Chapter 383: Who Will Be Unlucky?

The Exorcism Team returned to Whitby Town.

Thankfully, the black dog hadn't followed a certain someone back.

When Richard exited the cave, he had glanced back. That mass of black was still crouching there.

By the time that line of gray over the sea crept up to the cliff's peak, drawing the tombstones' shadows out from the east, the boundary vanished.

The black dog faded away along with that boundary, like a dream no one mentioned after daybreak.

The coast guard station was a two-story stone building with a lit stove inside.

The moment he stepped through the door, the warmth of the coal fire washed over his face, and Richard's freezing fingers slowly regained sensation.

The spoils completely covered a long table.

Personnel from the Branch Office took records first. Hathaway called out the counts, and Corbin verified them beside her.

Richard was called over to inspect the items in his capacity as a Scholar—one of his official reasons for observing this operation.

There was quite a lot on the table.

The Serpent Mother's corpse had shattered across the ground, and many of the pieces they brought back had completely lost their vitality during transport.

As for that Half-Set of Rune Stones, their carved runes remained as clear as yesterday.

Corbin stood next to him. "You pick first. You put in a lot of effort on this trip."

Richard's Spirit Vision slowly swept over the items.

The residual ether on the Half-Set of Rune Stones was incredibly pure—the handiwork of a Viking priest from twelve hundred years ago.

Among all of today's spoils, these possessed the highest ether quality.

Next were the condensates.

The seven Skull Condensates varied in quality. The largest was about the size of a walnut, and its ether concentration was so high that his Inspiration was gently repelled the moment it touched it.

The smallest was roughly the size of a thumb pad, yet its concentration far exceeded the medium-tier levels he usually encountered.

He selected one about the size of a peanut—high in quality but modest in size. He didn't touch anything else.

Corbin raised an eyelid from beside him but didn't say anything.

"You have a good eye," Hathaway said, glancing at the condensate he had chosen.

"That one has the fewest impurities. It's perfect to use as a medium for a Spell Formula."

"As for this Half-Set of Rune Stones..."

Hathaway raised an eyebrow. "These things require a massive infusion of ether to activate. For an ordinary Practitioner, using them is basically like throwing money down a bottomless pit."

"I know," Richard said without elaborating. "Just these two."

Corbin looked at him. "You don't want anything else? Those evil creature materials aren't in bad shape."

"No."

Those evil creature materials had been festering in the Serpent Mother's filth for twelve hundred years. Purifying them would take too much effort; the gains simply weren't worth the trouble.

When picking items now, he was no longer like he was when he first entered the field, wanting to stuff everything he saw into his pockets.

Besides, his overall contribution this time hadn't been extraordinarily large. Taking the Half-Set of Rune Stones and a single condensate was already enough.

Gerard received the largest Skull Condensate and a few faintly glowing scales.

Colonel Javier was allotted the black beads from the spinal column.

As his uncle's deputy, Montagu also claimed a small share.

Phillips had been chased into a corner by his father to write the operation report, receiving nothing at all.

He had no complaints about this, focusing entirely on drafting his wording on the paper.

By the time the items were divided, the sky was completely bright.

The group rested at the station for half the day.

The returning military train was scheduled for the afternoon. Taking advantage of the free time, everyone caught up on sleep, but Richard couldn't drift off.

He helped his grandfather settle into a small room on the second floor.

Gerard had barely spoken since leaving the cave, and his ether field was visibly weaker than before they had entered.

The old man lay with his eyes closed, his breathing so shallow it seemed like it might stop at any moment.

"Grandpa."

"I'm fine." Gerard didn't open his eyes.

"When a Hunter reaches my age, it always takes a few days to recover after a tough fight. Go rest."

Richard didn't leave; he sat in the chair by the bed.

He looked at his grandfather's face. The skin over his cheekbones had loosened, and his eye sockets had sunk.

When he had seen him in the study the year before last, his age hadn't been this obvious. How long had it really been?

In the afternoon, the military train rolled south. The carriage was much quieter than on the trip up.

Everyone who had fought that hard battle was exhausted; most were resting with their eyes closed.

In a rare break from his studies, Phillips had covered his face with his book on lighthouse architectural history and was snoring.

After sitting for a while, Richard stood and headed toward the dining car at the rear of the train to pour himself a glass of water.

The dining car was mostly empty, with only two people sitting at the very back.

Gerard and old Phillips, two Major Adepts, sat facing each other. Between them rested two barely touched cups of tea.

Holding his glass, Richard stood silently in the shadow of the aisle.

He truly hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but their words hit his ears the moment he stepped into the car.

"It looked at me longer," Gerard said.

"It stood up when it looked at me." Old Phillips turned his teacup halfway around.

Richard's fingers tightened around his glass.

They were arguing. At first, Richard didn't understand what they were fighting over.

As the two men exchanged words back and forth, the realization slowly dawned on him.

"I'm an old Hunter," Gerard said nonchalantly.

"It's only right and proper for a Hunter to die in the wild. It's against the rules for you to fight me on this."

"I'm a Hunter too, and I'm the Chief Inspector."

Old Phillips seemed to find this amusing and let out a chuckle.

"Dying during my term in office is far more dignified than dying in a hospital bed after retirement."

"You still have time left in your term."

"And you haven't finished walking your wilderness yet."

Neither man was willing to back down.

Standing in the shadows, Richard listened as two men with a combined age of over a century argued in joking tones about who deserved to die more.

After arguing for a long time, Gerard laughed too.

His laughter carried a hint of self-mockery, along with the deep familiarity that only existed between old friends.

"What are we arguing for?" He picked up his tea and took a sip. "It's already kept its own tally."

"Neither of us can dictate its choice."

Old Phillips said nothing.

A moment later, he picked up his own teacup as well.

Holding his glass, Richard retreated down the aisle.

The train's wheels clattered rhythmically as they rolled over the switches.

Outside the window, the wasteland fell away behind them, while the distant, grayish-blue line of the sea slowly sank into the twilight.

There was a type of danger in this world where even two Major Adepts together could only sit down and discuss... how to die a fitting death.

He gripped the Half-Set of Rune Stones tightly, their sharp edges pressing hard into his palm.

They returned to the Imperial Capital on January 12th.

The moment Gerard stepped through the door, he locked himself in the small, iron-riveted room on the second floor. Richard went to check on him twice, but the door was bolted shut.

By mid-January, Richard received a notice forwarded by his department.

The Chief Inspector had signed off on a document, compressing the schedule for the remaining five exorcisms and pushing them all forward.

The justification was a single line: "The seal maintenance budget for the Northern Greater Region this year is tight; resources should be concentrated to complete the work as early as possible."

"My dad hasn't been right lately."

That day, Phillips had come over again, clutching his newly recovered teapot, and poured tea for the two of them.

"What's not right?"

"He gave me back the teapot he confiscated."

Phillips shook the pot in his hand.

"You don't understand, I couldn't even use this pot at home. No matter how many times I begged, his only response was, 'I won't indulge you.'"

"Last week, he brought it out himself and put it on my desk without saying a word."

Richard held his tea, remaining silent.

"Also, he took me out for dinner," Phillips continued.

"In my entire life, I can count the times he's taken me out to eat on one hand. The last time was when I finished middle school. He took me to a club, spent the entire time talking business with someone, and I just sat next to him gnawing on lamb chops all night."

"This time was different. It was just the two of us. He even asked how I was doing at the Academy and what I was reading in all those battered books of mine."

As Phillips spoke, even he felt awkward about it.

"He's also rushing the schedules."

"What schedules?"

"The schedules for the remaining five exorcisms."

"We were supposed to take them slowly, one by one, but now he can't wait to cram them all together. The folks at the Branch Office are whispering in private, saying the Chief Inspector has been awfully anxious lately."

"What reason did he give?"

Phillips mimicked his father's tone, knitting his brows. "My luck has been good lately."

Richard's hand slowly froze around his teacup.

Phillips was still rambling on:

"My mom thinks he's acting abnormal too. A couple of nights ago, he ran off to the Old Tower of the Ministry of Internal Affairs by himself in the middle of the night. The night watchman saw him."

"The Old Tower?"

"Where that old bell is." Phillips gestured.

"St. Michael's Silent Bell. It hasn't rung in over a hundred years. There are words carved on it: 'It tolls for the unspeakable.'"

"He went to see that bell?"

"The night watchman said he stood beneath the bell for ages. He reached out and wiped the dust off the rim, then just stood there completely motionless."

Richard looked down at the tea in his cup.

The tea leaves slowly unfurled in the water, sinking, then floating back up.

"My dad is probably just getting old," Phillips concluded.

"When people get old, their tempers soften. In the past, he couldn't even spare a single kind word for me."

"Yeah," Richard murmured, shifting the topic.

"Since when did you start adding sage to this tea of yours?"

"The more the better." Phillips looked smug. "It's a bit bitter, but it keeps you sharp."

"When you were chewing on dry tea leaves back in Whitby, you also said it kept you sharp."

"That was different." Phillips stiffened his neck. "That was out of necessity. This is for enjoyment."

Richard smiled.

Outside the window, the afternoon light cast a thin, golden layer. Such sunshine was a rarity in winter.

Meanwhile, the one-penny booklets had already spread across quite a few northern cities.

The Duckworth Printing Factory in Manchester had turned out the second batch of a thousand copies in early January.

From Manchester to York, Leeds, Sheffield, and Newcastle... the newsboys' feet were much faster than he had expected.

In her letter, Grey mentioned that a copy was sitting on the counter of a tobacco shop near her school, squeezed in next to the horse racing schedules.

"I flipped through it. Some people in my class are discussing the story you wrote about the 'washerwoman's back door'."

Grey's handwriting was slightly messier than usual.

"Cunningham says she'll never casually look back when walking down a back alley at night ever again."

Richard did something different in the next issue.

On the final page of the booklet, he placed a notice bordered by a thick black frame.

"Have you, or someone you know, ever seen a large, pure black dog late at night, at the entrance of an alleyway, or on a deserted stretch of road? It doesn't bark, and it won't bite; it just crouches there, watching you. If you have seen it, please write to us and tell its story. Send your letters to the Duckworth Printing Factory in the northern suburbs of Manchester, addressed to the editor of the Collection of Strange Tales. If your story is selected for publication, you will receive a complimentary full set of the Collection of Strange Tales."

Charlotte saw it and drew a massive question mark in her reply.

"This booklet of yours is supposed to be continuously publishing stories. Why are you suddenly collecting them instead?"

Richard didn't explain much, replying with just a single sentence:

"Because I want to know what happened to the people who saw the black dog."

He sealed his reply in an envelope and dropped it into a mailbox.

The Collection of Strange Tales wasn't just a mouth for him to speak to the outside world; it had also become an ear for others to speak to him.

Among so many readers, there were bound to be a few whose elderly family members had seen that black mass right before they died.

Richard wanted to gather these scattered fragments of information about the black dog and string them all together, piece by piece.