Chapter 334: Did You Dismantle Your Mask?

"Leaving?" Richard asked.

Catherine scribbled a line in her notebook and turned it toward him.

"Not yet. I'll sit for a bit."

She dug out a few coins and slid them to Phillips.

Catherine wrote, "You helped me pick out a drink. This is a thank you."

"It was no effort at all. There's no need for this." Phillips slid the coins back. "All I did was talk."

Catherine's frown deepened.

She pushed the coins back again, her pen pressing heavily against the paper.

"I owe you. I have to pay it back."

Watching this back-and-forth, Richard stepped in to bail Phillips out.

"If you absolutely must repay him, buy him a drink. That way he doesn't lose anything, and you clear your debt."

Catherine thought it over, decided this was an acceptable solution, and took the coins back. She turned to the bartender and ordered another round.

Phillips accepted the glass like a priceless treasure, raising it toward Richard. "At least you're the only one here with any tact."

He took a sip, then suddenly remembered something. He pulled that old teapot out of his leather satchel and set it on the table with a thud.

"Right, I've got some news."

"Has it started transforming?" Richard hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.

Phillips patted the teapot proudly.

"I took it to my alchemy professor. He said this pot recognizes the essence of a 'desired flavor' itself.

"I've been nurturing it in my free time lately, and it's not a picky eater anymore."

As he spoke, he asked the bartender for an empty glass.

He poured half a glass of cold water, then tilted the teapot's spout over the rim.

The water's color shifted slightly, taking on an amber hue.

"Give it a taste." He slid the glass to Richard.

Richard took a sip.

Familiar notes of malt and caramel hit his palate, bearing a seventy-to-eighty percent resemblance to the Isle of Islay sample they had tried.

"It doesn't just produce tea anymore," Phillips said.

"As long as I picture the taste in my mind, it can replicate it."

Catherine's gaze lingered on the teapot for a moment. She wrote, "What classification of supernatural item is this?"

"I couldn't say for sure." Phillips shrugged.

"The professor said it's similar to a 'Flavor Replication' Spell Formula, but he hasn't figured out the exact mechanics either. Anyway, as long as it works, that's good enough."

Richard listened without pressing further.

Ever since he had gained the shadow-ferrying ability from the Sphinx Lamp, he had done a fair amount of research.

It was said that every high-compatibility signature artifact carried traits unique to its master.

Constance looked up from her book and glanced at the teapot.

"No matter how impressive that pot is, if you drink too much, I'll still have to carry you home."

"Don't worry, I know my limits today."

Not long after he said that, the promise proved to be completely empty.

A sly look crossed Phillips's face.

"Richard." He pushed two glasses of whiskey toward the middle of the table.

"How well can you hold your liquor?"

"I've never tested it."

"Perfect time to find out." Phillips slid one of the glasses right in front of him.

Richard picked it up and took a sip.

The liquid was hot, burning a trail from the back of his tongue down to his stomach.

Then... nothing happened.

The burning sensation dissipated as soon as it hit his stomach, fading away like a cup of hot water cooling down.

The [Filtration] trait of his Lv.3 [eating] skill was working silently in the background.

The alcohol had been classified by his body as a "harmful substance" and was intercepted right in his digestive tract.

Richard set the glass down, showing no reaction.

Phillips stared at his calm expression, his mouth agape.

"...Are you kidding me?"

"What's wrong?"

"You just drank double rye whiskey for the first time, and you didn't even cough?"

"The taste is decent." Richard took another sip.

Phillips's competitive spirit flared.

He fancied that while his tolerance couldn't match a Hunter's, it was quite respectable among Scholars.

He had agreed to this outing so readily today for a rather dishonorable reason.

Richard was usually so perfect he hardly seemed human.

He wanted to see if his friend would lose his composure when drunk.

"Bartender!" Phillips called out to the counter. "Two more. Triple strength."

"Are you serious?" Richard looked at him.

"You drink yours, I'll drink mine." Phillips rolled up his sleeves. "Fair competition."

Constance looked up from her book and shot her fiancé a glance.

That look clearly said, 'I know you're asking for trouble, but I can't be bothered to stop you.'

For the next half hour, Phillips matched drinks with Richard at a pace akin to slow suicide.

Round one, triple-strength rye: Phillips's face flushed red; Richard's remained unchanged.

Round two, Highland single malt: Phillips started sweating; Richard's still didn't change.

Round three, refusing to admit defeat, Phillips had the bartender bring out the bottle of rye bourbon stashed beneath the counter.

It was a fierce import shipped from the colonies, with an alcohol content significantly higher than the previous two.

Richard drank half his glass. The harsh sting on his tongue was cleanly intercepted by his [Filtration] trait, leaving not even a hint of warmth by the time it reached his stomach.

He felt like he was drinking a rather dark, complexly flavored cup of hot water.

Phillips drank half his glass, and his hands were already trembling.

"You..." He stared at Richard's face, which hadn't flushed once since they started.

"What on earth are you made of?"

"I suppose I'm about as burn-resistant as Briston's coal ash." Richard set down his glass.

Catherine sat quietly to the side, sipping soda water. She had remained silent the whole time.

Her expression had shifted from enjoying the show to staring at a monster.

"...Abnormal." Constance snapped her book shut.

Phillips had already started babbling nonsense.

With one arm draped over the table, his head drooped.

"Did you sign some sort of pact... with the God of Wine... a bottomless-glass contract..."

"You're overthinking it."

"Overthinking it?" Phillips struggled to pry his eyes open.

"I've been drinking for ten years... and this is the first time I've met a Scholar who can outdrink me... A Scholar! Not a Hunter!"

Finally unable to hold himself up any longer, he collapsed face-first onto the table.

His elbow knocked his glass aside, spilling a few drops of liquor.

Constance shoved her book into her bag and stood up to collect him.

Even with the weight of a grown man pressing down on her shoulder, her steps only grew slightly heavier.

"Mr. Williams." Constance nodded at Richard.

"The next time he invites you out for drinks, please do me the favor of letting me know in advance."

Slumped over his fiancée's shoulder, Phillips was still mumbling incoherently.

"...That teapot can make honey pomelo tea... it can make whiskey... it can make hangover soup, too..."

"Shut up." Constance hauled him toward the door.

Phillips's voice grew fainter and fainter.

"Richard... next time... next time I'm definitely going to beat you..."

The door closed, leaving only Richard and Catherine at the table.

The red-haired girl held her half-empty glass of soda water, her eyes resting on Richard.

She scribbled a line in her notebook.

"Do you really feel absolutely nothing?"

Richard looked at the words and thought for a moment.

"I can taste it, at least."

Catherine flashed a thumbs-up and finished off her soda water.

She stood up, flipped to a fresh page, and wrote one last sentence.

"Thanks, everything went according to plan tonight."

Richard smiled. "Send my regards to Professor McPhee."

Behind the counter, the bartender wiped down a glass, watching the young group leave one after another.

Having worked in this trade for so long, he had seen every kind of drunk imaginable.

But someone wearing an Imperial Capital University badge, with such a gentle, scholarly face, who couldn't even muster a hint of a flush after three rounds of high-proof liquor—that was a first.

The bartender set the glass back on the shelf and shook his head.

The people who came out of Imperial Capital University were getting weirder and weirder.

...

At half-past ten that night, the Astral Sea receded.

Seven stone chairs surrounded the round table.

Heracles's chair was empty.

Hecate sat in the seat of honor. The Torch and Key surrounding her had condensed more solidly than ever before. She was the first to speak.

"Heracles is out on a field mission. He asked for a leave of absence tonight."

Her words fell into silence. No one replied, the entire table tacitly choosing to gloss over the matter.

Richard's gaze swept the circle, carefully comparing the changes in each person.

Nemesis sat in her place. The scales above her head were still tilted, but in a different way than before.

It looked as though someone was propping the scales up. They were still unbalanced, but the tilt was steady and controlled.

He let his Inspiration drift toward her and noticed a razor-thin membrane surrounding her body.

It contained the scales' compulsive equalizing radiation, preventing it from leaking out.

Whatever she had done after forfeiting the Debate Week competition, it seemed to have succeeded.

Dionysus was more relaxed tonight than ever before.

Holding his two-handled cup, even the ether surrounding him seemed to be steeped in an indescribable drunkenness.

Richard felt a slight urge to shift his seat and get further away from him.

The flame surrounding Prometheus had deepened in color and burned much more steadily.

He sat motionless, his palms resting lightly on the edge of the table, not saying a word.

Demeter's wheat sheaves had also grown plumper.

The sickle above her head rested horizontally beneath them, its blade still facing inward.

She was planting things more diligently now; the fullness of the wheat bore the signs of meticulous cultivation.

Having observed the circle, Richard quietly tallied the changes in his mind.

Because of the unique environment here, everyone's changes were laid bare.

Nemesis had learned deflection, Dionysus had learned to diffuse his intoxication, Prometheus's fire was more stable, and Demeter was planting ever more densely.

As for his own changes, he couldn't see them...

Hecate broke the silence. "Prometheus."

The man beneath the red-gold mask looked up.

"That mask of yours—did the entity behind you dismantle it?"