old scar on Barnaby’s hand.

At a certain point, he steered the conversation in a new direction.

”How are the youths in the Imperial Capital this year?”

”Do you want the truth, Professor, or the polite answer?”

”The truth.”

”The truth is that they get worse with every passing year.”

”All the promising ones get siphoned off to the front lines. Out of those remaining, the ones capable of taking the stage are few and far between.”

He stuck out his fingers, counting them off one by one.

”The young man from the Montagu Family. Solar Tradition. Knows a little about everything, never makes a mistake.

”People like him will end up with a seat in the Department of Internal Affairs, but he won’t necessarily cross that threshold in his lifetime...”

Halaf hummed in acknowledgment without interrupting.

Barnaby picked up his tea, took a sip, and continued casually.

”Aside from him, there’s a red-haired girl from the Highlands. She’d also be well-suited to our path.”

Phillips tried his hardest to control his facial expressions, keeping his head down as he poured tea for the two elders.

”It’s a pity, though.” Barnaby shook his head.

”She already has a Major Adept professor from the Moon-Hunting faction as her mentor. With someone like that guiding her, who would ever spare a glance for our side?”

Sitting in place, Phillips drained the rest of the tea in his cup.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even allow the small smile on his face to fade.

Sitting across from him was his own guide; sitting diagonally across was a full-fledged Major Adept.

In this situation, abruptly changing the subject would make his guilt far too obvious.

”Sir.” Phillips lifted his own teapot from by his feet. ”Let me brew a fresh pot for the two of you.”

”Fresh pot of what?”

”From this teapot of mine.”

Barnaby nodded toward Halaf. ”Professor, this kid’s Signature item is a teapot.”

”Oh?”

Phillips emptied the leftover tea from both cups and lifted his old teapot with the mended spout.

”What tea would you like, Professor?”

”Whatever you like.”

As the spout tilted, the tea that flowed out was so dark it was almost black, the steam carrying a hint of spices.

Halaf picked up the cup and took a sniff.

He took a sip and set the cup down.

”The last time I tasted this was at a shop in Luxor. The owner of that shop has been dead for several years.”

”Professor, I just poured whatever came to mind.”

Halaf turned the cup half a circle. ”This teapot of yours identifies the flavor one desires.”

The smile on Phillips’s face stiffened for less than half a second.

”...You have a good eye, Professor.”

His Signature item had been completely read through with a single sip.

Barnaby smoothed things over, saying the kid would make a fortune off this teapot in the future, then burst into laughter himself.

Phillips laughed along.

That night, Halaf crossed out the entire postgraduate division.

A Major Adept professor from the Moon-Hunting faction as her mentor.

The sentence had drifted over from the teahouse across the street earlier that day. The speaker had likely forgotten it the moment he said it.

Halaf flipped the roster back to the front.

Catherine Blackwood.

Accepted from Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Preparatory division, year two.

Mentor: Hector MacFie.

He flipped further back to the academic records addendum.

One field assignment logged in June. Start and end dates omitted. Note: Approved by the department; specifics unrecorded.

An entire month left utterly blank.

On that roster, he drew a massive circle entirely around Catherine Blackwood.

...

In the morning, Richard was summoned to a receiving room on the second floor of the Petrie Building.

He walked in to find Sir Muller in the high-backed chair by the window, with Mortimer seated on the opposite side.

Sir Muller spoke. ”Williams, have a seat.”

Richard sat across from them.

”Professor Halaf came here with official business outside of Debate Week.”

”The research rights for that batch of Black Earth River antiquities—the ones the department and the School of Theology have been fighting over for a year and a half—are about to be arbitrated.

”Before the arbitration begins, the inscriptions on those antiquities need to undergo a complete transcription.”

”He needs a local student assistant.”

Sir Muller smiled. ”You’re finishing your first-year undergraduate studies early this year and ranking at the top of your class. You are perfectly positioned to act as our side’s outstanding Scholar representative.”

”What about the postgraduates?”

”He doesn’t want postgraduates,” Mortimer said leisurely from the side.

”When it comes to transcription, the worst thing is for the copyist to understand too much.”

The old professor lifted his teacup and took a sip.

”You understand, but you don’t understand too much. You are just right.”

”You happen to have no matches tomorrow afternoon. Be at the teahouse across from the theater at four o’clock.”

”Have a chat first. The official work begins the day after.”