Chapter 468: A Surprise is Waiting for You

They discussed this, deliberately avoiding Catherine.

Richard noted down the knowledge the professor had just revealed, then offered his own insight.

"Moon-Hunting's hunts require a name and a shadow."

"Go on."

"In the past, a country person's name was only written down for their baptism, marriage, and burial."

"All three times, it went into the same parish register, which was then locked in a cabinet."

"It's different now."

He raised his hand toward the south.

"Identity tags, the Quartermaster Department, telegrams, insurance policies, newspapers—they're everywhere."

"A person's name is written down a thousand times more in their lifetime than their great-grandfather's was."

MacFie made no sound.

Richard continued, "In the past, a shadow could only be cast by moonlight."

"Now, there are cameras, X-rays... the wax cylinders of a phonograph even record voices; those are the shadows of sound."

"Machines are capturing people's shadows all day long."

It was quiet on the slope for a long time.

"So Moon-Hunting's hunting grounds have moved from the valleys to registers and film negatives."

MacFie finally spoke, rubbing his palms together.

"No wonder my recent strikes have been much smoother than when I was first promoted to Major Adept... I thought I had simply improved."

MacFie opened and closed his hands.

"Names nowadays are indeed much easier to invoke."

Richard could roughly guess which incident he meant by his recent strikes.

MacFie unscrewed his flat flask again and took a sip.

"But I don't plan on advancing any further. Unlike Old Mo, I was raised by my family from a young age."

"I still have classes to teach, a room full of books to sell to my students, and a student who refuses to even speak."

"My mother's family is on the eastern slope, and my father's clan is in the western valley. Some things need someone to guard them."

He stood up.

"Kid, many people stare at the top, but few actually make a move."

"You are still a long way from that tier. Don't be too hasty; take your time."

...

On the morning of the third day, Catherine drank an entire bowl of hot goat's milk.

The old woman forced it down her throat, saying a girl with a damaged voice needed to drink milk.

She sat by the door after finishing, and suddenly coughed up a small mouthful of blood.

Beside her, Richard jumped in fright, thinking she had sustained some severe hidden injury that night.

Catherine herself was quite calm. She wiped her mouth, folded her handkerchief, tucked it into her sleeve, took out her notebook, and wrote a line.

"Normal."

"What's normal about that?"

"That day was the first time I spoke after keeping quiet for half a year."

She turned the notebook over and continued writing.

"It's only normal that I need to recover after speaking for the first time."

Richard sat down on the stone steps beside her.

"Then can you use it less in the future?"

Catherine wrote: Depends on the situation.

"What situation?"

She thought for a long time before she put her pen to the paper again.

"Depends on if it's worth it."

The two of them had been conversing like this for the past few days.

Richard spoke, and she wrote. Later on, sometimes before her pen even touched the paper, Richard would guess what she was going to say.

Once, after he answered, Catherine threw her pen down and looked up to glare at him.

That look was clear: 'I haven't even written anything yet.'

"Sorry, you write first."

She wrote: Forget it, you're right.

After she wrote that, the two of them laughed together.

Richard's laugh was relatively restrained, while Catherine laughed without a sound, her shoulders trembling.

In the afternoon, the village's roll of woolen cloth had dried. Eight women carried it out and spread it on the slope to turn it over.

Catherine ran over to help, but the girl who drove the mail carriage pinned her hand down, took one look, and shooed her back on the spot.

"She says your hands can't touch anything wet," the old woman translated from behind.

Catherine had no choice but to return, squatting on the threshold and sulking.

Richard took the strands of water horse's mane out of the Frost Branch Box, split them in half, and pushed a portion toward her.

Catherine took a look and wrote in her notebook: I don't want it.

"The binding Spell Formula of the Moon-Hunting lineage should work better with this than with silver thread."

"I don't want it." She traced over that line to bold it.

Richard didn't argue with her. The next morning, while she was packing her luggage, he stuffed that half into the very bottom of her bag.

As a result, at noon that day, an extra piece of paper appeared in his canvas bag.

On it was a receipt: year, month, and day; item name "Water Horse Mane (Half Portion)"; source; intended use; and a line of small text at the end:

"This item was taken by myself and has nothing to do with the gifter."

Richard pinched the paper and walked to the door.

Catherine was sitting on the stone steps munching on a baked potato, not even raising her head.

"Is this really necessary?"

She swallowed the potato and pulled out her notebook.

"Accounts must be settled clearly."

"Then the next time I give you something, should I ask you to sign for it first?"

Catherine thought about it and actually nodded in all seriousness.

Richard was helpless against her.

After verifying the final rubbing, Catherine suddenly wrote a line in her notebook.

"Mid-June."

Richard's hand paused as he gripped his pen.

There was no one else on the slope. MacFie was in the village talking to the old woman, and the wind blew all their voices away to the east.

"Yeah." He nodded.

Catherine turned the page and wrote: We have to be ready.

Richard looked at that line of text, and his mindset, which had gradually been relaxing, instantly corrected itself.

That night, Richard stayed in his room to nourish the Sphinx Lamp.

As his breathing method ran to the third cycle, the body of the lamp grew scalding hot in his palm, hotter than it had been in all those months in the Imperial Capital.

He suppressed it with the Condensed Mirror Method, and Still Water spread out to reflect the spiral pattern inside the lamp.

The Ether clung to the inner wall of the lamp, drawing inward circle by circle, and finally gathered above the forehead of that human face.

The new engraved mark had crept forward by nearly another half; it was about to reach the end.

Richard withdrew the Still Water, wrapped the lamp in a soft cloth, and kept it close to his body.

On the morning of the fourth day, the girl driving the carriage led the two horses out.

"It's windy on the road today. Those sitting in the back should secure their hats, and it's best to add an extra layer of blankets."

Not many people in the village came out to see them off.

The old woman came over carrying a cloth bag and stuffed it into Richard's arms.

"For the road."

Richard opened it and took a look. Inside were six baked oatcakes, hard enough to hammer nails.

"Ma'am, this is too much."

"It's not much. You folks from the south eat too little, and you still have a long way to go on your journey back."

Beside them, MacFie turned his face away and coughed.

"And this." The old woman pulled a small iron box out from under her apron and shoved it to Catherine.

"Salt. Soak your hands to disinfect them."

Catherine received it with both hands and bowed to her very solemnly.

The old woman was flustered by the bow and hurriedly waved her hands.

"A girl shouldn't bow like this."

She turned around, brought out another roll of something from inside the door, and stuffed it into Richard's arms.

Richard unrolled it and took a look.

It was a square of woolen cloth, cut from the entire roll from that night, with the beaten raw edges still remaining on the corners.

She saw that Richard was about to refuse and spoke first:

"This is the village's cloth. Eight people beat it for a whole night; there's enough to tailor a room full of clothes."

"But missing just this one square won't leave anyone short."

She wiped her hands on her apron.

"Give it to the elders in your family. They can make anything out of it."

The ninety-one-year-old lady didn't come out.

When Richard passed by her door yesterday, he had seen her sitting in front of the hearth, both hands resting on her knees, staring blankly at the fading red embers.

Before they boarded the carriage, the priest chased after them.

He handed a piece of paper to MacFie; on the paper was a copied page from the burial register.

"I've written it down. I added a sentence to the last line."

MacFie took the paper to look.

Richard glanced at it from the side.

The final line was in Latin. It read:

"The people recorded here, though we know not their faces, we know their names."

The mail carriage traveled for most of the day, arriving at the town to return the two empty wooden boxes.

The three of them parted ways here. MacFie and Catherine headed north toward the Gaelic Highlands.

Richard headed south.

The wind on the platform was strong, rustling the military recruitment poster that had been glued there for half a year.

"Keep your things safe," MacFie said.

"They're safe."

"Don't actually use that stone mortar as a bowl."

Richard couldn't help but laugh. "Professor, I'm not stupid."

MacFie chuckled along with him and began to share an embarrassing story from his youth.

"When I was young, I once used a supernatural item as an ashtray."

A train whistle blew on the northern platform.

"See you next month at Imperial Capital University."

"Are you coming to teach a course?"

MacFie wasn't entirely sure either. "Whether I teach or not is another matter, but there will be a surprise waiting for you when the time comes."

"What surprise?"

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I said it."

"...Professor, at least point me in the right direction."

MacFie thought for a moment and said very seriously, "The direction is that you'll find a use for it."

"That's the same as saying nothing."

The white-haired giant laughed heartily. Once he finished laughing, he turned around and walked toward the northern platform.

Catherine stayed where she was, pulled out her notebook, wrote a line, and held it up.

"I know what it is!"

"Then tell me."

She flipped the page over and wrote: Not telling.

"Catherine!"

The red-haired girl looked very smug. Her pen nib added another line to the paper.

"Guess for yourself. If you guess right, I'll treat you to a meal."

"The last time you treated me to a meal, I paid for it."

"That's because you ate a lot."

She closed the notebook and stuffed it into her pocket, hesitated for a moment, and suddenly cleared her throat.

By the time Richard realized what was happening, it was too late.

"...See you next time."

When those three words came out of her throat, they were hoarse and light, like someone calling him from far away through a layer of rain.

The wind on the platform scattered most of the sound.

Catherine closed her mouth right after she spoke, coughed hard a few times, stuffed something into her mouth, and turned to quickly run toward the northern platform.

After running a dozen steps, she looked back and waved in this direction with her left hand.

Richard stood there and raised his hand to wave back.