Chapter 232: Divine Persona Mask

“Starved to death.”

Nemesis mulled the words over, the scales tipping even further.

“A Major Adept. The sort of figure who guards a thousand-year-old sacrificial scar.”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed.

The rest of the table fell silent.

“He drained the nutrients dry from the land he guarded.”

Richard filtered what he had heard, sharing only what could safely be spoken.

“Over the decades, thousands of lives were sacrificed into it, but the scar didn't fatten up. Instead, it grew thinner and thinner.

“He is too old. Swapping to a new plot of land would be like tearing himself apart and trying to piece it all back together. He wouldn't survive it.

“Holding out where he is lets him live a bit longer than if he moved. That’s all.”

“So he didn't stay put by choice; he just couldn't move.”

Dionysus set down his goblet.

“As for the two fighting over his well now,” Richard continued.

“They aren't just fighting for the land. They want the ready-made skeleton buried beneath it.”

Richard leaned back in his chair, leveling out his breathing.

Demeter’s terracotta mask had remained angled downward the entire time.

Beneath it, however, her expression had shifted several times.

When she first entered the temple, she had viewed everyone else at the table as a brood of chicks huddled around an old hen.

Now, at least one of those chicks was casually tossing out intelligence that even she wouldn't dare drop so lightly.

At the head of the table, Hecate’s Golden Mask remained fixed on Richard.

When he finished, her three-phased voice layered together.

“I will add one point to what Hermes shared.”

Her motherly voice took the lead, warm but carrying an underlying weight.

“Of the two on Hemus Island, the victor was the one weaving the ropes.

“He excels at laying plans and has had his eye on that well for a long time.

“Right now, he is in the process of taking the well for himself.”

“Though it has not been a smooth process.” Her crone voice dropped low.

“A fertile plot nourished for a thousand years, whose sovereignty has just been vacated, can never be conquered overnight.

“The victor must take the millennial whispers beneath the earth and twist them, one by one, into his own rope.”

“That concludes the intelligence sharing.”

Hecate retracted her tri-layered voice, and the Torch and Key rematerialized above her head.

She did not immediately dismiss the gathering.

The Golden Mask swept over the faces of the seven people at the table, one by one.

It paused for half a heartbeat when it reached the drooping wheat stalks above the seventh chair, and paused for another half heartbeat at the dead-gray stump of Ares’s severed shoulder.

“Tonight, I have a formal matter to announce.”

The entire table sat up straighter.

“You all remember my previous words: once all seven chairs were filled, the gathering would enter its second phase.”

Hecate’s maiden voice rang out, clear and bright.

“With Demeter taking her seat tonight, all seven chairs are filled for the first time.”

“Starting from our next gathering,” Hecate enunciated every word, “I will craft a mask for each of the six of you.”

The table was dead silent.

“You have all seen mine.”

Hecate raised a hand, tapping the edge of her Golden Mask with her fingertip.

The maiden and crone halves wavered slightly beneath her touch.

“More than half of my power comes from this.”

“I determined each of your titles when I distributed the tokens.

“Once the masks are forged, those who wear them will be able to borrow a lineage of power corresponding to that title.

“How much you can draw will depend on your own Rank and foundation.”

Her motherly voice stepped in to elaborate.

“The mask will not grant you abilities out of thin air.

“It is a conduit. It takes the cognition that has settled around that name over millennia and funnels a sliver of it into you.

“The deeper you have dug your own well, the more water you can draw in.”

Hearing this, everyone at the table began visualizing the aspects of their chosen divine names that aligned with their own paths.

“To speak plainly,” Hecate said, as if seeing right through the calculations spinning in their heads.

“Once you put on the masks, your advancement speed will be faster than it is now.

“How much faster varies from person to person.

“Those at a lower Rank will get a small taste of the benefits; those at a higher Rank will feel its true weight.”

Dionysus picked his goblet back up.

“Leader, crafting one of these masks... how much effort will it cost you?”

“The effort isn't in the crafting,” Hecate answered swiftly.

“It's in the tuning. Each mask must be calibrated to the specific foundation of its wearer.

“If the tuning is off, the conduit misaligns, and what pours in won't just be power.”

“Once all six of you cross the threshold into the Minor Adept Rank...”

“...the gathering will advance to the third phase.”

No one at the table spoke.

“Our next gathering will be in mid-June.” Hecate wrapped up the topic.

“You are all familiar with how to leave.

“Close your eyes, and count to seven.”

Richard closed his eyes.

One, two, three.

The outlines of the seven masks receded layer by layer into the back of his mind.

Four, five.

A conduit, funneling a sliver of millennia-old accumulation into you.

The more he drew in, would the shadow he cast on the other side of the veil grow darker and longer?

Six.

He thought of the Sphinx Lamp, of the still-immature shadow beneath his feet.

Borrowed power always had to be paid back.

Seven.

The sea of stars scattered.

The temple emptied.

The floating sea of stars faded away for the most part, leaving only the ring of marble around the head seat still solid.

Two women sat across the round table from each other, wearing masks—one gold, one terracotta.

Demeter’s weathered hands shifted uneasily in her lap.

Hecate spoke first, and this time she did not use her three-layered tone.

She used only her motherly voice, warm and familiar.

“What did you think of tonight?”

Demeter knew exactly what she was asking.

“It was good.”

She suppressed a mountain of complaints beneath those three words.

Good, my ass. A table of chicks surrounding an old hen... if the old sisters heard about this, they'd laugh their teeth out.

“Just that one sentence?”

Hecate found it somewhat amusing.

“You sat there all night, and all you have to say is ‘it was good’?”

“It really was good.” Demeter rubbed her calloused hands against her lap.

“Then tell me, what was so good about it?”

Demeter groaned internally behind her mask.

Her mind raced.

Out of everyone at this table, who could she single out to praise?

Ares? Praise him for losing his arm with backbone?

Dionysus? Praise him for being so loud about his advancement?

Prometheus’s ball of fire had barely spoken a word all night, and Nemesis’s scales had just kept tipping back and forth...

Right. That only left Hermes.

“That... Hermes,” Demeter began. “He was the standout tonight.”

“Mm.”

“Look at him. When he couldn't undo that seal of yours, he sought help from a senior.

“He didn't try to hide it; he admitted it openly.

“But when he spoke about it, he kept that senior's name completely under wraps, not letting a single syllable slip.”

Demeter spoke more smoothly as she went on.

“And how he praised your seal—it was flattering, but anyone who knows their stuff could immediately tell who the truly skilled one was.

“The kid has great tact. For someone so young, his grasp on boundaries and discretion is—”

“Demeter.”

“—and that line of his, ‘appraisals will be charged accordingly,’ was delivered beautifully, too. It made his time seem valuable without completely closing the door on negotiations—”

“Demeter.” Hecate’s voice grew a fraction heavier.

Demeter stopped.

“If you praise him any more, I am going to start wondering if you have your eye on him.”

Demeter flushed hot beneath her mask.

“I was just—you told me to say what was good about it.”

“Alright.” A hint of a smile leaked into Hecate’s maiden voice. “Let’s get down to business.”

Demeter rested her hands properly on her lap.

“I told the table that the masks would take some time,” Hecate said.

“Mm.”

“Truthfully, I could make them right now.”

Demeter was a little confused.

“Delaying it was just an excuse.”

Hecate pulled the pool of black water back to the center of the table.

The black water reflected the phantoms of the people who had just been sitting at the table.

Her fingertip fell upon the phantom of Ares.

“Him. I want to replace him.”

Hearing this, Demeter felt somewhat uneasy.

She had a gentle temperament, and her first instinct upon hearing of a replacement was always to speak up for them.

“Hecate...” she began.

“His arm is severed, and he's having a hard time right now. To replace him at a time like this, isn't it a bit—”

“It is exactly because of that arm that I must replace him.”

Hecate tapped her finger on Ares’s phantom.

“Couldn't you tell? That ring of dead gray around his severed shoulder is the aftereffect of using the Moon Nail: Reflection Spell Formula to sustain his life.

“The stump has nowhere to vent the energy, so the ether idles and converts into heat.

“He couldn't suppress it himself. Hermes guided him remotely, but even then, he only managed to suppress half of it.”

“He's just wounded. If he recovers—”

“Demeter, this is not a charity hall.”

Hecate shut her down.

“A Hunter who has lost his dominant arm, with the stump rotting away inch by inch.

“At his level, mere rest and recovery will never bring him back.”

“He knows this himself.” Hecate now spoke only in her crone voice.

“Look at him tonight. Everything he laid out on the table was leftover scraps from his last trip to the Ash Belt.

“He couldn't pull out a single new item. That seedling of his has withered.”

Demeter fell silent.

“At my table, there are six chairs besides my own.”

Hecate continued tapping the surface.

“I have to plan for each and every one of them.

“A withered seedling taking up a chair... when the masks are forged, he won't be able to borrow that lineage of power, and he won't be able to advance.

“One straggler will drag down the progress of the entire table.”

“Have you already... found someone else?” Demeter caught on to the implication.

“Yes,” Hecate answered crisply.

“A Minor Adept Hunter. I've interacted with him a few times; his foundation is solid and he is quite sharp.

“I plan to have him wear the mask of Heracles.”

Heracles!

Demeter was widely experienced, and she knew exactly what that name represented.

Divine names were divided into grades and ranks.

Bluntly put, a divine name was a vessel. Over thousands of years, cognition and perception settled down layer by layer, compacting and forging into an anchor.

The longer it settled and the more people who recognized it, the thicker and sturdier the vessel became.

And when someone drew power from it, the sliver they pulled out would be that much more potent.

The wheat stalk above Demeter’s own head was only considered upper-middle tier.

Mother of grain and the earth, governing growth and decay, life and death—her vessel was thick enough.

But her purviews were too scattered. Her power was dispersed across fields, harvests, mother-daughter bonds, and the four seasons. Drawing a sliver was just that—a sliver. It couldn't be condensed into a sharp, focused force.

There were very few names that truly ranked in the highest tier.

Demeter silently counted them off in her mind.

Athena was one.

Wisdom, war, crafts, and the protection of the city-state—several domains twisted into a single rope, yet twisted with absolute clarity.

It was a name with such specific, unique significance that anyone with ambition coveted the title of Athena.

Then there were the likes of Apollo and Artemis: light, prophecy, and the hunt. Their roots ran deep, and their domains were pure and concentrated.

Heracles was, without a doubt, also in this first tier.

Demeter even felt that when it came to “borrowing power,” Heracles would be somewhat smoother to wield than Athena.

Athena was, after all, a god.

Born a god, she had stood upon Mount Olympus from the moment she came into existence.

It was very difficult for a mortal to grasp and wield that level of wisdom and martial prowess.

But Heracles was different.

He had started as a human—a demigod, the illegitimate son of the God King.

Among all the demigods, he was the most tireless and the most powerful.

Born in Thebes, despised by the Queen of Heaven from the moment he left the womb, he had strangled two venomous snakes to death right in his cradle.

His entire litany of glorious deeds had been earned, bit by bloody bit, by his own hands.

He was poisoned by centaur blood, his flesh and skin festering inch by inch.

The pain drove him to build his own pyre atop Mount Oeta and set it ablaze.

The fire burned away his mortal shell, and in the end, he ascended to godhood.

This was Heracles—ultimate strength, ultimate endurance.

The vessel was thick and heavy, and its intent was intensely pure.

To take such a title and give it to an elite Hunter with a solid foundation...

Demeter sighed beneath her mask.

Borrowing power from a divine persona had always been about “compatibility.”

“You are... using a top-tier title to reel in a top-tier person.”

Demeter understood her intent.