Chapter 183: Selecting the Bone and Weaving the Robe

After dinner, Richard sat back down at his desk and brought up the Panel.

The progress bar for [Learning] Lv.2 had climbed to 89%. The constant influx of occult knowledge was driving the progression up quickly, just as expected.

He dismissed the Panel, pulled a piece of paper from his drawer, and began listing everything he needed to digest next:

Annotating and translating the twelve sets of Boundary Stone rubbings;

Comparative research between the Bronze Fragments and the parchment scrolls;

The four batches of materials his aunt mentioned—dual-overwrite practice materials, ancient Gaelic script copies, church liturgical Latin annotations, and the Alexandrian School's expanded reference tables—which would be arriving back-to-back;

His submission to the Northern Literary Review, due on February 15th;

Tutoring for the Dawn Family, set in stone for every Saturday and Sunday morning;

Accuracy training for Moon Nail, as well as Stone Armor and Shadow Armor;

Daily maintenance of the Sphinx Lantern;

Spirit Vision and Stone Reading;

Ether massages for his mother, once a week;

The second gathering of the Theogony Salon in mid-February.

After writing the last item, he set his pen down and read the list from top to bottom.

Advancing his Learning, progressing his Signature, having enough chips to bring to the salon, slowing the degradation of his mother's circuits, covering household expenses—all of it was tightly intertwined.

Hesitating, Richard added one more line at the very bottom.

Combat Club.

After adding it, he set the pen down again.

The Combat Club was different from everything above it.

Every other item was tied to his academic advancement, his safety behind the veil, or his family.

The Combat Club connected to none of those.

He had originally joined the club because [Breathing: Healing] had raised his physical ceiling, and he wanted to take the opportunity to build a solid foundation.

Half a semester later, he could do over a dozen pull-ups and jog a kilometer without breathing hard. He had already achieved most of his goal.

Any further training would yield diminishing returns while eating up more and more of his time.

Richard drew a line through "Combat Club," crossing it off the list.

Even though he had crossed it off, he still needed to formally request his leave of absence in person.

After school the next day, before going to find Mr. Hutton, Richard took a detour to the Combat Club behind the gymnasium.

Pushing the door open, he saw Fraser standing by the punching bag near the entrance, leaning over to adjust a new student's grip.

"Keep your thumb on the outside. Don't tuck it in."

He grabbed the freshman's fist to correct the posture.

"If you tuck it in, your first punch will break your own thumb before it even hurts the other guy."

The freshman let out an "oh," regripped, and threw a punch. The punching bag swayed.

"Alright, you're getting the hang of it."

Fraser patted the bag, turned around, and spotted Richard at the door.

"Fraser," Richard said, walking over. "I came to let you know I need to take an extended leave of absence from the club."

Fraser gave a nod, not pressing for a reason.

"Busy with college prep?"

"Yeah. Things are piling up as spring approaches."

"Then go handle your business."

Fraser slapped Richard hard on the shoulder.

"Williams, you're not like us.

"You've got a real future. You focus on your studies, so later on, the rest of us losers will have someone to brag about knowing."

Richard smiled in response.

"Whenever you come back, your bag will be waiting for you."

Fraser withdrew his hand and looked back at the freshman, who was still struggling with his thumb placement.

"Hey, I just turned my back for two seconds, how did you already—"

Richard turned and headed for the door.

Reaching the exit, he glanced at the farthest corner of the room.

Coleman was working a heavy bag all the way in the back.

His striking technique was entirely different from anyone else's.

The two bags in the center of the room, constantly battered by the others, were swinging wildly, but the one in front of Coleman barely moved.

Richard watched for another moment.

Coleman was hitting the exact same spot every time.

Punch after punch smashed into that same concentrated area, never deviating by a fraction of an inch.

Richard understood.

This was the foundational training of the Path of Blood Ignition.

Beyond ice water, breath-holding, weight-bearing, and pain tolerance, they had to forge the human body into a weapon that delivered force in only one direction, at a single precise point.

It was as if Coleman had eyes in the back of his head.

He pulled his punch, wiped his face with a towel, and called out to Fraser, "I'm going to walk Williams out."

Richard nodded to him, and the two walked out of the gymnasium one after the other.

Outside, the snow had stopped, but the sky remained overcast.

The path leading from the gym to the side gate was covered in a layer of hard-packed snow that crunched underfoot.

After walking a dozen paces, Coleman spoke up.

"You've been busy lately."

"Yeah."

Richard glanced at him.

It sounded like idle chat, but the intent behind it wasn't.

"Got a lot of academic stuff going on," he offered vaguely.

Coleman kicked away a frozen chunk of snow at the edge of the path.

"Your occult studies—are you stuck?"

Richard weighed his words.

Moon Nail was an old Spell Formula of the Moon-Hunting tradition, naturally leaning toward the Hunter lineage.

Coleman had trained in a military academy for over two years. When it came to throwing techniques, he was likely far more experienced than a half-baked Scholar like Richard.

"Actually, yeah. There's a throwing Spell Formula I've hit a bottleneck on."

"Forming it isn't an issue, but the accuracy won't improve. I can hit a stationary target, but as soon as the distance increases or the target moves, it veers off."

Coleman grunted in acknowledgment.

"Practicing throws on a dead target will only get you so far, even if you do it for a lifetime.

"At the academy, they never let recruits practice throwing needles, blades, or burst projectiles on wooden dummies.

"No matter how accurately you hit a post, once you're on the battlefield, the enemy isn't going to stand still and let you stab them."

"I'd love to find a moving target, but I don't have one," Richard said, sounding slightly helpless.

"You do now."

Richard stopped walking.

Coleman stopped as well.

"You're going to be my target?"

"There's an old saying at the academy: 'A statue can't teach you how to strike, only a moving statue can.'

"I'll be your moving statue."

Richard frowned.

"Your circuits..."

"They're broken, sure." Coleman raised his right hand and clenched it into a fist.

"My circuits are broken, but my body isn't. I can dodge, and I can take a hit.

"With your current power, even if you actually stick me, I'll be fine after a few days of rest."

He lowered his hand.

"Besides, aren't you Scholars best at 'analysis'?

"Once you become a real big shot in the future, maybe you'll find a way to fix my condition."

Despite that, Richard asked the most critical question.

"Would your family agree to this?"

Coleman didn't acknowledge the part about his family. Instead, he shifted the topic.

"My family has a small house in the west end of the city. The backyard is big enough to move around in.

"The outer wall was built during my grandfather's generation, so it's a bit thicker than normal."

Here, Coleman's tone turned a bit despondent.

"In his time, the family still relied on this trade to eat. Later..."

Richard didn't press him.

"Alright," Richard agreed. "Saturday afternoon. Write down the address for me."

Coleman fished a pencil stub and a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket, leaned against the gym's brick wall to write down the address, tore off the scrap, and handed it over.

Richard took it, glanced at it, and committed the address to memory.

"Saturday, then," Coleman said. He turned and headed back toward the gym.

He wasn't done hitting the bag.

Richard turned and walked toward the teaching building.

When he entered the office, Mr. Hutton had already arranged the desk.

In the center lay two copies: one transcribed by Mr. Hutton himself, the other the rough draft Richard had drawn on the train during winter break.

The section containing the true name was obscured on both copies by a wax-black sealing line.

"You'll be the lead writer," Mr. Hutton said, taking a seat at the other end of the desk. "I will be here to correct your direction."

Richard flipped his notebook to a fresh page.

He recognized the four formulaic incantations at the very top.

"With oak as bone."

"With mist as robe."

"With blood as pact."

"With water as answer."

"These four lines form the 'Four Symbols' structure of Celtic rituals."

Mr. Hutton drew a cross in the margin of the manuscript paper.

"The oak corresponds to the skeleton; it is the physical vessel of the worshiped entity."

"The mist corresponds to the skin; it is the form the worshiped entity takes on this side of the veil."

"The blood corresponds to the pact; it is the medium through which the worshiper and the worshiped entity reach an agreement."

"The water corresponds to the answer; it is the medium through which the worshiped entity gives its reply from the other side of the veil."

"Only when all four symbols are present is the entire ritual structure complete."

Richard took notes in his own notebook as he listened.

Following the formulaic incantations, the next thing to decode was the first step of the ritual—Selecting the Bone.

This section took up an entire column on the parchment scroll and had a corresponding account on the back of the Bronze Fragment.

Comparing the two samples, Richard could roughly piece together the outline of the entire section.

But when it came to the details, he was stumped by a set of recurring symbols.

"Sir."

"Yes?"

"This set of symbols." Richard tapped the manuscript paper. "It appears seven times on the parchment scroll and five times on the Bronze Fragment."

"Go on."

"Every time it appears, the meaning of the surrounding sentence is slightly different."

Mr. Hutton leaned over to take a look.

"How do you read it?"

"I read it as 'select,' but the object of 'selection' is different every time."

"Keep reading."

Richard lowered his head again.

When he reached the sixth instance, his pen suddenly stopped.

"...It's not 'select.'"

"Oh?"

"It's 'claim.'"

Standing behind him, Mr. Hutton looked gratified.

"You're faster at this than I was."

"One month before the ritual begins, a Celtic priest would enter the forest and choose an oak tree to serve as the skeletal vessel for the ceremony."

Richard explained as he wrote:

"Once it is 'claimed,' from that day forward, the oak is incorporated into the ritual."

"Correct."

"The criteria for selecting the oak are in the next paragraph."

Richard continued to decode.

The next column was easier to decipher. The symbol structure was standard, with almost no variations.

"The tree must be no less than one hundred years old."

"The trunk must bear no scars from the struggles of living creatures."

"There can be no ant nests or signs of other highly social insect activity within thirty feet of its base."

"When the dirt beneath its roots is dug up, it must seep an earthy, damp vapor."

After transcribing these four rules, Richard paused and glanced at his mentor.

"That last one... is that the mark of a water vein?"

"Yes," Mr. Hutton nodded. "If there is a water vein within three feet underground, the soil will seep moisture when turned over.

"Celtic priests believed that only an oak connected to a water vein beneath it could 'hear' the response from the other side of the veil."

"How did they know that?"

"Through trial and error," Mr. Hutton said casually.

"They tried oaks without water veins a few times. The rituals failed, and the price of failure was disaster striking the entire tribe the following year."

Richard fell silent.

"Keep going." Mr. Hutton didn't let him linger on the topic for long.

Reaching the step after the oak was selected, Richard paused and continued to explain.

"This section... I read it as 'record.'"

"Record what?"

"Record death."

Richard set down his pen.

"From the day it is claimed, the oak's own ether flow begins to skew toward the ritual."

"The direction of the skew shifts from 'growth' to 'record.'"

"What it records is every single death that occurs in that forest over the following month."

Mr. Hutton remained silent beside him.

Richard pressed his finger against the manuscript paper.

"Every rabbit eaten by a fox."

"Every vole snatched by a hawk."

"Every chick that starves in its nest."

"The death of the entire forest is recorded by this 'claimed' oak."

"The recorded deaths dictate the capacity of this oak as a 'skeleton.'"

"When the day of the ritual arrives, the oak is opened up, serving as the fulcrum for the entire ceremony."

A chill crept through Richard as he thought about the implications.

"...These rituals are incredibly intertwined. It's hard to imagine how they figured all this out through trial and error, given the environment and conditions back then."

Mr. Hutton offered a comparison.

"Today, when we perform a sealing, we use blessed silver ribbons, salt, rice wine, and rosemary. For a single procedure, the material costs are measured in pounds."

"Celtic priests didn't need to purchase any outside materials."

"They used the death of the entire forest as the material foundation for their rituals."

"On the morning of the ritual."

"...Thick smoke forms a layer of mist within the ritual grounds.

"The density of the mist is controlled by two auxiliary priests using large fan-shaped pieces of tree bark. They fan the smoke to disperse it, while also pressing down on it to gather it together."

"Correct."

"They have to keep the concentration of the mist within a specific range at all times?"

"Yes," Mr. Hutton nodded. "Too thin, and it can't hold the upcoming incantations. Too thick, and the high priest would get lost inside it."

Richard's pen continued moving across the page.

"The second part, 'Weaving the Robe.' Once the mist forms, the high priest begins to walk."

"With every lap, he scatters a handful of crushed herbal powder."

Richard used his Spirit Vision to lock onto that specific set of symbols.

Mr. Hutton chimed in beside him.

"That is the Celts' 'Mist Orchid.'"

"Mist Orchid?"

"It's also a plant that grows in ether-polluted zones, but it's much rarer than Ashcore Grass."

"It's said there are still a few wild clusters in the northern Gaelic Highlands, but nobody aside from people of Professor McPhee's generation can say exactly where they are."

Richard jotted that down.

Mr. Hutton continued explaining.

"When the Mist Orchid powder is cast into the mist, the properties of the mist change."

"This layer of mist-clothing is gradually 'woven' into shape, guided by the high priest's incantations."

"That is the form of the worshiped entity on this side of the veil."

Richard's pen paused over the manuscript paper.

The skeleton was built, and the clothes were draped over it.

Step by step, the worshiped entity was being "made" from the other side of the veil.

As Richard decoded this section, the leaves of the Tree of Light within his chest gave a slight tremor.

He withdrew his Spirit Vision and steadied his mind.

From outside the office came the click of gas lamps being turned up. The entire corridor lit up, one lamp after another, from the outside in.

The old gentleman checked his watch.

"We'll stop here for today. Go back and properly organize what you've deciphered and summarized today."

Richard folded his deciphered notes and placed them dead center on the desk.

Mr. Hutton took another small box out of his drawer. The bottom of the box was lined with salt.

He placed the translated manuscript inside the box and closed the lid.

"From now on, this is how every day's manuscript will be stored."

"Kept here with you?"

"Kept here with me."

Richard nodded.

As he walked out of the office, he heard the sweeping of a janitor's broom from down the hall.