I Loaded the Occult Panel

The unlock condition for Morphostructuring had been hanging on his panel for over half a year, but Richard still couldn’t find a suitable lost spell formula.

He noticed the administrator used the word ”borrow” instead of offering an original text.

In that case, his plan to directly request a precious original volume and absorb its ether wouldn’t work.

Then again, even if what slipped from a Master’s hands was only a copy, it might still be an old enough supernatural item, right?

Just by handling it, he could leach a little bit off it.

”Have you decided which book to borrow?”

Richard rested both hands on the edge of the counter.

”Sir, does the library have any books on the Branch-Cutting Technique?”

He was being a bit greedy. He hoped the borrowed book would not only fulfill the urgent unlock conditions for Speculation, but also deepen his understanding of the Branch-Cutting Technique, allowing him to reach full mastery sooner and perform Shadow Inversion.

The administrator let out a soft sound of realization. ”For the Branch-Cutting Technique, the contemporary inheritor should be Hector MacFie.””The Branch-Cutting Technique has two flaws. The severed strokes will grow back, and the severed strokes will remember the one who wielded the blade.

”The very first people to carve words with knives actually realized this problem.”

Richard nodded. ”Most of the ancient books in the outside library are redacted versions. The ones in your library must all be complete.”

”Correct. And every scholar who has seriously read them has written annotations in the margins. These all become appendices.”

Richard’s eyes lit up. Sometimes the appendices were even more valuable than the original text.

The administrator pulled four cards from a drawer and laid them on the counter: The Book of Ballymote, the Book of the Dead, the Emerald Tablet, and the Mahabharata.

”If you want to solve the two flaws of the Branch-Cutting Technique, you can pick one of these four books.”

He pressed a finger against the card for The Book of Ballymote first.

”The Book of Ballymote contains the most complete record of Ogham, compiled in 1390. MacFie learned his own Branch-Cutting Technique from it.

”But if you borrow it, MacFie already knows everything inside.

”What MacFie can’t teach you, you won’t find in The Book of Ballymote either.” The administrator’s finger moved to the card for the Book of the Dead.

”The Book of the Dead talks about how a dead person’s name is weighed and how it is recorded in the ledgers of the Underworld. It touches exactly on your two flaws.

”With your current Rank, you’d only be able to read the stories in the Book of the Dead, not the incantations.

”If you forced yourself to read the incantations, the Book of the Dead would follow your gaze and read you in return.”

Richard glanced at the name of the Emerald Tablet on the next card, and the Mask of Hermes grew even more restless.

The administrator ruled it out for him.

”The Emerald Tablet only consists of a dozen or so lines, and every single line has been studied by countless scholars for countless years.

”Right now, you’d only be able to understand the literal meaning. Come back to borrow it once you become a Major Adept.”

Richard drew the final card: The Mahabharata. ”What is found here, may be found elsewhere. What is not here, is nowhere else.”

Known as the longest epic in the world, its hundred thousand verses thoroughly chronicled a great war between brothers on the subcontinent, along with its gods, kings, sages, and incantations.

What was kept here was a palm-leaf manuscript. The notes of scribes, sorcerers, and shadow puppeteers were entirely carved into the margins of the leaves.

It included annotations from subcontinent scholars written in Sanskrit, Tamil, Javanese, and Latin respectively. The administrator explained, ”You know too little about the subcontinent because the Western Continent inherently has very few texts and studies concerning the Spice Islands and the subcontinent.”

Richard nodded. Rumor had it that the mystical side of the subcontinent hadn’t been interrupted for thousands of years.

Scholars in the Western Continent had researched it for over a century and still hadn’t fully grasped the subcontinent’s occultism even today.

The knowledge of the subcontinent, unbroken for millennia, definitely hid many lost spell formulas.

But Richard had his doubts. ”Kipling said that East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.”

”The subcontinent and Ireland are so far apart. Can the knowledge from over there really solve the problems I face with the Branch-Cutting Technique?”

The administrator placed the manuscript on the counter.

”People who read Kipling only memorize the first line. The rest goes: ’But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, / When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!’ What he really wanted to say was the latter part.”

He picked up a blank card, wrote down two words, and pushed it in front of Richard: ir, a letter in the Ogham alphabet, meaning oak.

ār, in Sanskrit, meaning wood. ”Over a hundred years ago, an Albion judge studied Sanskrit in Calcutta.”

”The judge discovered that Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Irish looked very similar. The four languages were like one family.

”Thousands of years ago, the ancestors of the Irish and the ancestors from over there lived together, spoke the same tongue, and carved marks into the same kinds of trees.”

Richard looked down at the manuscript on the counter.

The palm-leaf manuscript of the Mahabharata was clamped between two teak boards, which were carved with an elephant-headed, human-bodied god.

This was Ganesha, the god of learning and wisdom, who legend says broke off his right tusk to record the Mahabharata.

Elephants indeed possessed some of the highest spirituality among animals. An elephant-headed god serving as the god of wisdom was quite fitting.

His Spirit Vision slid right off the moment it touched the teak boards. The ether was sealed completely tight.

The administrator seemed to guess what he was thinking. ”I was the one who sealed the ether in this manuscript.

”Palm leaves left in the tropics start to rot after a few decades. Every few generations, the locals have to copy the words from the old leaves onto new ones, then send the old leaves into the Ganges River.

”By sealing the ether, the leaves won’t rot.”

In April of this year, Richard had seen a Punjabi soldier in Flanders. A man from the subcontinent, already fighting in the trenches of the Western Continent.

Dozens of slips of paper were tucked among the leaves, covered in pencil writing. Richard recognized the administrator’s handwriting.

”I slipped some notes inside. Feel free to look at the ones that say ’permissible,’ but you won’t be able to understand the ones marked ’do not attempt’.”

The notes were stuffed everywhere. Richard casually pulled one out. It read: Your mentor doesn’t understand this entry either.

”...When this note mentions my mentor, which one do you mean?”

’I have far too many people who could be considered my mentor,’ Richard thought.

”No one you know in the Imperial Capital would understand it.”

The administrator gave his conclusion, then picked up a pencil, filled out a library card, and slid it over:

Borrower: L.

Title: Mahabharata Palm-Leaf Manuscript.

Borrowing Period: One month.

Renewal Rule: For every new story the borrower finishes writing, the borrowing period is extended by one month. Richard looked at the card and understood his meaning.

”You’re... finding creative ways to press me for my drafts.”

The administrator tapped him with the pencil.

”Every story you write will be placed on the bookshelf.

”The more you write, the more new books appear on the shelf. We each get what we need. Very fair.”

”And what if I don’t finish a single story in a month?”

”Once the borrowing period is up, the Mahabharata manuscript will automatically disappear.

”And I’ll collect your half-written drafts along with it.”

Remembering that stack of drafts stamped with red seals, a chill ran down Richard’s spine. ”I’ll do it as soon as possible.”

But the administrator was very experienced in this regard:

”An author’s ’as soon as possible’ is no different from a debtor’s ’as soon as possible’.”

Richard picked up the Mahabharata manuscript. He noticed that the administrator had only sealed the ether in the palm leaves, but hadn’t sealed the teak boards and the red cotton string. The two teak boards and the string were later additions, having spent over a hundred years on the fourth floor of the Ambrosian Library, soaking up plenty of ether.

The moment Richard’s finger touched the teak board, his panel reacted.

[Available Points: 2.46...]

Richard moved his finger away from the board.

The two of them went up to the second floor together, a patch of bright white sunlight shining in through the stairwell window.

”Right,” the administrator said behind him.

”I already checked off Mortimer’s matter last week. Tell him to stop looking for me.

”He asked the wrong person in Pavia. The librarian at that monastery was so frightened by him that he couldn’t sleep all night.”

As Richard walked up the stairs and looked at the hunched figure ahead, a memory floated up from deep inside his mind.

Back when the Cicero Cup ended, he had gone to the Imperial Capital University Library the day before leaving the Imperial Capital.

While he and Phillips were arguing over the plot of the Underworld descent in the Aeneid, there was an old man outside playing chess the whole time.

No way. Had this old man been watching him since he first entered the mystical side two years ago? Reaching the first floor, Richard couldn’t help but ask.

”Sir, the person playing chess outside the Imperial Capital University Library two years ago... was that you?”

The administrator did not give a direct answer:

”The Bible says, of making many books there is no end.

”And of people waiting for books, there is also no end.”

Which meant he could think whatever he wanted—wherever people were reading, he was there.

The old man walked behind the circulation desk and sat down, continuing to fiddle with his chessboard.

Under the archway of the atrium, a figure leaning on a cane was waiting.

Mortimer had probably come straight here after returning from Pavia. His overcoat was speckled with mud, and his whole face hung with exhaustion.

”Little Richard, why did you stay so late?”

”Oh, I was helping the old gentleman out.”

Richard glanced at the wall clock. Regular closing time was seven in the evening, and it was now past half-past seven. ”Professor, I’ve found the person you were looking for.”

Mortimer turned around, his half-closed, tired eyes snapping wide open all at once.

”Where? Who is it?”

Richard raised his hand and pointed to the circulation desk.

Behind the desk, the old gentleman was leaning against a pillar, dozing off.

Mortimer followed Richard’s finger.

First, he saw the chessboard, and then the cushioned chair he had personally hogged for an hour.

Standing next to him, Richard watched the old professor’s face slowly turn from red to white, and then to a sickly pale green.

The old professor’s mustache twitched. His lips pressed tightly together, and his cheeks puffed out. It was obvious he was desperately swallowing back whatever he wanted to say.

”...What did he say to you?”

His voice drifted, thin with a guilty conscience.

”He said the matter you wanted to ask about was checked off last week, and to tell you to stop looking for him.” ”...What else?”

”He said the face you were looking for is no longer one he uses.”

The old professor closed his eyes.

”I told him he had bad eyesight.”

”I even stole his chair and made him stand for an hour while playing chess.”

’Who told this Master not to put on any airs at all?’ he grumbled inwardly.

’Otherwise, how would a mere Major Adept like me dare to steal someone’s chair?’

Left with no other choice, he simply took off his hat and bowed deeply toward the circulation desk.

Behind the desk, the old man didn’t even open his eyes as he leaned against the pillar. He just waved a hand.

The meaning was clear: the library is closed, go away.

The two of them walked out the main doors. After about twenty paces, Mortimer stopped and propped one hand against the wall.

He let out a sound Richard had never heard from him before—halfway between a groan and a laugh. Having held it in for too long, once it came out, he couldn’t hold it back. ”Little Richard, this is the most humiliating week I’ve had in my entire life.”

”Yeah.”

Mortimer looked up at the narrow sliver of pitch-black sky outside the alley.

”He said he checked it off, which means...”

”...the rest is up to me.”

On their final morning in Milan, the baguettes made by their landlady from Lyon came out of the oven right on time, as usual.

Without touching the bread first, Mortimer handed Richard a memo of things he needed to buy.

”Help me take a look. Is there anything missing?”

A total of five ritual materials were listed on the paper:

Unwritten amate bark paper from Oaxaca;

Andean quipu knots, at least one bundle, and no one must have touched the knots;

Cochineal bugs, one pound, sun-dried; A line thoroughly blotted out by ink, completely obscuring what had originally been written;

Two pounds of Darjeeling tea, no Ceylon.

Richard’s gaze paused on the final line.

”Professor, is the Darjeeling also for the ritual?”

”The Darjeeling is for me.” Mortimer pushed his reading glasses up his nose.

”The people of Milan treat coffee like their lifeblood. I’ve been drinking dishwater here for two weeks.”

”What about the fourth line?”

”I haven’t figured that one out yet. I’ll write it down when I do.”

Richard re-examined the first few items. All of them seemed to originate from the New Continent.

His previous thought had been right. It really seemed like the mystical materials from the New Continent were of a higher grade than those from the Old Continent.

Mortimer took his baguette and knocked it against the edge of the table. Today’s bread was even harder than yesterday’s.

”In 1562, on the Yucatán Peninsula—the crater in Mexico—a bishop built a fire in the plaza of Maní. He gathered up centuries of Mayan books and threw them in one by one. After he finished burning them, he returned to Spain and wrote another book entirely dedicated to recounting what had been written in the books he burned.”

”And then?”

”Then, the few books that luckily avoided the fire were brought back to the Old Continent and scattered across Dresden, Madrid, and Paris.”

He put the baguette down and tapped the second line with his finger.

”The knots of Peru. The Incas used them for accounting, recording populations, and keeping track of who owed who how many sacks of corn.”

Richard looked up.

Mortimer didn’t look at him, keeping his head lowered to brush away breadcrumbs.

”Little Richard, I’ve read just about all there is to read on the paper of the Old Continent in this lifetime.”

”I want a few things I can’t understand.”

After he said that, he reached for his tea. Just as he brought it to his lips, he remembered it was coffee and put it back down.

Richard folded the paper.

”These materials are hard to buy since the war started.” ”Of course they’re hard to buy. Half the ships from the New Continent have been requisitioned for troop transport, and the other half are sailing through the Mediterranean Sea on edge.”

Mortimer sighed.

”Auction houses in the Imperial Capital certainly have them, but their asking prices are worth more than my old life.”

”What about Genoa?” Richard smoothly suggested.

The old professor’s eyelids lifted slightly.

Richard said, ”That’s Columbus’s hometown. Even today, a large majority of the ships heading to Buenos Aires, Valparaíso, and Veracruz still depart from the docks in Genoa, and the returning cargo has to be weighed there first.”

”You know someone there?”

”I know a gentleman in the forwarding business. He gave me a business card.”

”Is he reliable?”

Richard thought about that Bronze Seal.

”He has an excellent reputation,” he said carefully.

”Lately, it should be even better than before.” Hmm... Mercury had been killed by him once using the Branch-Cutting Technique, so he figured there would be a period of rebounding luck afterward.

Mortimer gave him a suspicious look but didn’t ask further.

”Alright, then we’ll go to Genoa.”

The old professor grabbed his hat from the back of the chair.

”My errands for the Committee are done. Returning to the Imperial Capital requires a detour through Turin anyway, so dipping a bit further south is just two extra days.”

Hearing Turin, Richard felt a little guilty and quickly stood up. ”I’ll go call a carriage.”

”Wait a moment.”

Professor Mortimer tore the fifth line off the list into a small strip, folded it, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

”If we can’t buy Darjeeling, there’s no need to buy any of the other materials either.

”If I don’t have tea to drink, I won’t be able to read a single word.”

...

Milan Central Station was an aging stone building. The waiting hall was crammed with gray-green military uniforms. Some of the mountain troops had black feathers tucked into their felt hats, bobbing as they walked. At the far end of the platform sat train cars painted with red crosses, stretchers constantly being handed down from the doors.

The fighting by the Isonzo River had only stopped last week. The newspapers claimed the front lines had been pushed forward by a few hundred yards.

Luca caught up with them at the ticket gates, carrying something in his arms as usual. This time it was an oil-paper parcel.

”It’s focaccia,” he gasped, shoving the parcel into Richard’s hands.

”Genoese bread. I was worried you’d be too stingy to buy any once you get there.”

Luca looked completely serious.

”My second cousin worked as an accountant in Genoa. He said that even if the people there just lend you an umbrella, the moment the rain stops, they’ll come around to collect money for it.”

Richard let out an ”uh,” thinking he was exaggerating too much.

Luca dug a folded slip of paper out of his pocket.

”Marco asked me to bring this to you.”

Written on the note was the handwriting of the tall guy from Padua:

”Check and see for me what’s printed on the manhole covers in Genoa.” On the back was another line, the handwriting changed to that of the Neapolitan: ”It’s probably product advertisements.”

Richard tucked the note into his notebook and bid Luca farewell.

The whistle blew, and Luca stood on the platform waving.

Aside from the two of them, their compartment seated an old lady and a dozing salesman hugging a briefcase.

The train headed out of the north side of the city. About half an hour later, Richard nudged the old professor’s arm.

”Professor, we’re in Pavia.”

”I know,” Mortimer replied stiffly, a little impatient at being woken from his nap.

”That monastery librarian was so scared by you he couldn’t sleep all night. Do you want to go down and apologize to him?”

The hat covering the old professor’s face didn’t move an inch.

”No.”

”The train needs to be inspected here. It’s going to stop for a long time.”

”Still no.” Richard stifled a laugh and sat back down. A long sigh came from beneath the hat, drawing a look from the old lady opposite them.

The train crossed the Po River. The fog grew thicker, small stations floating out of the mist one by one and sinking back in.

Just past two in the afternoon, a conductor squeezed past, shouting in the local dialect.

Richard understood about eighty percent of it. The gist was that the line ahead over the pass at Mount Giove had been temporarily yielded to military supply trains.

This train would stop at Novi Ligure, and passengers would have to transfer to another train bound for Genoa. The wait time would be around forty minutes.

”Military supply trains?” Mortimer took off his hat.

”There’s a factory outside Genoa. They build cannons and artillery shells,” the salesman rushed to explain.

”Trains from over the mountain are hauling things north one trip after another. Civilians like us just have to step aside.”

”Forty minutes.” The old professor clearly wasn’t very optimistic about this.

”When they say forty minutes here in Apennine, how long is it usually?”

The salesman thought about it seriously.

”Sir, it depends on who’s talking. The conductor said forty minutes, so you’d be right to count on an hour.”

The train slowly came to a halt. Outside the window was a faded station sign: Novi Ligure.

Richard stood up to grab their luggage, his fingertips brushing the silver mirror in the side pocket of his canvas bag.

Before stepping off, he took a look outside.

In the summer of 1799, the Francs and the Rus coalition army had fought a battle on these hills.

The French commander, Joubert, took a bullet shortly after the battle began and tumbled from his horse. It was said that right before he died, he was still shouting for his men to charge.

Spreading out his Still Water, he found very thin ether beneath those hills.

Washed by over a century of rain, it had grown so faint that it was indistinguishable from the fog.

He picked up Mortimer’s suitcase and stepped off the train.

The transfer train was already waiting on the other side of the station. The cabins were cold, and the conductor was carrying tin foot warmers, delivering them to each compartment.

Mortimer propped both feet on top of his and let out a satisfied hum.

Richard sat in the window seat. The inside of the glass quickly fogged up, so he wiped it away with the back of his hand to look outside.

Another train was parked on the opposite track. The sign hanging on its side indicated it was from Turin, also bound for Genoa, just taking a different route over the mountains.

The doors of the opposite train were open. Passengers had stepped out for some fresh air, shrinking their necks and stamping their feet on the platform.

Richard watched for a while, and a woman caught his eye.

She stood alone and appeared to be about the same age as his aunt Isabella.

She wore a long trench coat and a felt hat. Her gray hair was pinned up immaculately, and she held an old briefcase in her left hand.

On the platform, several of the foot-stamping soldiers forgot to keep stamping when they saw her face.

Her skin was very fair, her nose high and straight, her jawline clean and sharp. Her entire face was as dignified and proportionate as a marble bust from the Roman era.

The soldiers stared at the lady’s face for a moment. When their gazes fell upon her eyes, their awe quickly turned into pity.

Her eyes were open, but the irises were clouded with a thin layer of white cataracts.

Her head occasionally turned, but those clouded eyes never moved with it.

Richard’s breathing slowed. The Still Water of his Condensed Mirror Method reflected an owl. The owl was perched on the gray-haired woman’s right shoulder, wings folded, head buried in its feathers, its eyes tightly shut.

Richard recognized this owl and immediately cranked his [Perception - Reflection] to the maximum.

He waited for the gray-haired woman’s potential probing. After a dozen seconds or so, there was absolutely no reaction on the water’s surface.

Minerva tilted her face toward the sky she couldn’t see, not looking toward Richard’s train car even once.

A Major Adept of the Star Map tradition never needed to use their eyes to observe the world.

Richard reached into the side pocket of his canvas bag, Venus’s silver mirror resting against the pads of his fingers.

Fortuna’s Spoke was in his suitcase, pressed beneath the wooden box containing the Starfall Sand.

He looked through the glass at the opposite platform, thinking to himself: ’Was Minerva waiting here specifically for me, or was she originally heading to Genoa and simply happened to cross paths here?’

He couldn’t tell.

In front of a Major Adept of the Star Map tradition, who excelled at calculations, coincidence and arrangement looked exactly the same.

Minerva lowered her upturned face and walked a few steps closer to the edge of the platform. Then, stopping in front of the train doors, she took off her glove while facing Richard’s window.

Her hand was very pale, her knuckles long and slender. There was a thin callus on the side of the first joint of her index finger—one that could only be formed by someone constantly turning the focus wheel of a telescope year round.

Minerva raised her index finger. Her fingertip rested against the outside of the glass and began to write. She wrote backward.

From where Richard was sitting, every single letter appeared perfectly forward: et ipse.

His heart skipped a beat, and with a little thought, he understood the meaning.

In his canvas bag, an entire Latin phrase was carved on the back of Venus’s silver mirror: qui sper, et ipse sper. (The one who illuminates is also illuminated.)

Minerva only wrote the second half of the phrase, ”et ipse,” meaning ”oneself as well.”

This was her way of telling Richard: she knew he was the one who took Venus’s silver mirror, and she knew he was walking the path of the Mirror Tradition.

Sitting right where he was, a thought popped into Richard’s mind. ’Should I write something back?’

The moment the thought emerged, [Inner Awakening] flared.

Replying, writing a single word in the condensation, or even pulling the curtains shut and looking away—every single reaction would become Minerva’s observational data.

Because Minerva couldn’t see, reaction data was what she needed most. Inside the compartment, Professor Mortimer took the hat off his face.

He supported himself on the luggage rack, stood up, walked to the window, and directly wiped away those two Latin words through the glass.

”Sit down.”

Professor Mortimer’s voice rang out in his mind. ”Don’t reply to the Director at all.”

”No matter what you say, she can calculate your habits from your response. I will speak to her.”

Only then did Richard realize that half his body had already left his seat. He quickly sat back down.

Professor Mortimer pulled an old notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open.

The white-haired old lady by the door and the salesman yawned at the same time. The salesman hugged his briefcase and closed his eyes, while the old lady pulled a ball of yarn from her handbag and began knitting a sweater.

The Classical Records Tradition excelled most at turning pages.

For every sentence spoken in the compartment from then on, all the white-haired old lady and the salesman would hear was a boring chat about delayed trains and the price of roasted chestnuts.

After getting off the train, they wouldn’t even remember the contents of the chat.

Professor Mortimer slid the train window open, and cold wind poured into the compartment. On the platform, Minerva put her glove back on, her left hand shaking a small bronze astrolabe out from her sleeve.

The pointer on the astrolabe ticked over one notch, and the gazes of the porters and passengers passing by on the platform all slid right off Minerva.

”The Director of Turin Astronomy.”

Professor Mortimer spoke through the window, his words carrying an underlying edge. ”Are you... assigning homework to my student?”

”Professor Mortimer, I am now the former Director.”

Minerva turned her face toward the window, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. She spoke in a perfectly standard Imperial Capital accent.

”I already resigned last month.”

”You recognize me?”

”I do. They say there’s an old professor from the Imperial Capital on the Committee in Milan who calls coffee dishwater, and who hogged the only cushioned chair in the atrium of the Ambrosian Library.

”You aren’t indexed on my star chart, Professor Mortimer, but I recognize your reputation.”

Professor Mortimer’s mustache twitched.

”The speed at which the Milanese spread gossip is much faster than the trains in Milan.” ”The Milanese are always on time with their gossip, while the trains in Milan are never on time,” Minerva replied.

”What are you planning to do here?”

”I’m not planning to do anything.” Minerva shook her head, turning her face in Richard’s direction.

Her cloud-covered eyes didn’t align with his face; instead, she looked toward the seat where his canvas bag sat.

”Mr. Williams, you’re carrying two of the stars from my star chart as you travel the Old Continent.

”Anyone across the entire Old Continent who knows how to calculate the stars can track exactly where you are through the silver mirror and the spoke, as long as they get a copy of my star chart.

”I will be bringing the original star chart with me on the ship, and I didn’t leave any copies with Turin Astronomy either.

”But there are people at the Black Soil River’s table who also know how to calculate stars. I’d suggest you find someone to deal with these two items in the future.”

Remembering the old professor’s warning, Richard sat perfectly still in his seat, not replying at all.

”I thank you on behalf of my student.”

Professor Mortimer spoke up to answer for him.

”Where are you taking a ship to from Genoa?” Minerva didn’t hide her itinerary; anyone could find out simply by asking at the astronomy institute.

”On November 20th, there is a ship departing from Genoa for the New Continent.”