Chapter 299: Not Just Tea?

Richard left his classes at the Petrie Building and took a carriage back to the mansion. It was already getting dark.

An empty house had its advantages.

There was no better place to practice Spell Formulas than an empty mansion.

He took out the Silent Fern Spores he had exchanged with Demeter.

They were completely dry, slightly cool to the touch.

Two steel pipes also sat on the desk.

The pipes had originally been packed with a mixture of Multi-Eyed Black Moss and fog bell.

Fog bell was the substitute Nemesis had recommended, though its effectiveness fell quite a bit short.

Richard had used that combination to practice Silence until today, always stuck at "barely usable."

He could just barely force out a pocket of vacuum through the steel pipe, and nothing more.

Things were different now.

He swapped in a pinch of Silent Fern and unfolded the three pages of advanced Spell Formulas he had memorized the night of Madam Marie's seance, laying them out perfectly in his mind.

An authentic casting medium, paired with a complete circulation circuit.

Gripping the steel pipe, Richard circulated Tide-Shifting Breathing.

His inhales stretched into long slopes, and his exhales clipped into short waves.

Inside his chest, the ether receded and surged on its own.

A wisp of ether pushed along the inside of his right arm and into the palm holding the pipe.

The ether seeped into the steel, activating the plant matter.

The next moment, a pocket of vacuum shot from the tip of the pipe.

A sudden chill washed over Richard.

The vacuum produced by genuine Silent Fern was more than twice as strong as the fog bell's.

Right as his own meager ether surged upward, this burst of vacuum forcefully tore a chunk of it away.

A breath was ripped right out of him, leaving a gap he couldn't fill in time.

Richard let out a muffled groan and stopped.

His chest was in chaos, the ebb and flow of his tide entirely thrown off.

His throat tightened, and his temples throbbed.

It took him a while to calm down and smooth out the reversed flow of air.

The power was truly immense.

But half of that power was aimed at the target, and the other half backfired on him.

Richard sat motionless, replaying the moment in his mind.

[Speculation] quickly sorted out the core issue for him: the main problem lay in the exact moment of the release.

He had triggered it too hastily. While his own ether was still surging upward, a chunk of it had been drawn away by the vacuum.

Unable to rise, it naturally left a void.

Tide-Shifting Breathing had its advantages. The ether adjusted its own frequency in tandem with his respiration; all he had to do was lock onto the right moment.

He needed to wait for the exact instant the ether surged to its peak and was about to recede. By riding that recession, he could expel the vacuum.

The theory was sound, but he still needed practice.

Richard pushed his ether into the steel pipe, but this time he wasn't in a rush.

He focused on the tide of ether in his chest, rising... rising to the peak...

In the exact split-second the ether was about to pull back, he expelled the vacuum.

The vacuum shot out, and his chest didn't hollow out this time.

Richard let out a breath and tried a few more times.

Each attempt was steadier than the last.

By the end, when he fired the vacuum, his own ether remained perfectly undisturbed.

The ebb and flow continued as usual, rising and falling like the tide.

...

When September arrived, Phillips prepared to slip back to Imperial Capital University, calling Richard in advance to tell him to wait.

Standing beneath a tree, Richard heard it before he saw it.

A sputtering roar echoed from the small path behind the Petrie Building, panting heavily and scaring away all the sparrows in the sycamores.

An open-top car wobbled into view.

Its brass headlights gleamed blindingly under the autumn sun, and a trail of black smoke billowed from the exhaust.

The car came to a stop, its engine shuddering violently twice before finally agreeing to die.

Phillips hopped out of the driver's seat and pulled off his goggles, his windblown hair sticking up in every direction.

"My dad's car," he said, patting the blistering hood.

"He went grouse hunting in the countryside last month, and I drove it back on my way over.

"It stalled three times on the way here. I had to push it up that slope on the west side of the city. I'm exhausted."

"The Royal Academy didn't send a car?"

"What car?" Phillips bent over and hauled a wicker basket out of the backseat.

"Those old men would love nothing more than for us to walk everywhere. They claim it builds character."

He sat down on a patch of dry grass in the shade and opened the basket.

Inside was just a teapot and two cups.

Richard looked at the pot.

It was no master craftsman's work. The glaze was dull, and a small chip was missing from the spout. It looked like it had been around for years.

"A new find?"

"An old friend." Phillips set the teapot on the grass. "I've been using it for seven or eight years."

He didn't put any tea leaves in the pot, nor did he pour in any water.

He simply rubbed his finger against the side of the pot, lifted it, and tilted it over a cup.

A stream of amber tea flowed out, steaming hot.

Richard's Spirit Vision had been active this whole time.

He could see that the teapot had acknowledged Phillips as its master and was producing tea from nothing.

"You achieved Signature."

"Just a few months ago." Phillips pushed the filled cup toward him. "With this very teapot."

Richard picked it up and took a sip.

It was Darjeeling, and better than the stuff served at the Royal Grand Hotel.

"Hunters are knives; Secret practitioners are nets."

Phillips poured a cup for himself and held it under his nose to sniff.

"For me, it's a teapot with an endless supply of tea."

"What exactly can it pour?"

"Whatever I want." He took a sip.

"Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon... I could drink for a lifetime without repeating a flavor."

Richard had a thought, suddenly wanting to tease him.

"Darjeeling is boring. I want a cup of honey citron tea."

Phillips's hand froze holding his cup.

"Honey citron tea!" He shot Richard a sideways glance, looking at him like a traitor.

"Williams, I've completely misjudged you.

"Such a fine teapot, and all you want it to produce is some cloying, sweet syrup."

"What, it can't do it?"

"It can do it, it can do it."

Phillips slammed his empty cup onto the grass, not bothering to argue.

"I'm not going to debate someone with such terrible taste."

He picked up the pot again and tilted it over the cup.

The liquid that flowed out was several shades lighter, tinged with pale yellow.

A sweet aroma wafted up. The tartness of the citron was perfectly balanced by the honey, with an underlying foundation of tea.

Richard picked it up and took a skeptical sip.

It really was honey citron tea. The sweetness was perfect—sweet but not cloying.

"..." He stared at the chipped old teapot for a long moment. "It actually made it."

"Why would I lie?" Phillips swapped back to his Darjeeling with a look of utter disgust.

"Hot or cold, strong or weak, whatever you picture in your mind, it pours out. I haven't found a limit yet."

Holding his cup of citron tea, Richard's mind raced.

"Phillips, this teapot of yours pours whatever you want."

Richard locked his eyes on the pot. "But does it have to be tea?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying," Richard set the cup down, "can it produce other liquids?"

Phillips was stumped. He scratched his head.

"I haven't tried. I haven't wanted to drink anything else."

"Think about it." Richard leaned in closer.

"Your teapot can conjure up honey citron tea out of thin air, with the temperature and sugar ratio perfectly adjusted.

"It isn't just producing water; it's producing a blended, flavored liquid."

"What if... what if it produced something that didn't just have flavor, but also had other effects?"

Phillips slowly lowered his teacup.

"Are you saying..."

"What do people in our line of work lack the most?" Richard looked at him.

"Deep Ether Condensate, or high-concentration alchemical transmutation liquid. A tiny bottle fetches an astronomical price at the Imperial Capital's internal auctions."

"It's scarce because production is low. There isn't much to go around."

"But your teapot just pours it out."

Richard tapped his finger against the pot. "Pot after pot, as if you could never finish it."

Phillips's eyes slowly widened.

"You mean, if this teapot of mine evolves to a certain point... it won't just pour tea anymore."

"It could pour liquids with enhancements," Richard finished. "A stable, endless supply."

The two of them exchanged a look.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only movement was the steam rising from the spout.

"Then that would be..." Phillips swallowed. "Far too useful."

"Other people's Condensate is extracted drop by drop from deep within the veil. They might only gather a few bottles a year."

Richard nodded firmly.

"If your teapot can actually produce it, it would be like opening a bottomless well."

"Pouring it out, pot by pot." Phillips was spooked by his own thought.

"Those bloodshot, desperate Hunters on the front lines... they'd line up to beg me for it."

"Never mind the front lines," Richard smiled.

"Your own family would enshrine you."

Phillips cradled the chipped teapot, turning it over and over.

"But," he set the pot back on the grass, deflating.

"My pot only pours tea right now. That theory won't work until it actually evolves to that stage."

"Didn't you just want to read books and drink tea for the rest of your life?" Richard teased.

"Things are different now." Phillips downed his Darjeeling in one gulp.

"Where else am I going to find a deal where I can make money just by drinking tea?"

A glint appeared in his eyes, entirely unlike his usual lazy demeanor.

"When the day comes that this pot really pours something else,"

Phillips looked at his tea companion.

"The first bottle goes to you."

"It's a deal." Richard lifted his cup of citron tea and clinked it against Phillips's cup.

Over that chipped teapot, the two carried their wild fantasies further and further.

Halfway through their chat, Phillips remembered something.

"Oh, right. Do you know Wilkinson? The guy who was good at rowing in the boat race."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"It doesn't matter if you don't know him, I'm just saying: he enlisted."

Phillips swirled the tea in his cup.

"He left a couple days ago. Right before he went, he bet us that he'd be back before Christmas, and that he'd treat everyone to Isle of Islay whiskey."

"Before Christmas..." Richard felt a sense of foreboding.

"How long could a war across the sea really last?" Phillips waved a hand dismissively.

"It's in the papers every day, but it just sounds scary."

"It'll end by winter at the latest." He poured himself another cup.

"Once the primroses bloom in spring, Wilkinson will have to come back and pay off his bet."

Richard didn't reply.

He knew exactly what kind of inferno the Old Continent would become.

But he couldn't breathe a single word of it.

Just as they were talking, a young woman walked down the path toward them.

She was beautiful, dressed in an elegant light gray gown.

Her pace was measured, and her chin was slightly raised. She looked like the daughter of a prominent family.

Richard gave her a glance.

A Practitioner who had crossed the threshold, and a Hunter at that.

Her meticulous etiquette was likely intentional.

Following his gaze, Phillips looked back and nearly spilled his tea.

"How did you find me?"

The woman ignored him, first lifting her skirt in a curtsy to Richard.

"Hello," she said. "I am Phillips's fiancée."

Richard stood up and returned the greeting.

This was likely his family's response to Phillips achieving Signature with the teapot.

"Phillips," the woman turned to her fiancé, her tone perfectly polite.

"It is time to go back. Your aunt is waiting."

"I'm drinking tea with my friend."

Phillips sat back down on the grass, pulling the wicker basket closer. "I'll be there in a bit..."

The woman frowned, reached out, and grabbed his arm.

The next moment, Phillips was hoisted into the air, spilling his tea all over the ground.

Phillips had gained Signature with a teapot supernatural item, and walked the Scholar path. He couldn't possibly outmuscle a Practitioner Hunter.

"Hey, hey, I haven't packed my cup yet..."

"Excuse us, Mr. Williams."

The woman nodded at Richard again. Without breaking her elegant stride, she dragged Phillips off down the path.

Richard stood motionless, holding his unfinished cup of citron tea.

This was a family matter; an outsider had no place intervening.

Phillips was dragged away just like that, half-pulled and half-carried.

Even from far away, his reluctant voice could still be heard drifting back.

The open-top car was still parked haphazardly under the sycamores, its brass headlights left on.

Richard sat back down on the grass and slowly finished his citron tea.

The tea tasted even better than what his aunt brewed. Next time, he would get Phillips to pour more so he could take it to her.

Speaking of which, he had promised his mother before leaving home that he would call back more often.

Between the start of the term, studying that mask, and looking into that pile of cursed objects, it had been a week since his last call.

He got up and headed toward a public telephone booth.

Richard gave the operator the number and waited to be connected.

The phone rang a few times before someone picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Who is this?"

The sweet, soft voice belonged to his younger sister.

"It's me," Richard said.

"Brother!" Her voice suddenly shot up an octave. "You finally called!"

"Yeah, I've been busy lately."

"Busy with what?" Evelyn didn't wait for him to answer before launching into her own chatter.

"I have so many things to tell you!"

Leaning against the wooden paneling of the booth, Richard listened to his sister babble on.

"Mrs. Weir's cat climbed onto our windowsill the other day and ate a piece of almond crisp I had left out to cool!

"I couldn't even bring myself to eat that piece yet! And that cat just gobbled it up!"

"That cat..." Richard remembered something, but didn't finish his sentence.

"Mom told me not to be mad, saying the cat didn't know any better, but that was the piece I saved!"

As she spoke, she switched to another topic.

Dad hadn't been working overtime lately and was coming home early.

Mom was taking her medicine on time, and the lady next door had taught her a new recipe for jam.

A new pastry shop had opened on Central Avenue, but their sweets still weren't as good as hers.

One thing after another, it was all just trivial, everyday matters.

Listening to his sister's endless family chatter, Richard's expression softened.

Even though his mood eased, a slight weight still pressed down on him.

"Hello? Are you still listening, Brother?" Evelyn's voice pulled him back.

"I'm listening," Richard said.

"That pastry I just mentioned, I'll make it for you when you come back. I promise it'll be delicious this time!"

"Alright." Richard smiled. "I'll be waiting."

"Make sure you eat well at school, then," Evelyn's voice softened. "Don't lose weight again."

"I know."

Hanging up the phone, Richard stepped out of the booth.

Under the dim, yellow sky, he stood there for a long time.