Chapter 495: Sealing Deflection Ritual

Catherine's head snapped up.

For the past half-month, she had spent her nights alone in this room. No one had ever knocked on her door.

Her hand was already reaching for the Silver Needle at her cuff. The person downstairs did not knock a fourth time.

"It's me, Richard. I brought the tools."

Catherine sat in the darkness, her entire body stiffening.

The timing of his arrival was simply too coincidental. She could not help but suspect it was some evil creature in disguise, choosing to strike when she was most vulnerable.

Names held power, and one must declare themselves. That was the fifth rule written in Richard's one-penny booklet.

Catherine had copied it onto the last page of her own notebook, even drawing a heavy line under it.

In a heartland like the Imperial Capital, evil creatures shouldn't be roaming the open streets in broad daylight.

But the excessive mental strain of the past few days made it hard for her to distinguish whether certain sounds were coming from outside or from inside her own head.

The girl tore a corner of paper from the desk, wrote a line, placed her needle box on the remaining paper to weigh it down, and dropped the torn slip out the window crack.

The scrap of paper drifted down in a spin. Richard bent over, picked it up, and unfolded it.

"Which road did you take to get here?"

He stood on the street and let out a laugh.

"Chelsea Road," he called out loudly toward the open crack in the upstairs window.

"I took the ten past six bus. The ticket stub is still in my pocket."

Another scrap of paper fluttered down from the window.

"I won't acknowledge the wet, and I won't acknowledge the cold."

"I didn't go into the water this morning, and I'm not dead."

Richard rolled up his coat sleeves to show her. "If you're still worried, I can stand in the doorway until the sun shines over here."

When the third scrap of paper fell, it came faster than the previous two.

"Tell me something only you would know."

Richard thought for a moment.

"At the end of May in Covered Fire Village, I stuffed half a portion of water horse mane into your bag."

There was no movement from the window.

"At noon the next day, a receipt appeared in my canvas bag," Richard continued.

"It said, 'This item was taken by my own hand and has nothing to do with the gifter.'"

The crack in the window slowly widened a bit, and Catherine scattered coarse salt down from the sill.

The salt rained down upon the downstairs front steps with a clatter.

Then, a first-floor window was forcefully thrown open from the inside.

"Who is it! So early in the morning!"

The landlady, draped in a nightgown, leaned halfway out of the window.

She first looked at the layer of salt on her steps, then saw the young man standing on the street.

Her gaze swept from Richard's shoes to his collar, and all the anger instantly vanished from her face.

"...Oh."

"Miss Blackwood!" the landlady yelled up the stairs, her voice loud enough for the entire street to hear.

"Your guest is here!"

A muffled thud of someone bumping into a desk came from the third floor.

By the time Catherine came downstairs, the landlady had already invited Richard into the foyer and pulled up a chair for him.

The girl had changed out of her sweat-soaked clothes into clean ones, and her red hair was freshly tied.

As Richard stood up to greet her, he caught a very faint scent of lavender.

In July, the rooms were like ovens; she herself couldn't say whether she was afraid of smelling like sweat or if it was something else.

The landlady smelled it, too.

"My, wearing perfume today, are we?"

Catherine froze on the stairs.

"Ma'am," Richard coughed. "I'm her classmate. I came over so we could do our homework together."

"Homework." The landlady nodded at him with an 'I know exactly what you mean' look.

"...Homework is good. Homework is great."

She pressed Richard back into his chair and pulled up a stool to sit across from him.

Catherine stood on the stairs, clutching her notebook in a death grip.

The landlady slapped both hands onto her knees.

"Sir, I tell you, this girl is the most worry-free tenant in my building."

"She never owes rent. Six shillings a week, precisely left on my stove every Monday morning."

"I told her she didn't need to be in such a rush, that delaying it for a day or two would be fine."

"So she wrote me a note. It read: 'Accounts must be settled.'"

Richard glanced at the stairs; Catherine had turned her face away.

The landlady leaned forward a little.

"Sir, you look quite decently dressed."

"..."

"These days, a girl on her own in the Imperial Capital," the landlady sighed. "You should take care of her when you can."

Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Catherine rushed down, taking the steps two at a time, flipped her notebook open, and thrust it in front of the landlady's face.

The line of text was written so fast and with such force that the pen tip had punctured the paper.

"We are going to eat breakfast!"

The landlady read it, and her face broke into a beaming smile.

"Go, go." She waved her hands, shooing the two of them out the door.

"Young people should eat more. Eating more is good."

"Miss Blackwood, you too. How can you survive gnawing on dry bread every day..."

The door shut behind them.

The faint morning light on the street had already brightened to a pale white. Catherine stood at the bottom of the steps with her head bowed.

Richard held it in for a long time, but finally, he could not resist. "...Accounts must be settled?"

Catherine drove an elbow into his ribs, aiming perfectly for the exact spot she had hit with a straight punch the month before.

Although they had said they were going to eat breakfast, the problem was that there was nowhere open to eat at this hour.

The glass door of the tearoom two streets down had a sign hanging on it: Opens at 9 AM.

There was a line outside the bakery.

Richard stretched his neck to take a look. Only wartime bread was left on the counter—mixed with potato flour and God knows what else, its sliced surface a dull gray.

"...I don't really want to eat this."

Catherine opened her notebook and wrote: "The Imperial Capital doesn't have places exclusively for breakfast."

"The university cafeteria does."

"It's the July holiday; the cafeteria is only open at noon."

She paused after writing that, her pen hovering over the paper for a moment before coming back down.

"Let's go back. I'll cook for you."

...

The water boiled, and the oats went into the pot.

Barley flatbread hit the pan, flipped as soon as it puffed up.

With a flick of her wrist, the flatbread did a neat somersault in mid-air.

She sliced the smoked salmon so thin it was translucent.

Finally, she unsealed a clay jar and scooped out a large spoonful of honey, holding it mid-air before catching herself.

She lifted her notebook with her other hand: "Sweet or savory?"

"Savory," Richard answered thoughtfully.

Catherine carefully returned the spoonful of honey to the jar before reaching for the salt shaker.

The porridge was brought to the table. Richard took a bite. "Catherine, this is really good."

"You have a huge appetite. Anything tastes good to you."

He wasn't merely being polite. Even though he had already eaten at home, he still put away three bowls of porridge, four barley flatbreads, and polished off more than half the smoked salmon.

After breakfast, they returned to business. Catherine wrote down her uncle's basic situation:

Duncan Blackwood. Advanced to Minor Adept in an old castle at the age of twenty-nine.

Halfway through the ritual, he backed out on his own.

"Why did he back out?"

"He said he heard voices he shouldn't have," Catherine wrote.

"To this day, he refuses to say exactly what it was."

"Last year, I gave him the [Moon Nail: Reflection] Spell Formula.

Because of that, he had mostly recovered by the time of the group battle and successfully advanced to Minor Adept."

Richard's hand paused on his teacup.

"...So it really was him. Those usage records for the Spell Formula were written beautifully, even more detailed than my own."

Catherine lowered her head.

She flipped to a new page, her writing much slower than before.

"After the group battle on June 17th, he needled himself twice."

"And the result?"

"The first time, he broke out in a high fever that same night."

"The second time, he burned with fever for a whole day and deliriously talked nonsense until dawn. I didn't dare let him try again after that."

After she finished writing, she pressed the pen tip onto the paper for a long time, leaving a spreading inkblot.

"It was my fault..."

Richard interrupted her, his expression very serious:

"You were absolutely right to stop. If you had kept needling him, he would already be dead by now."

"The principle of [Moon Nail: Reflection] is injecting a compressed mass of ether from the needle tip into the circuit, forcing that segment of the Micro-circulation to completely refresh."

"The prerequisite for successfully injecting ether is that the pathways are largely intact."

"On June 17th, Mars and Diana, both Minor Adept Hunters, inflicted penetrating wounds on him. Mars's spearhead was the most ruthless."

"Under such severe injuries, if you continue to stimulate it with [Moon Nail: Reflection], well... you've seen the consequences."

Catherine's fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

Richard sighed and brought up Ares, who had been missing for a long time.

"A certain Hunter who lost his entire left arm used this Spell Formula to stimulate the stump.

The first two times were fine, but on the third, the stump began to run burning hot."

"He mistook that heat for the spell taking effect."

"Eventually, that stump was ruined. It's likely that even a prosthetic interface can't be attached to it now."

The kitchen fell silent. Catherine knew exactly who he was talking about.

"But the situation is different now. I have a new treatment that can slowly mend his deficits. Afterward, he will be able to recover through the needle."

"...It's just that I can't explain the specific details of the treatment too clearly."

"You don't need to. I trust you."

Catherine stood up to collect the bowls, standing in front of the stove with her back to him.

Richard remained silent.

After a long time, the girl turned around. Her eyes were red, but her face held no expression.

She flipped her notebook open: "Let's go."

When they arrived at the sanatorium, Duncan was awake and fully alert.

Lying in bed, he looked the young man in front of him up and down.

"You're that guy."

"...Which guy?"

"The one the lass wrote about in her letters."

Catherine, standing at the foot of the bed, quickly flipped open her notebook and began to write a line. Halfway through, she snapped it shut and turned away to pour water.

"What did she write?" Richard asked.

"She wrote that you can eat," Duncan said deadpan. "Said you eat six portions in a single meal."

"That's all she wrote?"

"She also wrote other things..." The water pitcher clunked heavily onto the nightstand, and Duncan sensibly shut his mouth.

Richard placed his canvas bag on the chair beside the bed and took things out one by one: the Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight, the Small Bronze Balance, the Frost Branch Box, and a small roll of soft cloth wrapping three Soul-Devouring Beast Tooth Needles.

Duncan's eyes paused on the three needles.

"Moon Nails."

"You recognize them."

"I used them for over half a year." He raised his left hand and rolled up his sleeve a bit.

The skin on the inner side of his forearm was covered in dense pinpricks, looking as if someone had stitched it with thread.

"When she first started needling me, I thought she was trying to murder me for my money."

Richard spread out the Still Water.

Under that illumination, the hint of a joking atmosphere in the room dissipated.

Duncan's physical wounds had been stitched up, but the penetrating injuries carried ether enchantments that continued to erode his insides.

"To put it plainly, I cannot cure your old injuries," Richard said directly.

No one spoke in the ward. Catherine and her uncle exchanged a glance, and she was just about to say something.

Then Richard pivoted.

"But I can first patch up the wounds from June a little, just enough until you can needle yourself to heal."

"Sure," Duncan said suddenly.

"...What?"

"I said sure." He turned his head.

"Young man, the expression you just had almost scared me into leaving my last will to my niece."

Acting immediately, Richard sat by the bed and aimed his right palm at Duncan's right ribs.

The first round for his mother had already been finished. The remaining energy of [Gushing Spring] was what he had built back up over the past half-month.

Half a month's worth should be enough.

Duncan closed his eyes.

After about ten minutes, he suddenly spoke up.

"Young man."

"Yes?"

"This technique of yours... it doesn't hurt."

"It doesn't."

"Over the past dozen years, every treatment I've had has hurt like hell."

"When the people from the Solar Tradition came over, the pain made me bite down hard enough to shatter a tooth."

When the treatment session ended, Richard braced his hands on his knees and stood up. His vision went dark for a second, and he had to grab the bed frame to steady himself.

Catherine closed the distance in a single stride, her hand already slipping under his arm to support him.

"I'm fine." Richard waved it off.

He took the Colton 120 out of his canvas bag and hung it around his neck.

"Mr. Duncan, I'd like to take a picture of you."

"A picture?" The man was slightly surprised. "I'm in this state, could it be..."

"Of course it's not the kind of photo you're thinking of. With this treatment done, barring any accidents, you'll live for decades more."

Richard raised the camera, though it was merely a gesture.

"Hold still."

"Click!"

After the familiar sound of the shutter, the ether in his Micro-circulation was drained, and immediately after, it began drawing from his [Spiritual Capacity].

Richard gritted his teeth and held on.

Although Catherine's uncle had been bedridden for over a decade and offered absolutely no resistance from start to finish, he was still a Minor Adept.

[Spiritual Capacity 8/50] -> [Spiritual Capacity 2/50]

A photograph appeared on the nightstand, and Catherine picked it up by the edges.

The front showed this ward: the bed, the mattress, the person leaning against the headboard, and a small patch of grimy sky outside the window.

The next morning, Duncan sat up on his own.

When Catherine went to the sanatorium to deliver soup, she pushed open the door to find her uncle leaning against the headboard, his face flushed red.

The thermos in her hands dropped to the floor, spilling soup everywhere.

"...Look," Duncan panted. "I don't need your help to sit up."

Catherine stood in the doorway, her hands hanging by her sides.

She wanted to say something, but nothing came out of her throat. Once again, she felt that her poorly recovered vocal cords were truly a hindrance.

For the following week, Richard arrived at three o'clock every afternoon and left at four, performing follow-up maintenance and conveniently gathering some data.

When Catherine went downstairs to change the ice, Duncan finally spoke up as soon as she was gone.

"Young man, name a price."

Richard was a bit confused.

"What price?"

"Money." Duncan rolled his eyes.

"Or something else. I don't really understand what you Scholars want. Just name it."

"No need."

"Hunters don't accept charity."

He said this very decisively, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

Richard wrapped the Rubbing Machine back into the soft cloth.

"Sir, on the night of June 17th, you took the field in our place."

"I didn't accomplish anything that night. I was skewered before I even made it through a few exchanges."

"You blocked attacks meant for her and our companions."

"That was what I was supposed to do."

Duncan lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

"But even though I offered to pay you, the truth is, most of the things at home have already been sold."

"My father's blade was sold the year before last, and in March, she even sold the silver-hilted dagger my brother left behind."

Richard gripped the roll of soft cloth and remained silent.

"She told me that the dagger was rusted, and there was no use keeping it."

Duncan let out a dry laugh. "That dagger was hand-crafted by a Minor Adept artisan. I even told her to keep it as a family heirloom."

"On that night in June, I saw her crack that whip," Duncan said suddenly.

Richard raised his head.

"That wasn't the Moon-Hunting path. The power is gnawing at her. I can see it.

"She is thinner this year than last. She speaks less and less, and the handwriting in her ledger gets more and more forceful."

He closed his eyes.

"Young man, you salvaged this life of mine. I won't stand on ceremony with you, but I will beg you for one thing."

"Tell me."

"Keep an eye on her for me."

The ward was quiet for a long time.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Richard said.

Duncan opened his eyes and nodded.

Then he raised his left hand and patted the right side of his chest.

The gesture was somewhat similar to Captain Field's back then.

"The name Blackwood is still recognized by a few people in the northern Highlands.

"Not many, just three.

"One manages that rundown Guild office in Inverness, and one watches sheep for people on the border.

"There's another one guarding the lighthouse in Stornoway; that guy knows a Virtuoso... he still owes me eleven pounds to this day."

Hearing the word 'Virtuoso', Richard's gaze instantly grew sharp.

A Virtuoso in the extreme northern waters of the Highlands. He had only heard of one related to the vortex from MacFie.

He wondered if the two of them were talking about the same person.

"If you ever head up north one day, drop my name," Duncan finally concluded.

"It's just that all three of them have bad tempers, especially the one who owes me money."

The door was pushed open at that moment.

Catherine stood in the doorway holding a basket of ice. The basket was wrapped in newspaper, which was already damp in spots.

She looked at the man on the bed, and then at Richard standing beside him.

Her green eyes slowly narrowed.

She set the basket down, pulled out her notebook, wrote a line, turned it around, and held it high.

"What are you two talking about?"

"Talking about the ice," Duncan answered rapidly. "I was saying that the ice this year is thinner than last year's."

"Right." Richard nodded as well. "Much thinner."

Catherine flipped a page in her notebook.

"Ice is sold by the block."

The ward fell silent for two seconds.

"...Then it must have been watered down," Duncan said.

...

The two of them discussed the follow-up treatment plan for a long time.

"We can't needle the fissure." Richard circled the spot on the photograph.

"Needle the outer edge of the break," Catherine wrote.

"Right. Needle the branch circuits that are still alive, picking the fullest segment."

Richard had a real-life precedent for this.

Last year, he had needled a military cadet with a congenital circuit fracture, and he had aimed precisely at the fullest spot outside the break.

"It'll be fine this time. The newly grown circuits your uncle forms will definitely be thicker than the originals."

"Your uncle is a Minor Adept. Once his circuits are reconnected, it's not impossible for him to advance further in the future..."

Catherine's grip on her pen slowly tightened.

That night, she returned to her rented room and lit the lamp.

She cleared everything off the desk, spread out the largest sheet of paper she had, and began to write.

She wrote down the most valuable thing she currently possessed—Professor McPhee's Sealing Deflection Ritual, the exact set that had neutralized part of the toll from the Nemesis Mask.

Below the original text were the professor's own Latin annotations, which he had forced her to memorize line by line back then.

She transcribed it from memory until two in the morning, then tied it up with a thin string.

When Richard arrived the next afternoon, she shoved the stack of papers directly into his arms.

Richard glanced down, then flipped to the first page.

"Catherine, this is..."

She flipped open her notebook, wrote a line, and held it up.

"The Sealing Deflection Ritual, the complete set."

Richard gripped the stack of papers, speechless for a moment.

At that gathering, Nemesis had put this ritual up for sale.

The asking price had been three hundred pounds in cash or equivalents, or an item of similar valuation.

Not a single person at the table had taken the offer. In the end, Hecate had to bring out her own private collection to make the trade.

Furthermore, what Catherine had handed over back then was clearly much thinner than the volume currently in his hands.

"This..." Richard started to speak.

Catherine's brow furrowed.

She flipped her notebook to the next page: "You must accept it."

She turned the notebook around again. The words were written massively, taking up an entire half-page.

"This is the most valuable thing I have."

Looking at that line, Richard tucked the stack of papers into his coat.

"...Thank you."

Catherine stood where she was. The balance scale above her head wobbled twice.

The left pan slowly rose, and the right pan slowly fell. When they reached the middle, they came to rest perfectly level.

Standing there, the girl suddenly felt her entire being relax.

She took two steps backward and plopped down heavily onto the old sofa.

"Catherine?"

She raised a hand and waved it, meaning she was fine.

Halfway through the wave, her hand dropped onto the sofa armrest.

And then her consciousness slipped away.

Before Richard could even finish speaking, the girl across from him slumped on the sofa and fell into a dead sleep, her notebook still spread open on her lap.

He stood there for a moment.

Ever since taking the Nemesis Mask, her back had always been ramrod straight when she sat. She had to reach for her notebook just to speak, and write an IOU just to say thank you.

It seemed... Catherine had never shown herself to be completely unguarded in front of anyone.

Down in the foyer, the landlady was sweeping the floor with a broom.

"Did the child fall asleep?"

"She's asleep."

"That's good." The landlady leaned the broom against the corner and lowered her voice.

"Sir, I tell you, her room has been lit up in the middle of the night for the past few days."

Richard paused.

"For how long?"

"How could I remember exactly?" The landlady sighed.

"Anyway, when I got up in the middle of the night to get some water, there was still light shining under the crack of her door.

"The day before yesterday, it was two o'clock. Yesterday was about the same.

"If she keeps pushing herself like this, even if she isn't scared to death by ghosts, she'll work herself into an early grave."

Richard looked up at the stairs; there was no sound from the third floor.

"Let her sleep today," he said.

"Don't I know it?" The landlady scoffed.

"If anyone knocks on the door tonight, I'll curse them out."

Richard nodded.

"Ma'am, I'll likely be stopping by again in a few days."

The landlady's face immediately bloomed into a smile. She was about to say something else, but Richard had already pushed the door open.

Returning to his own room at the Ashford House, he immediately began to study the papers.

With [Speculation] and [Learning] raised to Lv.4, he was able to quickly process this Secret ritual, which was clearly overly complex for a Practitioner.

From start to finish, this deflection Spell Formula did only one thing: it gathered a force that would otherwise run amok in all directions, twined it into a single rope, and channeled it in the direction chosen by the caster.

The Nemesis scale upon Catherine hadn't lost a single fraction of its urge to balance out everything.

What MacFie had done was simply ensure that this force no longer bit at everyone it saw, redirecting it to pull toward rubbing copies and inscription collation instead.

That was why she had been able to hold herself back during the Folkestone refugee wave incident.

This was the core of the ritual. The key lay in finding an appropriate outlet.

Richard immediately thought of the most advantageous point for himself: "Can the toll of the Abyss Tradition be deflected?"

According to what Madam Marie meant last time, this was unavoidable if he wanted to progress further down this path.

Madam Marie herself had said it: most of those who advanced the fastest had dabbled in it to some degree. The only difference was how much they dabbled.

If he had to find an outlet, Richard's first thought was the Shadow.

But the moment the idea surfaced, he snuffed it out himself.

Three wisps of spirit were embedded in the shadow. The panel stated it clearly: if an attached spirit is destroyed, the main body will suffer severe damage.

He temporarily drew a cross over this line of thought.

The second path, and the most feasible one, was to stuff it into objects.

He already had a large stash of empty shell objects on hand, ranging from the earliest Diocletian bronze coin to the latest ascetic stone bowl, Viking trade beads, and the heaviest hitter of all—the fragment of the poison gas Virtuoso's Signature item.

As for the several Divinely Crafted Armament carriers from that table in Rome, he had uses for all of them and wouldn't touch them for now.

Even factoring out the many items with research and practical value, he still held a massive number of empty shells.

His aunt had told him about the market for empty objects long ago: Seal Masters were most afraid of a carrier having its own opinions, so they all sought out old items with practically no ether left to use as blanks.

If a blank could be sealed, naturally it could also hold other things.

Richard wrote a line in his notebook:

"If the toll and pollution are injected into an empty shell, does the shell then become a... cursed object?"

Come to think of it, he had been constantly purifying cursed objects lately, and now here he was, thinking about manufacturing his own cursed objects.

He paused his pen, drafting the idea in his head before he continued writing.

"Feasibility and priority are the highest."

"Issues to resolve: filling method, sealing structure, maximum capacity, and what to do once it's full."

After writing that last point, he placed a question mark next to it.

What to do once it's full? If an object is filled with the toll of his own cultivation of the Path of the Abyss, would he have the ability to purify it again and recycle it?

Or throw it into running water? Dig a hole, bury it, and cover it in salt?

Or just keep it sealed up, only to open it at a crucial moment and hurl it out?

He remembered the stink bomb Madam Marie had made for him out of that eyeball. That was certainly an idea.

There was one last line of thought: find a scapegoat to take the fall for him.

Speaking of scapegoats, he once again thought of the Echo Society.

Richard gripped his pen, his palms beginning to sweat.

The techniques and knowledge he currently grasped seemingly gave him the potential to develop an evil cult of his own.

Richard set his pen down and rested his hands behind his head.

After a while, an incredibly wicked idea crept out from a very inconspicuous corner of his mind.

What if the scapegoat taking the fall was an enemy?

The things the Black Earth River Master had done over the years—making others bear its burdens, take the blows, act as an Anchor at the bottom of the pit...

Then wouldn't it be perfectly justified to make it act as a scapegoat for once?

But whether he sought out a scapegoat or used empty shells for storage, it was all predicated on him possessing Spell Formulas from the Abyss side.

Madam Marie had explicitly stated she wouldn't teach him the breathing method, nor did he intend to learn it.

The only things remotely related in his possession were: the selected excerpts of the "Secrets of the Abyss" sent by his aunt; the "Critical Research on the Abyss Tradition" from the Imperial Capital University Library, which were all on the level of conceptual understanding and warnings; and an eyeball soaking in a jar, its connection cleanly severed by someone.

"...You can't bake bread without flour," Richard shook his head.