Chapter 295: Another Salon (Alliance Leader Bonus 8)

"The supernatural items plundered from the colonies."

"Over the years, the imperial fleet has sailed to every corner of the world, hauling back other people's belongings piece by piece.

"Some went into museum vaults, some fell into the hands of private collectors, and others... have you all seen the newly erected obelisk on the Imperial Capital's riverbank?"

A few people at the table nodded.

"That was dismantled whole and shipped over from the entrance of a temple on the Black Soil River.

"Once the war started, these artifacts—forcibly ripped from their homelands—began to 'seep' one by one.

"The leaks at the transit seals are multiplying, and each one is worse than the last."

Richard stopped speaking.

He had dug up this piece of intelligence through his status as an Auxiliary Investigating Scholar, verifying it against the museum's internal archives. It was clean, and it carried weight.

Hecate spoke from the head of the table.

"I have heard your reports. Now, I will add a few things of my own."

"I mentioned last time that on this chessboard of the Old Continent, the 'wells' are emptying out one after another.

"Somewhere in the Empire, there is a 'well' that has been maintained for centuries. Its old holder recently... passed away."

The table fell silent.

"With the well empty, every faction threw themselves at it, scrambling to claim it."

"During this scramble, a gathering similar to ours was... devoured by another table."

"There are other salons besides ours?" Heracles was the first to ask.

"Yes. I didn't tell you last time because our numbers weren't quite complete.

"Gatherings like ours are actually competitive in nature. This is what I meant by the third stage."

Hecate explained,

"That table was eaten—the entire gathering, people and titles alike, was swallowed whole by another."

"Our gatherings aren't just racing; we are hunting one another."

Her triple-layered voice overlapped, sending a chill down the spine if one listened for too long.

"Take a step too slow, and you fall behind. And those who fall behind become meat in someone else's pot."

A sense of crisis settled heavily over the members at the table.

They realized this was no safe, leisurely social club.

This was a predatory game, and they were already in the thick of it.

"One more thing," Hecate continued.

"Recently, the Sleep-Return Rituals across the Empire have been failing more and more frequently."

"The routine maintenance and clearance of the weak points?" Heracles asked.

"More or less... sending the things behind the veil to rest, allowing restless spirits to return to peace.

"For centuries, these rituals have followed their own established laws."

Hecate sighed softly.

"But in recent years, the dead have become increasingly unwilling to sleep.

"You read the verdict, and they reject it. You seal their flesh, and they break free. One by one, these sleep-return rites have become incredibly difficult to carry out."

"If this system of rituals collapses, the things accumulating behind the veil will sooner or later spill over to this side."

The expressions of the people at the table grew solemn.

Hecate concluded,

"The wax cylinder Dionysus mentioned—every time it is played, the sound is different.

"That female voice might have slipped through from behind the veil, using the phonograph as a medium."

"A wax cylinder records sound because it captures vibrations; if it can capture vibrations, it can capture other things. By the same logic, copper wires transmit electricity, and if they can transmit electricity, they can transmit other things. Phonographs, electric lights, telegraphs—these technological products are becoming new conductors."

She continued.

"Why did the Sleep-Return Ritual collapse?

"Decades ago, people died in fields and in their beds. Today, people die in factories and in mines...

"The nature of death has changed. The old verdicts cannot suppress the horrors festering from these new deaths."

Hecate wrapped up her thoughts.

"This is merely my humble opinion. Stringing these pieces of intelligence together might not necessarily lead to the truth.

"But if it holds true, then moving forward, we will have to rethink everything—sealing, sleep-return, and appraisal—to account for these new conductors."

The intelligence sharing ended there.

Hecate raised her hand from the head of the table. The Torch and Key solidified once again above her head.

"That is all for tonight. You can explore the masks on your own once you take them back.

"But before you use them, think clearly about the price."

The people at the table nodded their agreement.

At the head of the table, Hecate seemed to remember something.

"Right." The motherly facet of her voice sounded incredibly gentle.

"You might have noticed... Ares is gone."

The moment those words were spoken, the chair Heracles was sitting in suddenly seemed exceptionally glaring.

"His arm was severely injured, making it difficult for him to keep enduring this kind of exertion. I respectfully asked him to leave."

Hecate's voice was very soft. "I gave him enough money to buy a prosthetic limb, so we could part on good terms."

From beginning to end tonight, not a single person had brought up Ares.

That one-armed man, who had sat in his chair looking thoroughly dejected, was simply gone.

The six people at the table each minded their own business. No one asked where the original owner of that chair had gone.

Hecate raised her hand.

"Dismissed."

"The next gathering will be in mid-October."

Richard closed his eyes.

One, two, three... The outlines of the seven masks retreated in his mind, layer by layer.

Four, five... Ares's chair, which had emptied and been filled again.

Six, seven... The sea of stars scattered, and the temple emptied.

...

On the other side, Lillian also opened her eyes amid the wind and snow.

She stood in a hall.

The hall was massive—so vast she couldn't see its edges.

Yet she couldn't say exactly how big it was. If she stared at the distant wall, it would retreat; but the moment she looked away, it would inch closer.

Fires burned in the center of the hall. Rows of braziers lined a long table.

But the fire gave no warmth.

The flames danced wildly, looking livelier than anything else, but they offered no heat.

They could illuminate a face, but they couldn't warm a pair of hands. They were merely balls of light meant to deceive the eyes.

On the long table sat silver platters and crystal goblets. There was a whole roasted suckling pig baked to a golden brown, alongside mountains of fruit and pastries dripping with honey.

But if one actually reached for them... the platters held only ash, the goblets were empty, and the suckling pig would collapse into a puddle of cold grease at the slightest touch.

Ms. Holloway had mentioned this place.

She had said that there was more than one gathering in the mystical world.

Some adhered to rules, some focused on exchange, and some cared for none of these things.

This particular gathering cared the least of all.

In the ancient legends, this place was called the "Hall of False Oaths."

The fire was called the "Deceitful Flame," the goblets "Empty Promise," and the knives "Oathbreaker"; that table of fake food was called the "False Feast."

Everything was fake. Everything was meant to deceive.

The first time Lillian came here, she had cast her gaze into that impenetrable darkness.

There, severed heads hung suspended.

One after another, crammed tightly together, too numerous to count.

Some still wore masks. For others, the masks had long since shattered, revealing the air-dried faces beneath.

In the deepest part of the hall sat a high chair. The figure sitting in it was a man.

He was gaunt, his shoulders drooping loosely as his entire figure sank into the chair.

He wore a mask covered in dense, fine stitches.

Coiled above his head was a snake.

The snake was a dark, murky green. It lowered its head, saliva dripping from its maw.

The saliva fell onto his mask, but he didn't even try to dodge.

Divine Name Projection—Loki.

God of Deceit, Father of All Evil.

He could shift into any form: man or woman, human or beast, old or young.

In the legends, he committed every evil deed and told every lie, deceiving the gods, the giants, and the dwarves alike.

This table of fake fire, empty goblets, and the False Feast was all laid out by him.

Seated below Loki were five people.

In the chair right next to the high chair sat a woman.

The left half of her mask was the face of a young woman, her features exceedingly beautiful; the right half was a rotted face, the cheekbone exposed through the decay.

Above her head was a half-open door. The darkness on the other side was impenetrable, while this side bled cold air.

Divine Name Projection—Hela.

Queen of the Dead, Warden of the Underworld.

In mythology, Loki was her father.

Yet, sitting in this hall, this "father and daughter" didn't even look at one another, acting much like strangers.

Below Hela sat a blond man.

His mask was brilliantly bright, seemingly gathering all the Deceitful Flames in the hall toward itself.

Floating above his head was a sprig of mistletoe, vibrantly green and bearing a few white berries.

Divine Name Projection—Baldr.

God of Light, the most beloved among the gods.

Fire would not burn him, iron would not cut him, water would not drown him, and poison could not devour him.

Invulnerable to weapons, untouched by water and fire—he was the only one among the gods that no one could harm.

Every time Lillian entered, Baldr would look at her with the kind of gaze one reserved for kittens or puppies.

It carried neither malice nor goodwill.

Opposite Baldr was a terrifyingly tall and imposing man. His mask was shaped like a half-open wolf's maw.

He sat there, his neck and wrists bound by several invisible chains.

Divine Name Projection—Fenrir.

He was destined to break free from his chains on the day of the apocalypse and swallow the King of the Gods whole.

The man next to Fenrir was one-armed.

His mask was iron-gray, square, and plain, devoid of any adornment.

He sat perfectly straight, like an old soldier who had guarded the barracks his entire life.

Above his head hovered a sword and a severed hand.

Divine Name Projection—Tyr.

God of War, and also God of Justice, the keeper of oaths.

Back when the gods wanted to bind Fenrir, the giant wolf refused. Tyr had placed his own right hand into its mouth as a guarantee.

The chains were fastened, the deception was complete, and Fenrir bit his hand off in a single snap.

The very last person was a woman.

Her mask was dark gold, its features painted with extreme allure.

In front of her sat a shallow dish containing a dark red, viscous substance.

She dipped a single finger into it and slowly brought it to her lips.

Hovering above her head was a cloak woven from feathers, along with a necklace of red gold.

Divine Name Projection—Freyja.

Goddess of love, war, and witchcraft—she was equally someone you did not want to provoke.

Six chairs. All of them were occupied.

Lillian had been standing on the edge of the hall with her batch of candidates.

From the very first day she was brought in, she had stood here, draped in a shroud.

Ms. Holloway had told her the rules of this table.

The seventh chair at this table was illusory.

The seventh was an empty number—the place where the candidates stood.

And for these candidates to turn the illusory chair into a real one, there was only one method.

Kill!