Chapter 436: Distributing Rewards

The hounds crawled up from the lowlands one after another, their mouths full.

The crippled hound was the last to arrive. It carried nothing, running straight to the shadow's feet and lying down to rest its chin on his shoes.

"Count them."

Dozens of hands gripping reins formed a line in midair.

"Eastern sector, four thousand one hundred."

"Four thousand three hundred."

"Four thousand one hundred. You counted the area around Crater 27 twice."

"I made two trips."

"You made two trips because you ran the wrong way the first time."

"My first trip was to scout the way."

"You scouted all the way into the southern marsh."

"...That's a path too."

The old scholar moved out of the formation, a scroll spread across his knees.

"Stop arguing. Report them one by one."

He rattled off the numbers.

How many in the western sector, how many in the central sector, how many around Willow Stakes, how many were driven to the southern high ground before doubling back.

"Total count, four thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven."

No one spoke in the howling wind.

Richard knew the newspapers wouldn't print this number. They would either print no number at all, or a completely different one.

The old scholar rolled the scroll down to the blank space at the very end.

"Time to divide it up."

The arguments over distributing the shares were even fiercer than the counting.

The barefoot man claimed he had locked down an entire trench in the western sector and deserved an extra share.

Someone nearby immediately exposed him, pointing out that more than half the things in that trench had already been flushed out by others.

The lobsterback in the red coat wordlessly accepted his share.

When it was his turn, the old man who hadn't remembered his own name for six hundred years suddenly said, "I don't want this."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want a shoe."

The old scholar didn't even look up. "Note that he wants a shoe. Sheepskin."

"Why are you writing that down?"

"So I have it on record when he asks again in another six hundred years."

Laughter rippled down the line, carrying on until it faded out of earshot.

When it was the shadow's turn—Richard's turn—the clouds fell silent.

The old scholar rolled the scroll back up to the very beginning of the night's entries.

"The rules of Walburg Night are clear. We're clearing out ownerless strays that refused to leave all winter. If not for this herald..."

He paused.

"Tonight, we would have been stuck in the clouds, just watching those guys fight."

Dozens of hands relaxed their grip on their reins.

The lord of the hunt hadn't made a sound until now, but at this moment, it turned around.

"What do you want?"

"My rightful share from the ledger. I already said so."

"The ledger isn't balanced."

The lord of the hunt didn't sound particularly reluctant this time.

"I tore apart a Virtuoso tonight. This night's prey isn't enough to make up that weight."

The clouds grew even quieter.

Sitting in his wicker chair, Richard felt a chill spread across the back of his neck, as if it had traveled hundreds of miles to reach him.

"I'll give you two choices. Pick one."

The lord of the hunt presented the first option.

"I can authorize a grand secret rite for you. Once it's done, you'll be pushed right to the threshold of a Minor Adept, lacking only the oath."

"After you cross into Minor Adept on your own, the rite will continue to work. Within two years, you'll touch the door to Major Adept."

Richard's grip on the armrests tightened.

He mentally listed out his current goals:

His mother's ether circuit that had idled for over a decade, the mirror inching its way over from across the sea, the [Ten of Swords] hanging over that table in mid-April...

If he accepted, all of these problems would be solved instantly.

"The price?" he asked.

The lord of the hunt listed a string of specific dates.

"The Twelve Nights of Yule, the Three Days of the Ember Tides, Halloween, Walburg... and any place where a massive number of deaths occur."

"On any night we ride out, you must be present... in person."

Richard felt a slight stir in his heart, though the condition didn't surprise him.

"And if I die during the Wild Hunt?"

"If you die, you belong to me, naturally. Just like these people. You've seen them."

The wind howled through the center of the clearing.

Hundreds of miles away, Richard closed his eyes. The [Chariot - Reversed] card stood up once more in his mind.

The chariot was still moving, but the two sphinxes were already disobeying. The figure on the chariot struck a commanding pose, but that card had never featured reins.

"Let's hear the second choice," he said.

The lord of the hunt wasn't surprised; it had expected as much.

"Second, we will hunt down a designated target for you."

"Within three years, you just need to give me a name, and I will enter it into the next ledger."

"Only once. Use it and it's gone."

The shadow planted the Caduceus firmly, showing no hesitation.

"I choose the hunt."

A faint ripple of commotion swept across the clouds.

"He's crazy," the young man with the axe muttered. "Two years to touch Major Adept. Two years!"

"Yeah! How many people spend their entire lives without even reaching Minor Adept?"

"Shut up, all of you."

The old scholar picked his pen back up and scribbled two lines in the blank space at the end of the scroll.

When he finished, he looked up and glanced at the shadow.

There was something else in that gaze. Richard deciphered it through a thread of spiritual connection and figured it was probably approval.

"Why?" the lord of the hunt asked.

"I want to climb up on my own," Richard said.

"That will be very slow."

"Even if it's slow, it's mine."

The lord of the hunt didn't ask again.

It unhooked the horn from its saddle, weighed it in its palm, and hooked it back.

"The ledger still isn't balanced," the old scholar reminded.

"I know."

The lord of the hunt thought for a moment. "Then I'll add one more thing."

"From tonight on, you are no longer a guest."

Those antlers pointed toward the tip of the shadow's reins.

"From now on, behind the veil, to anyone who still respects my rules, you may declare yourself the herald of the lord of the hunt."

"And the obligations?" the shadow asked.

"None."

The figure carrying the charred wood laughed out loud.

"That's a beautiful move," he said, spinning the piece of charcoal on his finger.

"Just a title, no actual goods. It didn't cost a penny."

"Shut up," the lord of the hunt said.

"I'm praising you."

The old scholar lowered his head to finish writing the last line, his pen pausing on the scroll.

Only then did Richard see what the unrolled scroll looked like.

Line upon line, densely packed together, it was filled with names.

The section added tonight was still wet, the ink bleeding downward.

His eyes followed that section down, one line, two lines, all the way to the bottom.

The name he was looking for wasn't there.

The old scholar noticed his gaze and rolled the scroll halfway up.

"We didn't record a single one of those who left through that rift tonight."

"Thank you," Richard said.

"For what?" The old scholar tucked his pen behind his ear.

"I calculate the ledger clearly; I don't care about anything else."

The ledger was still unbalanced, so the lord of the hunt continued to offer Richard choices for his spoils.

It tugged on its reins, manifesting a borderless cabinet.

At that, the necks of the entire procession craned forward.

"The lord of the hunt has opened the cabinet."

"How many years has it been since it was last opened?"

"Thirty-seven years."

"Forty-one years."

"...Here we go again."

The treasures inside the cabinet floated up one by one.

The old scholar moved out of the formation, rolled up the scroll on his lap, and tucked it into his waistband.

The first item to emerge was a gold ring.

The surface was so worn that the design was almost indistinguishable; only under slanted light could one make out a rampant lion.

"I recognize this one," the old scholar said. "From that night in Babylon."

"Whose was it?"

"Alexander's."

Silence fell over the clouds for a moment.

"...Which Alexander?" the young man with the axe asked.

"How many Alexanders have you heard of in your life?"

"I've heard of three. One of them owes me two silver coins."

"Shut up."

Ignoring him, the lord of the hunt tossed the signet ring in the air.

"Took his father's seat at twenty, died in Babylon at thirty-two. Twelve years in between."

"In those twelve years, the territories this emperor conquered were so vast that you couldn't fly across them all in a single night."

The shadow planted the Caduceus firmly.

"Was the emperor a figure from the mystical side?"

"He was, but he still died young in the end."

"Why?"

The lord of the hunt held the signet ring up to him so he could see it more clearly.

"The year he entered the Black Soil River, he walked eight days into the western desert, arriving at a temple beside a spring.

That temple had received offerings for two thousand years and only ever recognized their pharaohs."

"That day, an entire priesthood stood before him and called him the Son of Amun."

Richard was about to see if he could use this opportunity to absorb some ether and gain some points.

But soon, he felt a wave of irritation.

This Signet Ring of Alexander the Great was an empty shell, merely a sample the lord of the hunt was showing him... Sure enough, it wouldn't be that easy.

The lord of the hunt lowered its hand.

"If a name is only used by a few people, it's a nickname. If it's used by a crowd, it becomes a title."

"But when it's called out in unison by an entire span of sacrificial scars steeped in two thousand years of offerings... that solders a pipe from behind the veil directly onto you."

"Later, Persia gave him another one, and Babylon gave him yet another.

He collected them wherever he went, and in the end, there were so many pipes soldered onto him that no one could count them all."

Richard asked, "Did he ever connect to the traditions?"

"No. He felt no one was worthy of ruling him."

Someone on the clouds drew a sharp breath.

The lord of the hunt nodded.

"He died of arrogance, and he died of greed."

"In his thirty-second year, he fell into a fever in Babylon."

"During that time, the area outside his room was packed with people—close courtiers, generals, physicians, and those who grew up with him... No one was willing to leave first, and no one dared to."

"In the end, someone leaned over his bed and asked him: Who do you leave the empire to?"

"He said: To the strongest."

The lord of the hunt tossed the signet ring up from its palm and caught it again.

"He said many things in his life. Some of his words have been copied for two thousand years."

"But this one line was the only thing he murmured in his delirium right before he died."

"Everyone knows the rest of the story."

"So what is the use of this signet ring?"

The old scholar nearby laughed aloud.

"Put it on and you become the 'Emperor.' Every word and action will make those around you subconsciously obey and follow you."

"And the price?" Richard was completely unmoved.

The old scholar grunted, his laughter catching in his throat.

"You have to actually be a 'ruler' yourself. Your territory must be vast enough, and you must have enough people following your orders. Otherwise, the sheer pressure will crush you to death instantly."

"...That's incredibly useless. Those qualified to wear it don't need this signet ring, and those who aren't qualified can't put it on."

Richard analyzed it. Compared to the effects of this high-tier supernatural item, he was far more interested in the ether sealed within it.

"What about his remains?"

The lord of the hunt said, "That is why this signet ring is here."

"His coffin was being transported home from Babylon when it was hijacked halfway."

"The one who stole it took it south, all the way to the mouth of the Black Soil River."

"Later, someone built a city around that coffin. Inside the city, they built a library, and from that library grew a school of thought."

"The Alexandrian School."

The old scholar glanced at it.

"People are still studying that school's encryption system to this day."

"This signet ring was slipped off a finger bone."

"The hand that slipped it off reached inside while the coffin was still intact."

The shadow waited for the lord of the hunt to put the signet ring away before speaking.

"Actually, I originally wanted to ask if all the former owners of this cabinet's collection were major figures from the mystical side."

"That's the wrong question. I suggest you rephrase it."

"Rephrase it to what?"

The old scholar chimed in.

"Rephrase it to... why didn't a single one of these people survive to this day?"

Today's Meal at the Williams Residence, Part 4

Seven or eight people were lined up outside a small office at the Royal Culinary College registration desk.

There were more people than Evelyn had imagined.

In front of her was a girl in a respectable coat, accompanied by a woman wearing a hat.

The mother and daughter spoke in hushed voices, the mother's hand resting constantly on her daughter's shoulder.

The one at the very front of the line looked even younger than Evelyn, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, and the hands clutching her application materials wouldn't stop shaking.

Evelyn didn't have her mother by her side.

Margaret was sitting on a bench outside.

She had said her legs grew sore from standing too long and told Richard to accompany his sister inside instead.

Richard knew the truth: his mother didn't want the people in the office to see her coughing.

When she reached the window, a female clerk wearing reading glasses took Evelyn's envelope.

She pulled out the documents one by one and flipped through them. Her brow twitched slightly when she reached the recommendation letter.

"Greenwood School?"

"Yes."

The clerk set the letter aside and pulled a form from her drawer.

"Baking Department, right?"

"Right."

"Fill out this form."

Evelyn took the form and leaned over a small side table to fill it out.

Name, age, guardian, residence... She breezed through the first few fields.

When she reached the "Family Financial Status" section, her pen paused.

Then, she honestly wrote down, "Lower-middle."

Evelyn didn't slow down after leaving the Culinary College.

To her eyes, the Imperial Capital was an open treasure box.

Even though the war had chewed off several pieces of its gold trim, what remained was still enough to overwhelm the young girl.

She dragged Richard on a stroll all the way north from South Kensington.

The display window at the White Birch Dessert Workshop held even fewer items than the last time Richard was here.

Evelyn leaned against the window, her nose practically pressed against the glass.

"This isn't right."

"What isn't right?"

"They're cutting corners."

"How do you know?"

"Look at that row of meringue cookies. They look gray," she said, pointing at the bottom shelf.

"Normal meringues are white when baked. They're gray because there isn't enough sugar to hold the egg whites up.

They had to overbeat them to compensate, and this color is what happens when you beat them too much."

She stared at the drab little cookies for a couple of seconds.

"They don't have any sugar either."

The most respectable dessert workshop in the entire Imperial Capital had a row of gray meringues sitting in its display window.

"Let's go," she said, turning away.

"Done looking?"

"What's there to look at? I can make better than that."

On Christmas Eve, Evelyn ran up to the butler.

"Excuse me."

She cleared her throat.

"Could I borrow the kitchen?"

The kitchen in the Ashford residence, much like the rest of the rooms in the house, was filled with utensils that showed their age.

The copper pots were hand-forged, their handles engraved with the craftsmen's initials.

The baking sheets came from a nearly extinct tinsmith's shop in the North District of the Imperial Capital.

The silverware went without saying; several pieces were cast in the same batch as the acorn and wheat sheaf set resting on the mantelpiece.

"Miss, the kitchen utensils..."

"Let her use them."

Gerard's voice drifted over from across the parlor.

"Just be careful not to drop the silverware."

The butler bowed slightly.

Evelyn's eyes lit up, and she turned and sprinted toward the kitchen.

She made it two steps before the butler called out to her.

"Miss, the aprons are on the second shelf of the left cabinet."

"Thank you!"

She ran another two steps, then suddenly braked and turned around.

"Oh, right."

"Did you need something else, Miss?"

Evelyn earnestly inspected the butler's legs.

"Did your knees ever get any better?"

The butler froze.

"...Miss?"

"My brother told me," Evelyn said matter-of-factly.

"When I came here for the first time last year, you were walking really slowly upstairs.

I asked my brother what was wrong, and he said you might have bad knees."

"I've kept that in mind for over a year now."

"If they still aren't better, I can make you some ginger candy. Ginger candy is good for your joints; my mom eats it all the time."

Hearing this from the side, Richard was so embarrassed he didn't even dare look at the butler's face. He just turned and slipped away.

The butler, however, didn't think about it from that angle at all.

He had served in this house for forty years. He had seen the master fly into rages, seen guests arrive soaked in blood, and seen people carried in through the back door in the dead of night.

But no one had ever asked about his knees.

"...Thank you, Miss. There is nothing wrong with my knees."

"That's good." Evelyn nodded in satisfaction, then turned and went into the kitchen.

The butler stood rooted to the spot. When he turned his head and caught sight of the young master hurrying away in the distance, the polite smile he maintained year-round broke.

In the evening, Sophia walked through the door holding a cardboard box.

"Evelyn!!!"

"Sister Sophia?"

"I'm replacing your cat!"

She set the box down on the rug and flipped the lid open.

A grayish-white kitten—so skinny you couldn't find an ounce of fat on it—poked half its head out of the box and meowed at the room full of people.

Sophia looked thoroughly aggrieved.

"I've been feeding this one for two weeks, and it just won't get fat!"

"Two weeks?"

"I've been looking since October," Sophia said, counting on her fingers.

"First, I asked the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper told me to check the market. The old lady selling fish at the market said she had a litter at home..."

"You searched for two months just to replace my cat?"

"I promised I would."

Evelyn crouched on the rug, watching the kitten climb out of the box.

She reached out and rubbed its head.

The kitten circled around on the rug, walked straight over to the armchair, and sat down at Gerard's feet.

The whole room went completely silent again.

Gerard looked down and stared at the cat for two seconds.

The kitten stared right back at him.

Then, it hopped onto his lap and curled into a ball.

"I am so incredibly sorry..." Sophia stared at her mentor's father, not even daring to raise her voice.

"I'll take it away right now."

"No need."

The old man nudged his teacup aside to make room for the cat.

"It's been a little too quiet in this house anyway."

Evelyn stayed in the kitchen for a very long time.

Walking past the second-floor corridor, Richard could smell the aroma of browned butter drifting up from the stairs, mixed with the faint scent of cinnamon and grated lemon zest.

When she finally emerged, she was carrying an enamel tray holding a whole Basque cheesecake.

She set the cake down on the dining table.

"The first piece goes to Mom."

Margaret took the knife and found the right angle to cut into the side of the cake.

As the blade slid in, a semi-liquid custard filling oozed out from the center.

Margaret finished slicing the first piece, picked up a corner with her fork, and put it in her mouth.

After swallowing, she offered no critique on the taste. Instead, she reached out and squeezed her daughter's fingers, which were still dusted with flour and egg wash.

Standing by the door, the butler watched in silence, mentally running through a checklist to ensure none of the kitchen's antique utensils had been damaged.

Everything was intact, including the silverware.

After dinner, the brother and sister sat on opposite sides of the kitchen counter, making different pastries.

During dinner just now, the adults had casually brought up Baldwin's "Princess Gift Box."

Upon hearing about the soldiers on the front lines, Evelyn had announced she wanted to bake some long-lasting pastries.

Uncle Baldwin could take them back to the soldiers on the front lines who couldn't come home for Christmas.

When Evelyn finished baking, it was Richard's job to write the labels.

On every stiff piece of cardstock, he wrote a line in neat Albion Language:

"From northern Albion, Briston, the Williams Residence."

"Soak in hot water before eating."

"Wishing you peace."

Evelyn's task was to pack the cookies into the Iron Boxes one by one, arranging them neatly with layers of wax paper in between.

"Brother, when I was standing in front of that notice board today, I thought of something."

"What is it?"

"I was thinking it would be so much better if I had studied something else."

Her hands never stopped, placing the cookies into the Iron Box piece by piece.

"If I had studied nursing, I could go to the hospital right now.

If I had learned to type, I could go work in a government department.

If I were a boy, I could go join that line right now."

"Instead, I'm learning how to bake, and it's baking without sugar."

Richard put his pen down.

"Just this morning, you told Mom that school was great."

"Yeah."

"At dinner today, you asked Uncle Baldwin what they eat on the front lines."

"Yeah."

"And you just baked two boxes of food that will last a month without going bad, so you can send them to those soldiers."

"...Yeah."

"And now you're telling me you can't do anything."

Evelyn's hands froze.

She lowered her head and stared at the neat rows of hard, ugly cookies in the Iron Box.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

She was quiet for a long time.

So long that Richard thought she wasn't going to say anything else.

"Brother, do you remember when you used to be sick?"

"I remember."

"I was the one who washed your clothes. I brought you your medicine, and when you coughed in the middle of the night, I was the one who got up to pour you water."

Her voice was very soft.

"Back then, I knew what I was supposed to be doing."

"I had an irreplaceable spot in this family."

"But then you got better."

"You kept getting better and better, so much that I couldn't even keep up with you anymore."

"You got in the newspaper, took first place, and now you're standing on the same level as those rich young masters in the Imperial Capital."

"You don't need anyone to take care of you anymore."

"Aunt sends Mom's medicine, Dad's work is his own, and your books are yours."

"It suddenly feels like there's nothing left for me to do in this house."

She placed the last cookie into the Iron Box and put the lid on.

"That's why I want to open a bakery."

"If I open a bakery, there will always be hungry people pushing through the door."

"And then I can still be someone... who is needed."

The kitchen fell silent, save for the occasional crackle from the hearth.

The kitten hopped down from a copper basin and trotted over to rub against her ankle.

"Evelyn."

"What?"

"On my birthday, I was alone in my dorm room. Sitting on my desk was the jar of pastries you gave me."

"I ate them piece by piece, and after I finished, I sat there for a very long time."

Evelyn didn't say anything.

"You know exactly when Mom needs her medicine and how much to take. You remember how many night shifts Dad has worked."

"You even remembered the butler's knees for a whole year."

Richard looked at her.

"And you think there's nothing for you to do in this house?"

Evelyn quickly rubbed her sleeve across her face twice. When she looked back up, her eyes were red.

"I know, it's just really smoky in this kitchen!"

Richard had already prepared an excuse for his sister before she could even speak. In truth, dinner had ended long ago, and making pastries required barely any fire at all.

"Yeah. Really smoky," Evelyn nodded fiercely.

"Stop writing. Your labels are way too stiff. They look like official notices."

"Then how should I write them?"

"Draw a rabbit for me at the very bottom."

"Alright."

Richard picked up his pen and drew a rabbit at the bottom of every label.

A rabbit wearing a graduation cap.

When he reached the dozenth card, Evelyn leaned over to take a look.

"Your rabbit's ears are crooked."

"I'm not a professional."

"I'll teach you."

She snatched the pen away and quickly sketched one out in the corner of a label.

A round head, long ears, two large buck teeth, a graduation cap, and a carrot dangling from its mouth.

"See that? The ears have to stick out to the sides, not point straight up."

"Pointing up means the rabbit is standing guard. Sticking out means the rabbit is happy."

"What's the difference?"

"Of course there's a difference." Evelyn handed the pen back to him.

"They've been squatting in a muddy trench out there for half a year. If they open the box and see a rabbit standing guard, wouldn't they just be happy for nothing?"

"You have to draw a happy one."

The two Iron Boxes were quickly sealed.

Evelyn set the boxes side by side on the counter, stepped back, and looked at them for a moment.

"Brother, do you think they'll like them?"

"I don't know."

"Can't you say something nice?"

"They'll probably complain about how hard they are," Richard said.

"Uncle Baldwin told me they swear up a storm about that plum and apple jam."

"But they still eat it. They just spread it really thin with the back of their knives."

Evelyn looked at the two Iron Boxes and smiled.

She untied her apron, hung it on the hook behind the door, bent down to pick up the kitten, and walked out.

Left alone in the kitchen, Richard finished drawing the rabbit on the final label.

Following his sister's instructions, he drew the ears sticking outward.

He had to admit, drawing it like that really did make it look happy.

The Savior Brought in by Phillips

Saturday evening, the sky was overcast.

Phillips parked his rickety convertible at the end of the street, afraid it would stick out too much if he left it next to the row of cars parked out front.

"Where's Constance?" Richard asked as he got out of the car.

"She's coming on her own later." Phillips managed to tie his necktie into a decent knot.

"Isn't she worried you'll lose?"

"She's worried that if I don't win, she won't be able to stop herself from beating someone up."

The corners of Phillips's mouth twitched.

"A Hunter sitting there watching a bunch of drunks run their mouths with ugly words—do you think she'd be able to hold back?"

Richard chuckled.

The gatekeeper checked their invitations and stepped aside to let them in.

The moment they stepped into the foyer, a wave of heat and the smell of alcohol washed over them.

Inside this house, there wasn't the slightest hint of rationing or austerity.

Beneath a crystal chandelier sat a long table lined end-to-end with silver platters.

Chilled oysters, crackers slathered in foie gras, and a small mountain of grapes.

There were also several bottles of bubbling champagne wrapped in gold foil.

These were all goods that were nearly impossible to find on the market now that the sea routes were restricted.

Lately, Richard had grown accustomed to a completely different scene back in Briston, in the Compilation Group, and in his own small room.

Sugar was sold by the ounce, with prices changing by the day.

Pharmacies hung "Temporarily Out of Iodine and Hemostatic Gauze" signs in their windows.

The coffins at the funeral parlor next door were stacking higher and higher.

Yet in this room, just the few bottles of champagne on the table were worth almost half a year's living expenses for a family in the east side of Slag Alley.

He suppressed the thought.

Now wasn't the time to dwell on that. First, he needed to help his good friend Phillips get some payback.

In the center of the room sat a circle of dark leather armchairs, occupied by seven or eight young men. Every one of them was impeccably dressed and holding a wine glass.

When they saw Phillips lead Richard in, the conversations stopped, and several gazes swept over them.

The one sitting directly in the center stood up.

He was very tall, his light chestnut hair combed flawlessly, and his brow carried a hint of arrogance.

"Phillips." He set his glass on a small side table. "I thought you were too scared to show up."

"Langford." Phillips took off his coat and casually draped it over the back of a chair.

"When have I ever broken a promise on an agreed date?"

Richard swept his Spirit Vision over the people in the room.

Most of the men sitting in the circle had ether circuits on them.

The majority of them had crossed the threshold to become Practitioners, and seventy to eighty percent of them walked the Hunter path.

Langford's own ether was noticeably thicker than the rest; he had the most solid foundation among them.

No wonder Phillips couldn't outdrink him.

"And this is the savior you brought along?"

Langford's gaze fell on Richard, sizing him up from head to toe with a hint of amusement.

"He actually looks more like a serious scholar than you do."

A round-faced young man nearby leaned in and lowered his voice:

"Langford, you don't recognize him?

Second place in the Cicero Cup, top of the preparatory class in Debate Week, and he was even in the Imperial Capital Morning News a while back... Richard Williams."

"Williams..." Langford repeated the surname to himself.

"From the branch of the Ashford family that married an engineer?"

"Yes," Richard answered for him.

"A top student from the Department of Classics." Langford took a sip from a fresh glass of wine handed to him.

"Debates, Latin, rhetoric... Our Royal Academy can't compete with you there."

He swirled his glass, the wine rippling inside.

"But that's not what we're competing in today."

The men in the room gradually gathered around, boxing Richard and Phillips in.

The leather armchairs were pushed back to clear a space in the middle.

The servants silently carried over a long table and set down two rows of empty glasses.

They weren't serving champagne; they were serving the hard stuff.

Richard took a glance. Liquor from the Highlands, the colonies, and a wax-sealed bottle of vintage brandy—all fierce spirits that could easily put a man under.

Langford sat down across from Richard and crossed his legs.

"Pick one of you to go against us. Whoever drops first loses."

"Just one is enough?" Richard asked.

"What, the two of you want to go together?"

The round-faced guy scoffed.

"I guess that works. After all, one's a coward who settled for a teapot, and the other's just a bookworm who memorizes Latin."

Phillips's grip tightened on the back of his chair.

Richard placed a hand on him to hold him back.

"He doesn't need to step in."

Richard rolled his sleeves up halfway, baring his forearms, and sat down at the table.

"I will take on this entire room by myself."

The crowd fell silent for a moment before bursting into laughter.

"One person against the whole room?" Langford uncrossed his legs.

"Mr. Williams, did you mistake drinking for one of your debate stages?

You might be quick on your feet up there, but liquor..."

He poured himself a full glass and picked it up.

"Once it goes down, it doesn't reason with you."

"Mr. Langford is correct."

Richard also poured himself a glass, filling it just as high.

"So let's stop reasoning and drink more."

He raised his glass toward the opposite side, tilted his head back, and downed it in one gulp.

It was hot on the way in, burning from the root of his tongue straight down into his stomach.

And then, nothing happened.

The heat dissipated the moment it hit his stomach, instantly cooling back down as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of cold water.

The alcohol was classified as a "harmful substance" by [Filtration] and intercepted in his digestive tract. It was metabolized immediately, completely preventing even a trace of a buzz.

He placed the empty glass on the table with a light clink.

"Your turn, gentlemen."

The laughter in the room died in their throats.

Langford downed his own glass and wiped the corner of his mouth.

"The young man has some drive. Good."

He waved a hand. "Don't just stand there watching. Drink with Mr. Williams."

The seven or eight men surrounding them took their seats and poured their drinks. For a moment, the clinking of glasses sounded just like an actual literary salon.

As Richard unhurriedly poured his second glass, he swept his Spirit Vision over the circle again.

Interesting. After just the first glass, two or three of them were already quietly channeling their ether, pushing the alcohol out of their systems.

This was the old trick Hunters used to drink heavily, and it was the very reason Phillips could never beat them.

But they were still only Practitioners. No matter how much ether they channeled, there was a limit to how much alcohol they could expel in a given amount of time.

Meanwhile, Richard couldn't get drunk at all.

This was a contest whose outcome was decided from the very start.

He ran the numbers in his head and decided there was no point dragging this out glass by glass.

"Gentlemen." Richard downed his second glass and held it bottom-up again.

"Going back and forth glass by glass is far too slow. How about this..."

He raised a hand to signal the butler.

"Bring out the large ones."

The butler glanced at Langford. Langford's expression shifted before he finally nodded.

Could a Scholar really outdrink a Hunter?

The large cups were brought out—the massive glass mugs typically used for beer, each holding more than three times the volume of a goblet.

Richard picked up a bottle of Highlands single malt and filled his mug more than halfway.

He then politely filled Langford's mug to the brim, did the same for the round-faced young man, and continued around the circle. Soon, all seven or eight massive mugs on the table were filled to the very top.

"Mr. Williams, this is..." The round-faced guy stared at the mug in front of him, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Since it's a competition," Richard picked up his mug, "we can't have me drinking all alone."

Without waiting for a response, he tilted his head back and drained it all in one breath.

When he set the mug down, his expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

The men looked at each other. Langford gritted his teeth and downed his mug too.

His foundation was thick, so a massive cup of Highlands liquor only brought a slight redness to his eyes before his ether forced it back down.

The rest weren't nearly as steady.

The first to crack was a tall, skinny guy who supposedly also studied classics at the Royal Academy and loved showing off his literary knowledge.

After downing his mug, he swayed, insisting on standing up to offer a toast as he mumbled on and on.

"Nunc est bibendum... (Now is the time for drinking...)"

He raised his mug high, spilling liquor all over his hand:

"nunc... nunc pede libero... (Now must the earth be struck with a free foot!)"

It was from the Roman poet Horace's Odes, written to celebrate Octavian's victory over Antony and Cleopatra.

Halfway through, his word order fell apart, his declensions and conjugations became an absolute mess, and he butchered a third-declension noun into the feminine gender.

Sitting across from him, Richard caught every single mistake without missing a beat, but kept silent.

The skinny guy couldn't recite any further and collapsed back into his chair.

His head flopped back against the headrest, completely still, while his empty mug remained suspended in the air.

The round-faced guy gave him a shove, but the man just swayed twice and stayed unconscious.

With the first man down, Richard poured another round for the table.

His hands were perfectly steady as he poured, not spilling a single drop from the lip of the bottle, but the sight alone made the hands of the men beside him start to shake.

The second man's drunken habits were different. The more he drank, the more emotional he got.

After downing his two mugs, he suddenly threw an arm around the shoulders of the guy next to him, insisting they were brothers.

"Brother..." The person he was grabbing happened to be someone he barely knew.

"How long... how long have we known each other...?"

"Get lost, let go of me..."

"I won't." He hugged tighter, slamming his head against the man's shoulder.

"I'll tell you right now... Langford... he's not a bad guy... he just... he just runs his mouth too much..."

The surrounding men looked incredibly awkward, while Langford's face darkened.

The guy hugged the other man and babbled on for a long time, his voice steadily growing softer.

Finally, he began snoring against the man's shoulder, pinning him down so he couldn't move.

The second man was down.

The female guests had gathered around to watch by now.

Several young ladies had originally been sitting in the back rooms. Most were cousins of these young masters, and a few were fiancees who had tagged along.

Hearing the commotion in the front hall, they strolled over in twos and threes to take a look.

Leading them was a red-haired girl in a light gray dress named Viola. She was also from the Blackburn family, making her Constance's cousin.

She had originally come over hoping to watch a joke unfold.

But after standing and watching for a while, the amused smile faded from her face.

The Scholar on the other side of the table was downing glass after glass, drinking even harder than the Hunters.

Yet the circle of men surrounding him were the ones slumping over and collapsing.

"He..." Viola lowered her voice and asked her companion, "How many glasses has he had?"

Her companion tried to count but completely lost track.

"The large ones? At least seven or eight," the girl replied, looking a bit stunned. "But his face isn't even red."

Refusing to believe it, Viola stepped closer to the table, staring fixedly at the young man named Richard.

He was pouring his ninth mug. She counted.

He filled it, picked it up, methodically drank it down, and set it back on the table. The motion was identical to the very first glass.

The folding fan in Viola's hand froze in midair.

By the time the third and fourth men went down, the last shreds of that "literary salon" decency were utterly gone.

The round-faced young man had forced himself into a corner with his big talk.

He had mocked Richard the loudest earlier, and now he had no way out, so he followed him glass for glass.

By his fifth large mug, he could barely sit straight.

He insisted he could still drink and reached out for the liquor bottle.

"I... I can still..." He grabbed the edge of the table, tried to stand, and pitched forward.

He face-planted into the carpet and didn't move again.

A slightly plumper guy drank until he mistook Richard for someone else. He hugged a nearby pillar and started yelling, "Cousin!"

He cried out with deep affection, refusing to let go no matter who pulled at him. Eventually, he slid down the pillar, hit the floor, and fell asleep while still hugging it tight.

The women weren't laughing anymore.

Holding onto the doorframe, Viola watched the entire room of men collapse, one after another.

Richard's unshakeable composure sent a chill down the back of her neck.

"No human can drink like that," her companion whispered, voice trembling.

"Viola, something isn't right."

In the end, Langford was the only one left sitting at the table.

He had the thickest foundation and had been forcefully channeling ether to hold out.

By now, he could no longer suppress the flush on his face. His color shifted between red and white, and his forehead was soaked with sweat.

He had pushed his ether way too hard; his ether circuit was beginning to run hot and stiff.

But he didn't dare stop. If he did, the massive amount of alcohol he had held back would rush him all at once.

"Williams..." his tongue was starting to slur.

"What... what kind of ether are you channeling... This... this isn't right..."

"I'm not channeling any ether." Richard poured himself a fresh mug and politely refilled Langford's.

"Mr. Langford, I haven't used a single trace of ether this entire time."

Langford stared at the brim-filled mug in front of him, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"Will you drink?" Richard picked up his mug and raised it toward him.

Langford ground his teeth, lifted the mug with a shaking hand, and poured it into his mouth.

Halfway through, his hand gave out. Liquor ran down his chin and all over his neck.

He slumped onto the table, his forehead hitting the edge with a dull thud.

The front hall was so quiet you could hear the firewood popping in the hearth.

Richard slowly finished his drink and turned the mug bottom-up.

He stood up and swept his gaze over the young masters sprawled across the floor.

"Mr. Langford." He looked down at the man collapsed on the table, who hadn't completely passed out yet. "You lose."

Too weak to raise his head, Langford only gave a muffled grunt of acknowledgment against the table.

"That comment mocking Phillips."

Richard's voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the room heard him crystal clear: "Take it back."

Sometime during the spectacle, someone had appeared at the doorway.

Wearing a dark cloak, Constance had just arrived.

She looked at the utter chaos on the floor, then at Richard standing by the table, and finally at Langford collapsed on it.

Phillips stood up from his chair and walked over to his fiancee's side.

After lying on the table for a long while, Langford finally struggled to lift his head.

Facing the direction of the door, he slurred out a sentence.

"...I'm sorry... Mr. Phillips... that comment the other day... I... I shouldn't have said it..."

Having said his piece, his head fell right back onto the table. This time, he truly passed out cold.

When they stepped out of the Langford residence, the fog had grown thicker.

Holding onto his rickety convertible, Phillips grinned from ear to ear.

Constance walked half a step behind them, barely saying a word.

"Richard." Phillips threw an arm around his shoulder. Even though he hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol, he was far more hyped than anyone else.

"The pathetic way Langford slumped over that table... I'll remember that for the rest of my life."

"Keep it in mind then," Richard let him hold onto him.