Chapter 306: Taxi Troop Transport

Isabella continued.

"I followed this thread and looked further into it."

"In the Propaganda Department, there's an official leaning toward the Scholar path."

"He used Meiqin's case to observe the entire process of 'how words condense into physical entities' from start to finish."

"And completed his own research findings."

A few days later, while the aftermath of the incident was still fermenting, more news from Mons returned to the Imperial Capital.

That batch of soldiers retreated alive, but every single one of them was off.

Some stared at the roofs of their tents all night long;

Others claimed that the row of archers was still watching them.

Sophia had attached a medical officer's report.

The medical officer was also stumped.

These soldiers weren't injured or poisoned, but it was as if a part of their very being had been hollowed out.

Along with the records, Sophia had sent back one more thing.

The relic of a soldier who had retreated from the front lines but hadn't survived the aftermath.

It was an identification tag.

This soldier was one of those "saved by the angels."

Richard took out his two weighing supernatural items.

The Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight and the Small Bronze Balance.

The long beak of the sacred ibis tilted toward the identification tag.

A moment later, the weighing results surfaced in the form of a ledger.

This person had been "protected."

After recording it, the scale began to weigh.

One end of the scale sank heavily on "being protected."

The other end rested weightlessly on... the soldier himself.

Richard stared at the outcome.

"It saved them because they believed in it."

"The more it's believed in, the larger it grows."

His aunt sat across the desk, listening.

"...And the price, the price is that it slowly hollows out the people who believe in it, eating them away bit by bit."

"This is something newly created by human hands that has spiraled out of control."

The Angels of Mons were "defined" into existence by tens of thousands of people.

Tens of thousands defined them as archers, so they became archers;

Tens of thousands believed they could save people, so they actually saved people.

Richard and his aunt reported their conclusion.

Several groups of scholars in the rear also pooled their respective findings.

Once the pieces were put together, the conclusion became obvious.

The entity was real. It saved people, but it was also eating them.

The moment the conclusion was submitted, an uproar broke out in the academic community.

Two opposing views clashed head-on.

The first was championed by an old scholar.

"It eats people; it must be destroyed."

"Leaving something that eats our own soldiers on the front lines will inevitably lead to a catastrophe."

The second was proposed by another scholar.

"It can block bullets."

"This is the only effective 'faith weapon' we have in this war."

"If we destroy it, the front lines lose a protective talisman."

"We should control how it's used."

This proponent of the second view elaborated further.

"We can guide it, making it 'only consume the faith of the enemy forces while protecting our own'."

The advocate for the first view immediately fired back.

"How do you guide something brought into existence by the belief of tens of thousands of people?"

"It can't take orders at all. It's a product of the unconscious mind."

The two factions argued bitterly.

Ultimately, this debate didn't wait for the academic community to reach a consensus.

A telegram from the front lines arrived first.

The entity was gone—or more precisely, it had been "collected."

Isabella held the telegram, her expression complex.

"A few days ago, a 'big shot' passed through the Mons area."

She handed the telegram to Richard.

"Who?"

"The telegram doesn't mention a name." Isabella shook her head.

"It only says 'a swathe of purplish-red swept across the area from south to north'."

"None of the graduate students on the team dared to look up for a closer look."

"A Virtuoso?"

"Yes." Isabella nodded.

"After that person passed by, the echo of the Angels of Mons on the other side of the veil was taken away entirely."

She sighed softly.

"So there's no need for anyone to argue anymore."

"The entity is gone. Whether to destroy it or use it has become a moot point."

"The Department of Internal Affairs took the opportunity to close the case."

She gathered the stack of reports from Mons off the desk.

"Naming and spreading tales of it are forbidden. The press and the military are suppressing the matter."

"The official explanation is that it was nothing more than a collective 'battlefield hallucination' during the retreat."

...

Autumn arrived early in the Imperial Capital.

The sycamore leaves had turned half yellow, falling onto the stone-paved road in front of the Petrie Building, too numerous to sweep away.

Room 314 on the third floor often remained lit until the latter half of the night lately.

Isabella claimed she was rushing a paper she had put off for half a year, and also said the Compilation Group was pressing her hard, unable to finish sorting the sealing diagrams demanded by the front lines.

When Clara brought in tea, she got a clear look at what was spread out on the desk.

It was the stacks of reports Sophia had mailed back from across the strait.

"Mentor." Clara placed the tea at the corner of the desk.

Isabella didn't even look up, flipping over a page of the report.

Richard, over at the Compilation Group, was the first to sense something was wrong.

In that windowless classroom, rolls of front-line battle reports flowed in every few days.

But over the past week, both telegrams and phone calls had abruptly ceased.

It wasn't just one location; the communication lines across the entire front had been cleanly severed in a single stroke.

By the end of September, a telegram finally came through via the academy's dedicated line.

When Isabella tore open the telegram, her hands shook so much she could barely hold the paper steady.

The telegram was brief, so short it felt stingy:

"Lines restored. Safe and sound.

Transferring at Deer Port tomorrow, returning the day after. —S."

Isabella read the telegram several times before setting it down on the desk.

On the morning of the day after, the three of them went to the Central Station together.

The station was packed with people.

On the platforms, squads of new recruits in khaki uniforms were still being yelled at by sergeants to board the trains.

Women seeing them off crowded outside the railings—some crying, others forcing smiles.

Joy and sorrow tangled together, making it impossible to tell which overpowered the other.

The train from the coast pulled into the station half an hour late.

The moment the doors opened, a massive throng of people surged out.

Isabella stood on the platform, searching through the sea of heads one by one.

"Over there." Clara spoke up first.

Sophia squeezed her way out the train doors.

She had lost a lot of weight. Her face was sunburned red, and her hair was tied haphazardly behind her head with a strip of cloth.

Her clothes were crumpled and stained with dirt from somewhere unknown.

She dragged a massive leather suitcase behind her, bulging so much it looked ready to burst.

"Mentor! Clara! Richard!"

Sophia spotted them at a glance and rushed over in a few quick strides, dragging the suitcase.

The exhaustion clinging to her faded for the most part the moment she saw the three of them.

"Why did you all come?"

She panted, her eyes slightly red.

Isabella stood where she was, looking her student up and down.

"...It's good that you're back."

She had wanted to say something else.

But when the words reached her lips, only this simplest sentence remained.

"For a few days there, the telegrams stopped." Isabella's voice was soft. "What happened?"

The smile on Sophia's face stiffened.

"...You're really well-informed, Mentor. I'll tell you when we get back."

She intended to brush it off.

But Isabella just watched her, waiting quietly.

Sophia's shoulders slowly slumped.

"...Something happened to the electrical lines in our sector."

She said in a low voice:

"The telegraph operator was hit first, and then even we couldn't avoid it... That thing crawled onto people by following the lines."

"It crawled onto you?" Clara asked.

"It just brushed me." Sophia kept her head down.

"Just a tiny bit." She gestured with her pinky finger.

"It surged up my wrist, and I immediately let go."

"And then?"

"Then the authorities cut off all power and communication lines across the entire war zone."

"Telegrams, phones, searchlights—they pulled the plug on everything.

We graduate students hid in the pitch dark for three days to re-suppress that section of the seal."

"What did the medical officer say?" Isabella's expression darkened.

"Said it just needs time to heal," Sophia quickly replied. "Mine is the mildest case."

She held up that hand and waved it, pretending she didn't care.

"Let's head back first," his aunt spoke up.

"When we get back, we'll have someone take a proper look at your hand."

"It's not that big a deal..."

"Don't be stubborn!" Isabella cut her off.

Sophia lowered her hand and didn't argue further.

Richard walked over and bent down to pick up the suitcase for her.

The moment he grabbed it, he almost couldn't lift it.

"What's in here?" Richard hefted it. "Rocks?"

"Presents!" Sophia looked smug again. "All good stuff."

"A whole suitcase of presents?" Clara also leaned in for a look.

"I just kept buying, and it added up." Sophia blinked.

...

To celebrate her student's safe return, Isabella called all her other students together for a meal.

Sophia, Clara, plus the two other graduate students.

Richard arrived fifteen minutes early.

Entering the private dining room, he found two unfamiliar faces already seated inside.

One was a tall, thin young man who had a book splayed open on the table in front of him.

Seeing Richard enter, he hurriedly stood up.

"Hello, I'm Thomson."

"Senior Thomson." Richard shook his hand.

Thomson spoke earnestly.

"In that empirical draft about the Boundary Stones, the sets of probatio data from pages sixteen to nineteen were very well organized."

Richard was a little surprised.

"You even remember the page numbers?"

"I study Inscriptiology," Thomson said as a matter of course. "Memorizing page numbers is a basic skill."

The other young man sitting nearby burst into laughter.

"Thomson can't fix this bad habit of his."

He raised a glass of water toward Richard in greeting.

"Price. Just like you guys, I'm a coolie for Associate Professor Isabella."

They chatted for a bit before the door curtain was lifted, and Sophia and Clara walked in.

Richard noticed that Sophia had a loop of silver thread wrapped around her right wrist.

Clara followed behind her, quiet as usual, and gave everyone a nod.

"Is everyone here?" Sophia set the suitcase down by the wall. "Where's the Mentor?"

"My aunt said she'll be here shortly," Richard answered.

"She's busy again." Sophia curled her lips, then turned and spotted Thomson.

"Oh, Thomson, why did you bring a book today of all days?"

Thomson tried to hide the book.

"...I got here early, so I read a bit since I had nothing else to do."

"You were just like this at the Christmas lantern festival last time." Sophia laughed.

"The Mentor dragged us all out to see the lanterns, and you squatted alone under a streetlamp reading.

When she asked if the lanterns were pretty, you said, 'The light spectrum is very interesting.'"

Price sputtered a laugh.

"He really said that?"

"The spectrum of light is inherently interesting." Thomson's face flushed red.

"Different lights are distinct. Gas lamps lean yellow, electric lights lean white..."

"Alright, alright." Sophia waved him off. "We know you're a great scholar."

She crouched in front of the suitcase by the wall and popped the clasps.

"Presents first!"

When the suitcase opened, it revealed a chaotic jumble of small bags and boxes stuffed together.

"This suitcase of yours looks like a trench." Price leaned in for a look.

"Never mind the mess, the goods are solid."

Sophia pulled things out one by one, chattering non-stop.

"This one's soft, for the Mentor to warm her hands."

"This is for Clara, it perfectly matches your coat."

"Richard, you eat a lot, so this bag will fill you up... but don't eat it all at once."

The suitcase gradually emptied out as its contents found a match for every face in the room.

Sophia let out a long breath, having completed her most important task.

The moment Isabella walked into the private room, Sophia shoved a lace handkerchief at her.

"Mentor, this is for you."

Isabella accepted the handkerchief and glanced at the spread of presents covering the table.

"Did you empty out every shop in Deer Port?"

"No, no." Sophia waved her hand. "I only bought a little bit."

Isabella said nothing more and took the seat at the head of the table.

War or no war, the chefs at the Royal Grand Hotel hadn't lost their touch.

The roasted beef ribs gleamed with oil, the stewed leg of lamb was drenched in red wine sauce, and the Yorkshire puddings were baked to a golden crisp.

During the meal, the conversation kept circling back to Sophia.

"Hurry up and tell us," Price couldn't hold back anymore.

"What is the front line actually like? We all know the newspapers water down their reports."

Sophia swallowed her mouthful of rib meat, her energy spiking.

"By the time I got there, Francia in the south had just finished a massive battle."

"How massive?"

"Hundreds of thousands of men on both sides combined. The biggest engagement since the war started."

The private room fell silent for a moment.

"Hundreds of thousands." Thomson couldn't imagine such a number.

Sophia continued:

"After that fight, carts upon carts of wounded and crippled soldiers were hauled back to the rear."

"Aren't you guys in the sealing division?" Price asked. "Why were you dealing with the wounded?"

"Not enough hands," Sophia shrugged.

"Too many casualties, and the medical officers couldn't keep up.

Anyone of us in the rear who could lend a hand went out to help.

Hauling stretchers, taking down names, changing bandages... we did everything."

"I'm getting off-topic." Sophia shook her head.

"Let me tell you something funny. A veteran told me this himself."

"Guess how Francia transported a reserve division to the front lines?"

"By train?" Thomson guessed.

"Not enough trains." Sophia shook her head.

"All the military trucks were deployed to the front. It looked like the line was about to break, and the reserves were just sitting there waiting with no transport."

"So what did they do?"

"Taxis!" Sophia slapped the table. "They commandeered every taxi in the city!"

Including his aunt, it was the first time anyone had heard of such a thing.

"Moving troops with taxis?"

"That's what the veteran told me," Sophia said, looking extremely pleased.

"He said the city requisitioned every operating taxi, one by one.

Hundreds, thousands of cars hauled soldiers to the front lines all night long.

He said the sight of it—headlights stretching all the way to the horizon—was something he'd never seen in his entire life."

"Sounds spectacular," Price remarked.

"It was spectacular, alright," Sophia chuckled. "But the best part came after."

"What?"

"Those taxi drivers." Sophia's eyes crinkled with mirth.

"While hauling troops to the battlefield, they... turned on their taxi meters."

"The veteran said one driver even argued with the commanding officer.

Said it was a long trip and a night fare, so they had to pay extra."

"The military racked up a massive taxi bill?" Price laughed out loud.

Sophia laughed too. "The veteran said the quartermaster in the rear turned green when he was handed that stack of taxi receipts."

"That..." Even Thomson was amused. "That's just too..."

"Rules are rules," Clara suddenly interjected.

"If a driver takes a fare, he should be paid. Even in a war, you can't cheat them out of their money."