Chapter 347: Nun's Desserts

November 30, Imperial Capital Victoria Station.

The platform was packed with men in gray-green uniforms. Rifles stood propped against duffel bags, and steel helmets rested on top of their luggage.

A military train had just departed, and the next wouldn't arrive for nearly forty minutes.

Richard and several of his classmates had been assigned to a regular southbound passenger train.

Half the train had been requisitioned by the Military; the remaining cars were crammed with civilian passengers and conscripted students like themselves.

The armrests had been stripped from the seats to squeeze in two extra rows.

Richard turned sideways to wedge himself into a window seat, hugging his canvas bag on his lap.

Montagu sat across from him.

The blond young man folded his coat neatly, leaned against the window, and closed his eyes.

His face was thinner than it had been a few weeks ago, drawing out a sharp jawline. In the dim carriage lighting, the shadows in his eye sockets looked especially deep.

Catherine and Fischer sat in the row behind them.

Catherine, seated on the aisle, was flipping through the rubbings she carried everywhere, taking notes.

Fischer was dozing. His head kept drooping toward the window, inch by inch.

It would drop until it nearly hit the glass, then snap back up—a cycle that repeated itself over and over.

The train lurched into motion, and the roofs of the Imperial Capital began to slide backward outside the window.

The journey from the Imperial Capital to Folkestone would take about two and a half hours.

When they passed through Maidstone along the way, several young men in uniform disembarked.

One of them was very young, looking barely older than Richard himself.

When the boy reached up to grab his rifle from the luggage rack, his hand trembled.

The train rolled on.

Outside the window, the scenery shifted from towns to rolling hills, then from hills to farmland, until the sea finally appeared at the edge of the fields.

Richard closed his book and gazed out at the fields nearing the coastline.

The harvest was already finished. All that remained was knee-high stubble, bending haphazardly in the wind.

In the distance, a peasant woman was walking a pony along the edge of a field, trailed by two children.

He suddenly remembered something.

During that night at the Theogony Salon, Demeter had mentioned that over the past two years, the grain in the fields was growing faster, but increasingly hollow.

The soil of Flanders, inundated with seawater, wouldn't be able to grow any crops for years to come.

The people had retreated, the waters had flooded in, and the land had gone from inhabited to desolate.

What would grow on desolate land?

Richard shoved his book back into his canvas bag.

With a long blast of its whistle, the train began to slow down.

"We're here," Montagu said, opening his eyes.

The outline of the Harbor appeared outside the window.

It was packed with people everywhere—men, women, the elderly, and children. Some had clearly just grabbed whatever clothing they could find to drape over themselves before fleeing in a hurry.

A few children squatted by the pier railings, tracing pictures on the stone slabs with their fingers. They were drawing houses.

A little boy drew a house, wiped it away, and drew it again. On his third attempt, he finally added a wisp of smoke curling from the roof.

Volunteers in white aprons wove through the crowd, wearing Red Cross armbands.

The Church was here as well. Black-robed priests led a group of nuns, distributing hot soup among the tents.

Someone was shouting out numbers:

"Numbers four hundred thirty-seven to four hundred ninety-two, register at the tent on the left!"

In the open plaza in front of the Port Authority building, a rectangular area had been marked out with white ash. That was the assembly point.

Out of habit, Richard began to estimate the crowd before he even got close. By his reckoning, there were at least several dozen people.

Their ages ranged from eighteen or nineteen to their mid-twenties. They wore all sorts of clothes, and their accents were a mixed bag from all over the country.

Richard shifted his canvas bag to his other shoulder and scanned the crowd.

He spotted a somewhat familiar face, but the person's build made him hesitate to confirm it.

"...Edmund?"

The person turned his head.

Edmund Wycliffe, from the School of Theology of the Order of Saint Peter.

They had been on the same team in Whitcom during the winter holidays last year. Back then, the guy had been so tall, lanky, and delicate he could practically hide behind a telegraph pole.

Now... Richard ran his eyes up and down Edmund's frame.

His cheeks were round, his chin was padded with extra flesh, and even the backs of his hands were thicker than before.

"Williams!"

The young cleric's smile was just as gentle as it had been last year, though now, when he smiled, two questionable dimples sank into his cheeks.

"Long time no see."

"What happened to..."

"Don't even say it," Edmund said, tugging his coat down a bit.

"The coursework at the School of Theology is too heavy, the pressure is massive, and we aren't allowed to smoke or drink."

His voice carried the frankness of a man who had completely given up on himself.

"Besides, the almond tarts and Basque cakes the Sisters bake are just too delicious."

Historically, nuns in cloistered convents had spent hundreds of years doing little but baking pastries day in and day out.

It was said that canelés, egg tarts, and macarons were all invented inside monasteries.

Richard swallowed silently.

Returning to the point, he lightly swept over his old friend's condition with Concealed Spirit Vision.

The stability of Edmund's ether circulation had clearly jumped up by more than just a single tier, and the Silver Crucifix on his chest radiated a faint halo.

The glow wasn't overpowering, but it was exceptionally pure.

Edmund had truly been praying earnestly and believing devoutly, not slacking off for a single day out of three hundred and sixty-five.

That crucifix must have already undergone a metamorphosis—at least once.

"You're in pretty good shape," Richard said, retracting his Spirit Vision.

"Good shape, my eye," Edmund said, rubbing his own face.

"Every day, I kneel in the chapel to finish my evening prayers, and the moment I walk out, I smell butter drifting down from the end of the hall..."

His gaze drifted into the distance.

"One time, I held out for five whole days without touching sweets. On the morning of the sixth day, I woke up to find that someone had stuffed half an almond tart under my pillow."

"Who did it?"

"I still don't know. There are over sixty people in the Order, and I went around asking them one by one. Every single one of them said it wasn't them."

Richard opened his mouth to reply, but a voice calling out from behind interrupted him.

"Richard!"

The voice was bright and clear, carrying a hint of a Highlands accent.

The crowd parted slightly, and Maggie MacPhee squeezed her way out.

Her red hair was quite a bit longer than last year, tied into a thick braid tossed behind her.

Her cheeks were reddened by the sea breeze, making it obvious that she had been standing outside the port for quite a while.

Theodore trailed right behind Maggie.

The boy from the horse farm had bulked up over the past year, shedding much of the reckless impulsiveness he used to have.

"You guys got drafted too?" Richard greeted the two of them one by one.

"The Highlands Guild sent over a dozen people. Theo and I are on the same team."

Maggie cast a glance at the white-ash circle.

"How many came from the Order of Saint Peter?"

"Two." Edmund held up two fingers.

"Why did your order send so few?"

"The Sisters said the kitchen couldn't spare the hands." Edmund's answer left Maggie stunned for a couple of seconds.

Theodore peeked out from behind Edmund, staring at him for a long moment.

"Wycliffe... did you..."

"Get fat." Edmund raised his hands in a self-conscious surrender. "I know. You don't have to say it."

"I was going to say you looked more energetic." Theodore swallowed the truth he was about to speak.

The four of them stood together inside the ash circle.

Last year in Whitcom, they had all been Newcomers—four kids toddling behind the adults, just learning how to walk.

A year had passed. They had all attained their Signatures and walked their respective paths.

Yet, standing together now, it felt no different from last year.

Maggie was still Maggie—outspoken, straightforward, and never hiding anything.

"My Ancestral Spell Technique has improved too."

She gave a slight demonstration. A paper-thin layer of green surfaced on her skin for a moment before sinking back down.

"Before my Signature, I could only fool dull-sensed evil creatures like Infatuation Lamps and Swamp Corpses. Now, it can hold up against the detection of the vast majority of lower-level evil creatures.

The range has grown a bit, too. I can just barely cloak three people in it."

"The bloodline of that Virtuoso ancestor of yours," Richard said, drawing back his Spirit Vision. "You managed to reconnect it?"

Maggie shook her head, a lock of red hair slipping from behind her ear.

"I wouldn't call it reconnecting. You only earn the right to truly ascend once you reach Minor Adept."

Theodore also let Richard touch his Copper Compass.

The compass was a life-saving supernatural item gifted by his guide. Now that he had officially reached Signature, it really was different from last year.

"How's your guide?" Richard asked.

"He's healthy enough, but his temper just keeps getting worse."

"A while back, I messed up the closing strokes on an inscription, and he chewed me out for three whole pages in a letter. Front and back, completely filled."

Listening beside them, Edmund patted his bulging pocket.

"I brought food. The Sisters packed it for me."

"What kind of food?" Hearing his earlier descriptions, everyone present was already craving a bite.

The young cleric pulled a Tin Box from his pocket and popped it open.

"Basque cakes."

Four golden-yellow miniature cakes were stacked neatly inside the tin, wafting a rich, milky aroma.

He offered the tin to Richard.

"Have a piece. We probably won't get to eat anything this good once we reach the camp."

Richard picked out a piece. With the cafeteria rationing in effect, it really had been a long time since he'd eaten any sweets.

With one bite, the butter and sugar crumbled perfectly between his teeth.

The sweetness spread from the tip of his tongue to his molars, sliding down his throat to warm his stomach.

You really couldn't fault the nuns' craftsmanship.

"How is it?" Edmund looked at him with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Now I know why you got fat." Richard swallowed the last bite.

"Anyone would put on weight being fed like this."

Maggie snatched the Tin Box from his hands and took a piece of her own. Taking a bite, her eyes crinkled in delight.

Theodore took a piece as well.

"...These Sisters really know what they're doing."

Richard had just handed the Tin Box back to Edmund when Catherine squeezed through the crowd, clutching that little notebook she never went anywhere without.

She had come to call Richard for assembly.

But seeing the girl across from her—a girl with red hair just like her own—she abruptly stopped in her tracks.