Chapter 447: Splitting the Fire

Richard certainly knew exactly who he needed to find.

He ran all the way to the Petrie Building, muttering to himself the entire time:

'If the office on the third floor is locked, I'm out of luck.'

Whether his luck was at work or not, he hadn't even reached the stairs before he heard that familiar, hoarse voice.

"Richard, come over here."

Professor Mortimer was carrying a fishing rod in one hand and clutching a tin can in the other, his hat perched askew as always.

"Hold this for me."

The tin can was shoved into Richard's arms. Something alive squirmed inside it; it had to be bait.

"Professor..."

"Someone caught a seven-pound bass in the canal last week. I need to go take a look."

The old professor strolled slowly forward, the fishing rod bobbing on his shoulder. He was clearly in a good mood.

"Professor, something happened on Flower Moon Street."

"Smashed shops?"

"Yes."

Mortimer didn't even break his stride.

"That's nothing new. It's a matter for the police.

They smash things up, pay a little compensation, or publish an apology in the paper if they can't afford it. Two months from now, everyone will have forgotten."

"Several hundred people set the outer street on fire in two places."

"Even with a few hundred people, it's a standard civil case."

"The Branch Office pulled out, too."

"The Branch Office never planned to stay."

"If you look at articles eight, nine, and ten in those pamphlets, they're entirely about the storefronts.

Whoever approved that pamphlet wanted something to happen on that street."

"You know about the pamphlets?"

"My housekeeper brought one back yesterday." Mortimer lifted the tip of his fishing rod.

"She tossed it out after reading the fourth article, saying her kid doesn't like singing the national anthem either."

Richard stood behind him, clutching the tin can to his chest.

"They don't just want to smash shops."

"Oh?"

"They might be going after the pillar in Donner's backyard."

The fishing rod paused in midair.

"Which pillar?"

"The Sassanian Fire Temple Pillar Fragment," Richard said. "The basin of fire on top of it."

Outside the window, a pigeon landed on the gutter, paced a couple of steps, and flew away.

Mortimer pulled the fishing rod back. The cloudiness faded from his half-open eyes.

"I don't meddle with smashed shops. The Empire will digest those on its own."

"But if they touch that pillar, it's no longer just a street issue."

Fischer rounded the corner of the corridor, clutching a folio of rubbings to his chest.

"Williams! I've finished the third edition—"

The fishing rod and the tin can were unceremoniously shoved into his arms.

"Hold these for me, kid," Mortimer said. "Don't knock the can over, or bugs will crawl everywhere."

"Professor, where... where are you two going?"

No one answered him.

Mortimer had already pulled a thin, worn book from his coat and flipped to a marked page.

"The 1861 meeting minutes of the Flower Moon Street neighborhood committee. That year, they argued for four whole months over who should repair the drainage ditch."

"What use is that?"

"The minutes record where the meeting took place."

He tore the page out.

In Richard's Spirit Vision, the door at the end of the corridor, which normally led to the stairwell, flipped inside out.

"Stay close. Using this Spell Formula means my old bones will need an extra bowl at dinner."

On the other side of the door, a choking stench of smoke hit them.

When Richard took his first step, crushed glass crunched beneath his boots.

The flagstone street was littered with debris: brass candlesticks, old wooden picture frames, trampled ledgers, and half a burned wicker wreath.

The fire inside Donner's shop had already been beaten back, but white smoke still billowed from behind the roof ridge.

Over a dozen people stood in the middle of the street. They were all locals.

Mrs. MacNeil turned around. Seeing Richard, she frowned in helpless resignation.

But when she saw the old man with the askew hat standing behind him, she froze.

"...Professor, you came too."

She hadn't spoken loudly, but every person standing on the street heard her.

An old woman raised the lantern in her hand a little higher.

A man who never spoke to anyone shuffled a half-step forward out of the shadows.

The businesses on this street operated independently, ignoring each other for decades.

But everyone knew who Mortimer was, and they all knew the old professor never meddled in other people's affairs. He wouldn't have come here without good reason.

Mortimer pushed up the brim of his hat and looked around.

"What a mess."

Mrs. MacNeil sighed. "Teacher is inside. She can't come out."

"I know. She's right to stay put."

He tipped his chin toward the antique shop.

"Where's Donner?"

"In the backyard."

"Is he still alive?"

"Alive. He pressed both hands over the fire basin and refused to move. They whipped him three times with an iron bar."

Mortimer shoved his hands into the pockets of his dusty old coat.

"And the fire?"

"Still burning."

Richard walked from the archway all the way to the end of the street.

Number One, Griffin Archives Management.

Half of its frosted glass was shattered, but not a single iron cabinet in the back row had been pried open.

Someone had struck one of the cabinet doors seven times, leaving seven white dents.

Number Two, an unbranded tailor shop, had burned halfway down. An unfinished lining was still spread across the cutting board.

Number Three, Brenner Clock and Timekeeping.

All twenty-seven pendulums had stopped. The old man was crouching on the floor, picking up scattered gears.

Number Five, R.T. Mineral Appraisal. The touchstone had been snapped in half.

Number Seven, Donner Antiquities and Sundries.

Number Nine, no signboard.

There was nothing to see from the outside. The door was solid iron, lacking even a handle.

There were only three destruction furnaces in the entire Imperial Capital. Everything the Academy refused to burn, the General Administration didn't dare burn, and the Guild wouldn't log in their ledgers went into this one.

Richard only had time to glance at the remaining shops as he walked by.

Number Ten, a glass shop, ground lenses that couldn't reflect a person's image.

Number Eleven housed an old woman who transcribed scriptures.

Number Twelve made locks that only recognized a single person.

Number Thirteen was a butcher who prepared ritual livestock; his bloodletting techniques came from the Highlands.

There really was a trade for everything on this street, covering every aspect of the mystical side that intersected with daily life.

Yet singled out, none of them seemed particularly remarkable.

On the other side of the street, the official personnel seemed to have been waiting.

Three cars were parked outside the archway. The men who had stepped out wore clean dark coats, without a speck of dust on their shoes.

The leader claimed to be a Deputy Director of the Wartime Abnormal Affairs Coordination Administration. Judging by his ether fluctuations, he was also a Hunter at the Minor Adept rank.

This administration had only opened last month. Richard remembered it clearly.

Because his five thousand copies of the Collection of Strange Tales had been bought by these exact people.

Two Practitioners from the Branch Office followed behind the Deputy Director, and behind them stood one more person.

That man had a narrow face and wore a loosely wrapped scarf hanging down to his chest.

The eyes behind his lenses were bright and quick, scanning the surroundings every two steps.

"Associate Professor Corbin," Richard said, stepping forward with a slight bow.

"Don't call me Associate Professor. Tonight, I'm a technical appraiser."

Corbin corrected him expressionlessly.

"These two identities are strictly separated in authority. Mixing the titles up is procedurally inexcusable!"

Richard gave an awkward smile and smoothly changed his address.

"Understood, Mr. Appraiser."

The Deputy Director halted in front of Donner's pawnshop and glanced at the shattered glass on the ground.

"It's deeply regrettable. We are also pained by what happened today."

Spoken like a true official, playing the routine with practiced ease. Every Flower Moon Street shop owner present sneered internally.

Donner sat on the threshold, his hands wrapped in cloth, not even looking at the newcomers.

"Mr. Donner, we came tonight precisely to resolve this problem for you."

The Deputy Director pulled a document from his briefcase.

"We are here to take over that high-grade supernatural item in your backyard."

"Take over?" Donner found the word interesting.

"You could call it a protective takeover," the Deputy Director elaborated.

"You couldn't hold the street today, and you saw it yourself: they'll be back tomorrow.

If you leave such an important supernatural item here, you might not be so lucky the second time."

"We will log it in our registry and issue you a receipt."

"Once the war ends, you can use this receipt to apply for its return."

When that sentence hit the flagstones, not a single one of the dozen people standing on the street spoke.

They were all seasoned in business; they knew exactly how much a piece of paper like that was worth.

Countless similar receipts lay buried in the national archives. Only a handful of items were ever genuinely returned, and only to those with backing.

"Mr. Deputy Director," Richard spoke up, "where exactly are you planning to send it once you take over?"

The Deputy Director sized him up, wondering who this unfamiliar kid was.

He didn't hide his intentions—there was nothing to hide:

"We're sending it to the Western Front. That blood-soaked belt stretches for hundreds of miles, and it's piling higher every day.

The Church's verdicts can't keep up, and the Guild's manpower has been entirely drained.

The Northern Greater Region's seal maintenance budget was slashed in half this year, with the funds diverted across the sea."

"We are short on Anchors. Last week, I signed a document to dismantle and requisition three seventeenth-century church bells from Yorkshire."

He spoke with utmost righteousness, as it was a genuinely legitimate justification.

"Therefore, this pillar is of use to us."

"Mr. Deputy Director, once it arrives there, it will be utterly useless."

Surprisingly, the person who spoke was Corbin.

The Deputy Director turned his head, frowning sharply, unable to understand why the man was undermining him.

"Mr. Appraiser, your morning report clearly stated: 'Extremely high ether deposition, possessing the potential for a high-value Anchor.'"

Corbin pulled his scarf up a little tighter.

"I must correct you. I wrote 'possessing the potential in situ'."

"I used the term in situ on the second page, third line of the report. You'll have to blame your subordinates for deleting the word in the summary."

The Deputy Director didn't respond.

"The pillar is a ritual implement from a Sassanian Fire Temple."

When it came to his field of expertise, Corbin never spared anyone's ego.

"The ether deposition on it didn't just fall from the sky. Fifteen hundred years of incense and rituals soaked into it, layer by layer.

If you move it, you're only moving a stone."

"A stone can still be erected."

"An erected stone is a stone."

On the threshold, Donner slowly raised his head.

"Gentlemen, you've been talking about the pillar all this time."

"The most crucial thing is the fire."

The fire burned atop the pillar in the backyard. The flames were only half the size of a hand, yet their color was unnervingly pure, without a single wisp of smoke.

Donner raised his cloth-wrapped hands, pointing at the pillar.

"My great-grandfather guarded it for forty years. It's been passed down for a hundred years to this day.

In all those years, we never let it go out once."

"The pillar is a temple. If you take the pillar away, the fire touches the ground. Once it hits the ground, it's no different from the fire I boil water with on my stove."

The Deputy Director frowned.

"Mr. Donner, we can take the fire with us. We'll carry it in a bronze urn, and the army will provide a dedicated escort."

"How long will the journey take?"

"Three days."

"Who will block the wind for those three days?"

"Who will block the breath of the living? What if your escort gentlemen sneeze along the way?"

"This fire must never touch the ground, must never be blown upon by a person, and must never be extinguished halfway.

Those are the rules. It has been a hundred and ten years. When my father told me about them, I was only this tall."

He held his hand about three feet off the ground.

"If the fire goes out on the road, you'll just be shipping a pot of ash across the sea."

The Deputy Director closed the folder.

"I understand your feelings."

"You don't understand."

"The dozen shops on this street have run smoothly for decades because of this basin of fire in my backyard."

The old professor, who had been standing silently in the middle of the street, slowly spoke up.

"Mr. Deputy Director."

"...Professor Mortimer?"

The old professor kept his hands in his pockets. "Yes, though I'm not carrying a title tonight."

The Deputy Director's face changed.

"I'll show you something, and you can decide for yourself."

"Show me what?"

"What this street looks like after the fire goes out."

The old professor swiped a finger through the air.

In that instant, the fire in the backyard shrank. It shrank for exactly fifteen seconds.

In those fifteen seconds, something inside the iron cabinets at Number One started pushing out, causing the doors to bulge in Spirit Vision;

From behind the handleless iron door at Number Nine came a faint sound of fingernails scratching;

The locks at Number Twelve—the ones that only recognized a single person—clicked open a half-turn, one after another.

A layer of chill fell over the flagstones.

The young Practitioner behind the Deputy Director stumbled two steps back, stopping only when he hit the wall.

The fire flared bright once more, and everything instantly returned to normal.

No one in the backyard spoke.

"Those fifteen seconds," Mortimer said slowly, slipping his hand back into his pocket, "I was suppressing them."

"If it really went out, they wouldn't be so polite."

The Deputy Director sat down on the threshold.

He sat next to Donner. They were only half a foot apart, yet neither looked at the other.

After a long time, he finally spoke. "Professor, I can't go back empty-handed."

He had to answer to his superiors.

"If I turn in a blank sheet tonight, a second person will come tomorrow morning. And that second person won't sit on a threshold to reason with you."

"Then give them a branch of the fire," Mortimer said.

The Deputy Director looked up.

"Split the fire. The old pillar stays on this street, and the fire stays on this street. Light a new basin and split a flame from the old fire to take with you.

You get the Anchor you need, and Mr. Donner's temple doesn't collapse."

"Splitting the fire is procedurally feasible," Corbin immediately chimed in.

"There is precedent in the literature. In academic terms, this procedure is called—"

Mortimer cut him off. "It doesn't matter what the procedure is called."

He turned to the Deputy Director.

"A protective takeover requires a Vice Minister's approval, but splitting the fire only requires a report. Your rank can sign off on it."

The Deputy Director reopened his folder and flipped to the very last page.

"I can fill out the report tonight."

He looked up, most of his hesitation gone.

"Mr. Donner, we will split the fire."

Donner rested his cloth-wrapped hands on his knees.

"Splitting the fire has rules."

"Sixteen trades must each contribute a fire to merge into one basin. The person delivering the fire must cover his nose and mouth with a white cloth."

Beside them, Corbin muttered quietly, "Padan."

"Yes," Donner said. "My grandfather's generation wore it."

Mrs. MacNeil began counting people in the middle of the street.

She counted quickly, from Number One to Number Thirteen, before stopping.

"We only have thirteen."

"Everything on this street is middleman business: appraising, inspecting, reselling, storing, and destroying.

We don't govern people, forge iron, or practice alchemy."

"All three are outside the wall."

Mortimer chuckled and looked at the person beside him.

"You go?"

"Me?"

Richard pointed at himself, his face full of question marks.