Chapter 423: The Machine Spirit Is Displeased

That night in his dorm, Richard toyed with the rein-wrapped antler tip.

After a while, he set it down.

Richard had thought it would take a bit longer for anyone to get curious about him.

He hadn't expected it to happen this fast.

Any lingering hesitation he had about joining the Wild Hunt vanished, his resolve hardening.

Richard opened his notebook and flipped to the page labeled {Portable Luck}.

The two professors could only protect him for so long.

Before true danger found him, he needed to accumulate more luck through the Wild Hunt.

With more luck on his side, perhaps things would turn out differently.

At that thought, Richard spread out the sixty-seven letters once more.

Only nine of the accounts described the very last night of April.

Richard singled out those nine and laid them out in a row.

Across all nine, there wasn't a single missing person.

One from Wales described a well.

A voice inside would call out the name of anyone who went to draw water. The villagers had eventually filled the well halfway.

After that night, the bottom of the well went dead silent.

In Devonshire, a family had their back door knocked on every night for three years.

After that night, the knocking stopped.

Richard read through them one by one before neatly stacking them in order.

Yule was for reaping, and it reaped the names of the living.

Walburg was for cleansing.

It drove everything that had lingered through the winter—refusing to leave and causing trouble in the mortal world—exactly where it belonged.

Most of the prey that night were those unwilling to enter sleep-return.

He had carried out Ferrying for sleep-return several times now, growing more skilled with each attempt.

...

In late April, garlands began appearing on the streets.

Down in the city's southern alleys, women dragged low stools to their doorways and sat weaving.

They bent willow branches into hoops, wrapped them in hawthorn blossoms and wild cherry, and tucked small handfuls of daffodils into the centers.

Children squatted nearby, tossing fallen petals into baskets. Once their baskets were full, they ran to the next house to beg for coins.

This was an old May Day custom.

The garlands would hang above the lintels until the very first morning of May.

Richard lingered at the corner of Kent Street for a moment.

The woman weaving a garland looked up at him.

"Would you like one, sir? Sixpence."

"How much were they last year?"

"Threepence." She bent another willow branch into a hoop.

"Flowers have gotten expensive. All those fields outside the city were planted with vegetables this year."

"No one's buying Maypoles, either. In past years, we'd set one up in the empty lot down south, and the children would dance around it."

In the old days of the Empire, this night had always been a lively one.

Bonfires were lit on the hills, and protective runes were painted on the cowshed doors in tar.

The women in the house were forbidden from spinning yarn on this night, and iron tools had to be placed outside the threshold.

"Are you not putting one up this year?"

"We can't get it up this year." The woman set a finished garland by her feet.

"It takes seven or eight strong young lads to hoist the pole. This year, we couldn't scrape together seven or eight."

Richard dug out sixpence, took the garland, and headed back.

He returned to the Ashford Residence.

Gerard was in the backyard, a small trowel in hand as he loosened the soil around the row of hollies.

"Grandfather, I have something to tell you."

Gerard stabbed the trowel into the dirt and straightened up.

"Speak."

"On the very last night of April, I need to go out."

"I'll be back by dawn."

"Where to?"

"Wherever the antler from the lord of the hunt takes me."

The backyard fell silent for a long time.

The wind flipped the holly leaves over, then rustled them back into place.

"Let's talk inside," Gerard said.

The door of the iron-riveted room on the second floor shut behind them.

Gerard sat down behind the oak desk, resting both hands on the edge.

"What did I tell you last month?"

"You said there wouldn't be a next time." Richard remained standing.

"But you also said that as long as I told you I was handling something—even if failing meant I was dead—that would be enough."

"So I'm telling you now."

The old man stared at him for a long time.

He let out a heavy snort, though it was hard to tell if he was angry or feeling something else.

"...Fine."

...

When it came to what his shadow needed to bring to the other side, the Mask of Hermes was the first item.

Behind the veil, wearing the mask granted a terrifyingly massive boost, but the price was being watched.

On that night, the entire sky would be full of watching eyes anyway; one more wouldn't make a difference.

The Antler Token was the second item. It was a pass, but it was also a fang.

Third were three Soul-Devouring Beast Tooth Needles. He would use the needles for regular situations, keeping the antler in reserve as a trump card.

Next was a Light Storage Device. Shadow Armor relied on light, and there was no telling if he'd find any over there.

He also prepared a double portion of medium-concentration Condensate.

Behind the veil, the shadow wouldn't typically burn his main body's Ether, but a full night of hunting was far more demanding than daily training. If it got hungry, it needed something to eat.

He spent a long time debating whether to bring the small flag Clara's uncle had made to lure evil creatures, but ultimately packed it away in his bag.

As he reached the item on the far right, his hand paused.

It was his great-grandfather's bone needle.

It contained the purifying pulse of the Moon Hunting Tradition. Anything that attempted to attach to, parasitize, or replace its wearer would be burned clean.

And there was the one-time, decisive strike.

He weighed the bone needle between his fingers before finally sliding it back into his innermost pocket.

He couldn't give this to his shadow.

If the shadow shattered, his own vitality would take a massive hit, but with enough rest, he could recover.

This needle only had one use.

...

On Saturday afternoon, Clara invited Richard to a tearoom overlooking the canal in the west of the city.

The tearoom had a narrow storefront, and a small card was pasted to the window—a reprinted copy of the royal family's prohibition oath.

Below it, someone had handwritten: Bound by the House Oath.

Richard gave it a passing glance as he walked in.

For a tearoom that had never sold alcohol to hang up such a thing meant they really had too much time on their hands.

A row of seats lined the window inside.

Clara sat at the innermost table.

She wasn't wearing her usual plain dress today, having swapped it for a light gray coat, though her hair was tied back with the same ribbon as always.

Her complexion was rosier than it had been at the sanatorium.

In the past, whenever she spoke to someone, she would quietly tilt her right ear toward them. That little habit still lingered.

"Sit." She tipped her chin toward the opposite chair. "Have you eaten?"

"I had two pies in the dining hall."

Clara bent down and hefted a flat leather case up from beside her feet.

"Open it."

Richard undid the side clasps. Inside rested a machine roughly a palm wide and two palms long.

At first glance, it looked like a bizarre three-way cross between a camera, a typewriter, and a primitive printer.

The machine came with a roll of remarkably thin, specialized paper, and nestled beside it was a small copper urn the thickness of a thumb.

The moment Richard cast his Spirit Vision over it, he sensed a small puddle of extremely low-concentration Ether Condensate inside the copper urn.

"What is this?"

"A Rubbing Machine."

Clara lifted it from the cork lining.

"Scholars spend their entire lives revolving around stone steles and ink rubbings."

"Traditional rubbings only capture the surface of the stone. They can't record the other side of the veil."

She tapped the crank on the machine.

"Turn this crank, and the Condensate in the urn will seep through the silver wires into the back of the paper, printing the layer from the veil's side along with it."

Richard held the machine, examining it closely.

"Senior, this is far too precious."

"Keep it. You cured me. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't give you something in return."

Clara topped off his tea, though her eyes strayed toward the weeping willows outside the window.

"The pension from Scapa Flow finally came through, so I have a little pocket money now.

My uncle said that since we're family, he'd waive most of the labor fees."

She smiled at that.

"He has a sharp tongue, but he still stayed up all night to finish it."

Richard thought it over and didn't refuse.

"It sounds like your uncle has a bad temper, but a good heart."

"That's just how he is." Clara took a sip of tea, suddenly recalling something.

"Speaking of which, craftsmen of his generation completely looked down on machines like this a few years ago."

"Alchemical tools require a skilled hand. Anyone who tried to replace their own hands with a machine would have been scolded out of the room."

"Years ago, someone tried using a steam hammer instead of manual forging, and the old masters cursed them so badly they couldn't even lift their heads.

They said things forged by machines lacked a soul."

"And now?"

"Now his workshop has two Picture Teleprinters and a lathe."

Richard raised his eyebrows.

"Once the war started, he didn't have the luxury of looking down on them anymore."

Clara's tone grew quiet.

"The front lines need Enchanted Bullets and newly forged sealing mediums, and the sheer volume they demand is terrifying.

Relying on two bare hands to hammer them out batch by batch... he could work himself to death and never finish."

She shook her head.

"So, he doesn't say machines lack a soul anymore."

Richard offered a faint smile.

"It's good that he came around."

"He didn't just come around," Clara corrected him.

"He was forced into it. A few years ago, if you had given him a lathe for free, he would have complained it took up too much space."

Richard dropped his smile and nodded slowly.

"If war does nothing else, it truly forces people to march forward."

He set his teacup down, his interest piqued.

"Just two years ago, airplanes were little more than toys for the rich—they'd fly a couple of loops in the sky and land.

Now they're running reconnaissance, dropping bombs, doing everything.

Radios and Picture Teleprinters used to be exclusive to the Academy and the major cities. Now, they're setting up entire networks of them on the front lines."

"Even old craftsmen like your uncle are being forced to drag lathes into their workshops."

Clara listened quietly without interrupting.

When he finished, she set her own teacup down.

"By your logic, could deciphering, appraisal, and sealing also be partially replaced by machines?"

"Carve standard inscriptions into a cylinder, and the machine can stamp out a finished seal in one press.

Input the defining traits of common evil creatures into a device, and they could be identified instantly through cross-referencing."

"Sooner or later, someone will do exactly that," Richard said.

"Any repetitive labor can be broken down and standardized."

"And Scholars?"

"Scholars will only become more precious. Machines can only replace the repetitive labor."

"The more advanced the machinery gets, the more valuable a Scholar becomes."

Clara stared at him blankly for a long moment before finally speaking.

"The old gentlemen in the department frown the moment anyone mentions industry and machinery. They think it's filthy and ruins tradition."

Richard's hand froze on his teacup, and he blinked, looking slightly guilty.

"I just let my mind wander when I've got too much time on my hands."

"Mind wandering." Clara's lips curved upward, and she didn't press the matter.

The tearoom quieted down.

Richard placed the machine back into its cork lining and snapped the clasps shut, though he kept his hand resting on the lid.

Ever since the night their last gathering ended, there had been something he wanted to discuss with someone.