Chapter 393: I Know!

On February 10, Clara was sent back to a sanatorium in the Academy District.

By the time Richard walked through the door carrying gifts, the room was already packed.

His aunt Isabella sat in a chair by the bed. A stack of official documents lay spread out before her, but the red pen in her hand hadn't touched the paper in ages.

Sophia crouched beside the nightstand, peeling oranges for Clara. She peeled one after another, piling them on a small saucer, though no one was eating them.

Thomson leaned against the wall, his book open but its pages unturned.

Price sat on the windowsill dangling his legs, his face dark enough to wring water from.

"Richard's here too," Price said, spotting him first and hopping down from the sill.

"Those bastards at the Admiralty," he forced out through his teeth.

"Eight hundred men sank to the bottom of the sea, and they classified the incident as the spontaneous combustion of smokeless powder. All the rubbing testimony Clara drew up was stamped and sealed away."

"Price," Isabella said without raising her head. "That's enough."

Price shut his mouth, the indignation still lodged in his chest, and slouched back over to sit on the windowsill.

Richard placed his gifts on the table: a box of homemade pastries from the Ashford family, a bag of apples, and a few newly published journals.

In the bed, the left half of Clara's face was wrapped in bandages, her complexion nearly as pale as the wallpaper.

Seeing Richard, she pressed her hands against the mattress and tried to sit up.

"Wait a second," she said, her voice hoarse as she reached for the nightstand's second drawer.

"That thing of yours... it's done. Let me get it for you."

"Senior, just lie down," Richard said, hurrying over.

Clara ignored him. She stubbornly tugged the drawer open and pulled out an oil-paper parcel.

"My uncle made it to your specifications." She shoved the parcel into Richard's hands.

Sophia dropped her orange and rushed over to help Clara back onto the pillow.

"Lie back down... lie down. The thing isn't going to run away."

Clara let herself be pushed back down, her face flushing slightly.

"This... it was actually finished a while ago," she murmured, her voice dropping lower.

"I borrowed it for a bit over at Scapa Flow."

Richard unwrapped the oil paper and took a look.

It was a palm-sized flag. Its surface was dark, feeling like leather that had been soaked in water and dried in the sun.

A thumb-sized copper urn was attached to the bottom of the flagpole, its mouth sealed shut.

"The corners of the flag are a bit worn now," Clara said, frowning as she stared at it.

"During my third dive, those sailors lining up to enter the seabed... I used it to gather them up once."

"Did you hold them?" Richard asked.

"I held a few of them." Clara's eyes dimmed.

"The accumulator stopped, and I was running out of air myself, so after that..."

She didn't continue.

Richard wrapped the small flag back up and tucked it into his coat, his emotions unruffled.

During his fieldwork over the past few months, the hidden ones had provided a safety net at Port Folkestone, and at Whitby, his grandfather had personally held the line alongside Chief Inspector Phillips.

Having this flag or not didn't actually change much.

"You taking this flag was definitely more useful than leaving it with me, Senior."

Clara looked at him and said nothing.

Beside them, Isabella finally spoke up.

"You two can sort out the item yourselves. I'm just satisfied that Clara made it back safely."

She spoke calmly, but Richard noticed the top page of the official documents stacked in front of his aunt. The header read: "Scapa Flow Incident: Pension and Compensation Application."

"The application was submitted," Isabella said.

"The Admiralty pushed it to the Department of Internal Affairs, and the Department of Internal Affairs pushed it back to the Academy System.

The three of them have been passing the buck back and forth ever since, without a single word of confirmation."

"Then we appeal it higher up," Price said, jumping up on the windowsill again.

"Accuse who?" Isabella shot him a glance.

"Accuse the Admiralty of murder? Do you have proof?

The rubbings Clara drew up are locked in a filing cabinet in the Military Intelligence Department. You won't even get to see them."

Price deflated once more.

Thomson, who had been quiet all this time, shut his book.

"Clara's injuries," he said, looking at the person in the bed, his voice very soft. "What did the doctor say?"

Isabella's expression grew even gloomier.

"After resting for a few months, daily life won't be an issue.

But to recover completely will take years, and she'll still be left with hidden trauma."

Richard silently calculated the situation.

Clara's injuries were at an awkward level of severity: her left eardrum was ruptured, and her lungs had suffered ether burns.

Such injuries weren't severe enough to absolutely require a specialist from the Solar Tradition for treatment, but they certainly weren't light, either.

Hiring the Solar Tradition for treatment came at an astronomical price. The meager compensation from the Academy System wouldn't even be enough to fill the gaps between their teeth.

Richard looked at Clara.

Her left ear was wrapped in bandages, her face frighteningly pale. She reached out her uninjured hand and gently patted her mentor's hand.

"Mentor, don't worry about me. I made it back, didn't I?"

"You're still acting tough," Sophia said, her eyes reddening.

"You swam up from a hundred feet underwater all by yourself, clinging to a rock alone until dawn... Couldn't you have explained things more clearly when you wrote the letter?"

"If I had explained it clearly, you all would have just worried even more." Clara smiled.

The entire room fell silent.

Standing by the bed, Richard thought about his own [Breathing].

His Lv.4 progress was already past 90%. Once he gathered two more points to upgrade to Lv.5, he would obtain [Gushing Spring], allowing him to channel energy and provide Healing to others.

Ether burns were a type of damage on the level of Micro-circulation, which was exactly the kind of thing [Gushing Spring] could handle.

Once [Gushing Spring] unlocked, he planned to come back and see if he could alleviate some of his senior's hidden trauma.

Clara looked at him and smiled.

"Once I'm better, we can all go to the Royal Grand Hotel for a huge feast."

Richard suddenly felt like he owed quite a few meals.

..................

On the night of February 12, the gathering originally scheduled for the middle of the month convened ahead of time.

Richard had anticipated this.

The middle of the month was the Day of Mourning. Anyone with the slightest connections in the mystical side knew something major was going to happen that day.

Hecate had moved the gathering forward partly because of the Day of Mourning, and partly...

As the sea of stars receded, the seven stone chairs surrounding the round table were all occupied.

Richard swept his gaze around the table.

Nemesis sat in her place. Richard met her eyes, and the red-haired girl gave a slight nod.

The very first words Hecate spoke tonight carried an irrepressible gravity.

"Everyone, I called you here early tonight for two matters."

"The first is the Day of Mourning in the middle of the month."

"On the 15th, churches across the country will ring their bells at the exact same moment.

Hundreds of thousands of people will simultaneously observe a moment of silence, sing hymns, and pray for the dead."

From beneath his Lion-Mouth Mask, Heracles grumbled, "Isn't that just leaving the doors wide open and inviting things right in?"

"Yes," Hecate answered bluntly.

"So for the next few days, I advise you all to avoid densely populated areas as much as possible."

"The second matter..."

"During the last gathering, I mentioned the wellheads emptying out one after another, and I also noted that one table in the salon had been swallowed by another."

"Recently, another table swallowed someone else. That table goes by the names of Norse mythology, and their head seat is Loki."

Everyone's ears perked up.

"After the Norse table swallowed that other group," Hecate's voice dropped low.

"They provoked someone they shouldn't have."

"A Major Adept Scholar of the Moon Hunting Tradition showed up at their door."

The breathing of the people around the table grew faint.

"When the dust settled, the Loki table had lost a Minor Adept, and the rest were all severely injured. They won't pose a threat again anytime soon."

"A Major Adept Scholar?" Heracles sounded incredulous. "A Scholar? In head-on combat?"

"Yes," Hecate nodded. "Alone."

Heracles fell silent.

"I am telling you all this," Hecate's tri-phase voice continued.

"Because that Norse table's next target was very likely going to be our table."

The table fell quiet.

"Originally, I intended to use this gathering to inform everyone to prepare for battle."

"But as it turns out, the world is unpredictable."

"The very table that wanted to devour us was dismantled by a Major Adept Scholar first."

Dionysus let out a long breath.

"That truly is... an incredible stroke of luck."

Hecate didn't respond. She turned toward Nemesis.

Richard noticed this detail: Hecate was observing Nemesis.

Hecate most likely knew who stood behind Nemesis.

And the one who had dismantled the Loki table just so happened to be a Major Adept Scholar of the Moon Hunting Tradition.

Hecate was hesitating over whether to ask if the Major Adept who wrecked the Loki table was the exact same person backing Nemesis.

It wasn't the sort of thing you could ask directly.

No words floated up on the weighing pans of Nemesis's scales.

She was waiting, waiting for Richard.

Richard had promised Professor McPhee that he would help Catherine.

Helping her, naturally, also included helping build her momentum.

Richard slowly spoke up.

"That Major Adept Scholar who dismantled the Loki table."

Every gaze at the table turned toward him.

"I happen to know a little about that."

The silhouette of Hecate's torch flickered.

"Hermes knows?"

"Just a little," Richard replied, his tone mild.

"He is a Scholar of the Moon Hunting Tradition, specializing in ancient Gaelic texts."

He spoke casually, but every single word drew the connection toward Nemesis.

"When he sought out the Loki table, he only brought a single book."

"A book?" Dionysus couldn't help asking.

"One book," Richard nodded. Naturally, MacFie had briefed him on all of this beforehand.

"He opened the book and read a passage."

He didn't continue, acting as if the story was complete right there.

The necks of several people around the table stretched forward a bit.

"...And then?" Heracles couldn't hold back.

"And then?" Richard acted as if he only just remembered there was more to tell.

"And then that entire table was left half-dead."

A deathly silence fell over the table.