Chapter 500: Worth a High-Tier Supernatural Item

"Last winter, the lord of the hunt accepted something."

The manager continued to wipe the glass. "What kind of thing?"

"I don't know what it was," Loki said casually. "I only know that no one had given him such a thing for centuries."

"And the person who gave it?"

"After handing it over, they vanished right from under his nose."

Leaving his words there, Loki tapped his glass against the counter and turned to watch the rain outside the window.

The Hunter sitting by the window with an empty left sleeve pushed his cup aside.

"...Isn't that just the Ashford business?"

The manager looked up. "What?"

"A black dog set its sights on Gerard Ashford."

The Hunter sounded incredibly impatient.

"The man is still alive today. Just this spring, someone saw him loosening the soil for the hollies in his backyard. The rumors have been spreading through the Northern Greater Region for half a year now; haven't you heard?"

The chief engineer darning his socks pinned his needle to the fabric and chimed in.

"The lord of the hunt doesn't work for free. Since he accepted such a heavy toll, he had to spit something back out."

At the innermost table, the military Scholar also looked intrigued.

"Wiping a Major Adept's name from that ledger requires placing something heavier than the name itself on the scale."

"That's written in the books; I didn't make it up."

The room suddenly plunged into silence.

Loki turned back from the window, looking utterly bewildered.

"...Is that so? I didn't know. I just heard that the lord of the hunt received a gift."

He wasn't entirely faking it.

Before this, Loki had indeed heard about Ashford House's situation.

But from his perspective, he hadn't drawn a connection between Ashford House and Hermes.

The lord of the hunt only said that Hermes had given him something of great interest, but never mentioned what was given or what was exchanged.

But now, hearing what these people were saying, it actually made a lot of sense.

...And even if Ashford House had nothing to do with Hermes, it didn't matter.

Regardless, his original goal was to figure out a way to steer Apophis's attention toward Hermes.

Now, it seemed he had achieved his goal.

As for whether Ashford House would become collateral damage, what did that have to do with Loki?

The manager pulled out a small, dog-eared booklet.

"Name your price, sir."

"I'm not selling." Loki waved a hand.

"Because of this face, no one has been willing to listen to me for half a year. Today I finally found people who would, so I'm just talking for fun."

Loki finished his last mouthful of liquor, stood up, and slapped a gold coin onto the counter.

"Drink up, gentlemen. The next round is on me."

"I'm in a good mood today."

Then Loki pushed the door open and left, the rain blowing in behind him.

The manager waited behind the counter for ten seconds, confirming the man wasn't coming back, before he started writing in his intelligence notebook.

Over a dozen miles away, in a rented attic.

Loki severed his control over the puppet, letting it dissolve in the rain. He sat on the edge of his bed, using a damp cloth to wipe away the blood seeping from his face.

This trip to spread rumors had cost him less than two pounds, liquor and gold coin included.

Loki's greatest pride in life was that he rarely relied on lies to get things done.

Lies were too cheap. Divination could trace a lie back to its source, catching it every time.

A lie was a knot on the other side of the veil, and knots could be untied.

The truth never tangled.

The false flames burned within the Hall of False Oaths. Empty cups were laid out, phantom meals were served on the tables, and the entire hall was built upon promises never meant to be kept.

By treating the whole tavern to a round of drinks, anyone who accepted instantly fell into his deceptive spell formula the moment they agreed.

From then on, any words repeated by a second mouth in that room would have their origin shifted to the person repeating them.

No matter who divined it, tracing the rumors back to their source would never lead to Loki.

Hela's message arrived just then. "What exactly did you do?"

The second seat of the Nordic table was secretly in a strategic alliance with Loki.

"I told a true story that benefits us." Loki tossed the damp cloth into the basin.

"To whom?"

"To an information broker."

"And then?"

"And then nothing."

Hela wouldn't be brushed off.

"Didn't you say you wanted to provoke the Greece table and the Black Earth River table into biting each other? Does this have to do with that?"

"On its own, no." Loki put his mask back on.

"The lord of the hunt received a heavy gift last winter, that is true. The Ashford rumor is also true—it's spreading throughout the entire Empire."

"So what?"

"It depends on who acquires this intel."

Loki draped his coat over his shoulders.

"If we read it, we'd at most treat it as a passing joke. But hasn't Apophis been busy helping his Virtuoso patron find out who passed along those three syllables?"

Hela understood.

"...So, you deliberately guided the subject toward Greece."

"Correct."

"But you didn't mention a single word about the Greece table from beginning to end."

"Why would I?" Loki spread his hands.

"Nine and a half out of ten of these ordinary Practitioners outside haven't even heard the term 'Theogony Salon.'"

"Then how are you so sure that Apophis and the person behind him will go looking for the Greece table?"

"I'm not."

Hela was stunned.

"And I don't need to be." Loki pulled the brim of his hat down.

"With the mentality of those higher-ups, they would rather kill by mistake than let anyone go. Anyone with a name and a face in the circle won't be able to escape. The Greece table is just one of the targets being investigated."

Hela thought for a moment.

"And what if he doesn't find anything from Greece in the end?"

"We still don't lose." Loki shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I spent less than two pounds in total. It would be best if Black Earth River and Greece ended up fighting, but even if they don't, their attention will be diverted. That is our opportunity."

"...Besides, the lord of the hunt did tell us to keep an eye out for such a person—a caduceus, winged shoes."

Loki walked two steps toward the door, turning back with a smile.

"If Apophis actually manages to dig the guy out, I'll just hand that ready-made answer over to the lord of the hunt. I won't have lifted a finger, yet the credit will land right in my pocket. If he can't dig him out, or if it blows up in his face and covers him in blood while he's trying, then even better."

...

Abdul was a purchasing agent, buying resin, frankincense, and old bronzes for his superior at Black Earth River, and occasionally, more troublesome items.

The latest intelligence compilation cost eleven pounds, and Abdul paid it.

After paying, Abdul went to The Hague and bought another intelligence compilation for the same quarter. He spread both out on a hotel table and cross-referenced them for an entire afternoon.

Once he confirmed there were no issues, he reported them to his superior.

At the Black Earth River table, the person sitting in the third chair used the name 'Set,' so for now, he would be called Set.

When Set finished reading the intel, he found himself somewhat undecided.

If he suppressed it and it turned out to be genuine, and the Virtuoso backing Apophis found out afterward, not even Set's bones would remain.

But if he reported it and it turned out to be false intel, Set's fate would be just as miserable.

Set had never suffered a loss on this kind of problem in his life.

First, he copied Abdul's intel to the very top, not changing a single word.

Then, he spent his own money to verify the situation with Ashford House.

That piece of intel was the easiest to verify. Old Phillips's funeral in the Imperial Capital had been a massive affair, and once Hunters started drinking, their mouths were looser than their assholes.

Two days later, the reply arrived: the news was true. Old Gerard was indeed still alive, and the other Major Adept Hunter traveling with him was indeed dead.

Set attached the reply to the very last page.

This way, the nature of the entire intelligence compilation changed.

At the top, it read, 'This may be someone deliberately muddying the waters.' At the bottom, it read, 'I have personally verified one piece of intel here, and it is true.' Sandwiched in the middle were nothing but the analyses of others.

Set hadn't made a single concrete judgment of his own, yet he had still played his part, existing in a quantum superposition of having done something while simultaneously doing nothing at all.

The people at this table who hated Apophis lined up from the second chair all the way to the seventh.

Set still passed it up to him, hoping only that he would bite off more than he could chew.

If he managed to swallow it, it would be Apophis's luck. If he choked, heh...

Set reheated the sealing wax, pressing the seal down even firmer than before.

Cairo, in a windowless room.

A layer of black water pooled on the floor, reaching just below the ankles, and the room was sweltering.

Apophis stood in the water, reading through the stack of intel until the end.

Of course, he didn't trust anyone.

To survive to this level, paranoia was essentially his foundational code, making him remarkably similar in temperament to the Black Earth River Master he had recently befriended.

Apophis only acknowledged verifiable information.

Within this stack of intel, the only verifiable fact was that Gerard had indeed not died, and the entire Imperial Capital already knew that.

The rest were all analyses. Analyses were not facts; information brokers simply arranged facts into various shapes and then demanded money for them.

More importantly, from the fat manager in Lugang, to the purchasing agent Abdul in the middle, down to Set who handed the document up...

Every single one of them had written something similar on paper: 'This may be someone deliberately muddying the waters.'

So the issue wasn't 'whether this is a bait someone put out.'

The issue was whether the bait was real meat, and who exactly was dropping it.

Apophis sent someone to the Lugang tavern to slap money onto the manager's counter and ask a single question: who exactly was the first to speak those words that afternoon?

The response arrived quickly: three people had three different versions, none of them matched, and all three insisted that they had been the one to say it.

Apophis held the piece of paper up to his eyes and laughed.

Human memory was fallible. It wasn't strange for three people to remember things differently.

But for three people to simultaneously be convinced that a sentence they hadn't spoken belonged to them—that wasn't memory.

Someone was treating him like an idiot.

Within the circle, those capable of pulling something like this off could be figured out through simple elimination.

Coupled with his recent focus on investigating the Theogony Salon tables... Apophis, standing in the black water, folded the paper up.

"...Someone is afraid of me looking north."

The black water rippled as the Black Earth River Master looked over.

Apophis offered a slight bow.

"...Almost."

He took a clay pot down from a shelf in the corner and began fashioning tokens using river mud from Black Earth River.

He made a total of six black clay fragments. One for Scandinavia, one for Greece, one for Rus, one for Iberia, one for the Germanic Pantheon, and one for a completely unrelated table.

Apophis smoothed out his list and drew another circle around the Nordic table.

As for the Greece table, there wasn't a single suspicious thing about them.

The lack of suspicion made them suspicious.

In the end, Apophis wrote next to them: 'Pending.'

On the other side, inside the Hall of False Oaths, the False Flame burned vigorously as usual, without giving off a trace of heat.

In the darkness overhead, there was one more hanging skull than the previous month.

Loki lowered his legs from the high chair as the hall's doors opened.

The messenger who entered was formless. It placed a thin black clay fragment on the round table and then dissipated.

Freya walked over first and flipped the clay fragment over.

The moment she did, she froze completely.

Tyr pressed his single hand against the edge of the table, and Hela turned her face—half-living, half-dead—toward it.

Loki walked over and plucked the clay fragment from the table.

On the front was a serpent biting its own tail.

On the back was a line in Sami, the characters large and the strokes neat:

"My ally wishes to know: who is keeping those three syllables for him?"

The hall was so quiet they could hear the False Flame burning.

"...He probably sent out six fragments," Loki said.

"How do you know it's six?" Hela asked.

"If I were him, I'd send out six." Loki twirled the clay fragment between his fingers, the faint smile still lingering on his face.

"Sending one is an accusation; sending six is casting a net. The recipients won't know if they're the only target. Whoever moves first is the one."

"Then we don't move," Tyr said.

"Of course we don't move."

Loki sounded very relaxed, so relaxed that Hela stared at him for a long time.

...

Richard shut the window tight, lay down, and counted to seven.

When the sea of stars receded, the marble temple solidified into view.

Seven stone chairs surrounded the round table, and not a single one was empty.

Richard sat in his chair and swept his gaze around the room.

Hecate's Golden Mask sat at the head of the table. The Torch and Key were even more substantial than they had been on that night in June.

Noticing Richard's gaze, she even took the initiative to nod at him, showing no discernible change in her attitude.

The crack in the cup held by Dionysus was still there.

Heracles breathed heavily; it was unclear whether his bones had fully healed.

Demeter had her hands gathered in her lap, mud wedged under her fingernails.

The dark copper doll stood behind Prometheus. Its left arm had been reattached, the copper at the seam looking brand new.

The scales above Nemesis's head weren't tilted too severely tonight.

"Let's talk about the last two months first," Hecate began.

"Ever since the City of Seven Hills collapsed, both sides of the veil have been watching our table."

"I'll brief everyone on where the various factions stand."

She raised a finger.

"First is avoidance."

"Originally, there were two tables scheduling group battles with us. The dates were practically set—one for September, one for November."

"Both tables pulled out last month."

"Did they say anything after pulling out?" Dionysus hurriedly asked.

"No. They made a clean break without a word of notice."

Hecate said, "Not giving notice at a time like this means they understand the rules... Saying something would be admitting they'd treated us like soft targets to begin with."

Heracles let out a snort through his nose, conveying an indescribable sense of satisfaction.

"Then, there are those extending olive branches."

Hecate raised her hand, and a wooden box with brass-wrapped corners floated into the center of the round table. It bore no insignia.

"One table sent word saying they wanted to establish a non-aggression pact with us. This is their token of sincerity."

"Have you opened it?" Prometheus asked.

"I have. There are three things inside: a Hearth Fire Tradition spellcasting medium, an item from their head seat's collection, and one more thing that I have no intention of discussing at the table."

"Did you accept it, Chief?" Dionysus asked.

"No."

"Did you agree to the pact?"

"No."

His cup paused in midair.

"...You can do that?"

Beside him, Demeter let out a very soft laugh.

Hecate lowered her hand.

"Don't celebrate just yet. There are also those directly trying to poach our people."

"Someone has made an offer, requesting that one member of our table defect to their side."

"Who made the offer?" Heracles asked immediately.

"I can't tell you that."

"Then who are they trying to poach?"

"I can't say that either. It would disrupt unity."

Hecate's Golden Mask tilted slightly.

"All I can say is this: the one making the offer bid a high-tier supernatural item."

Hearing this, everyone grew a little tense.

Richard pulled his Still Water back until it was extremely faint, projecting absolutely nothing outward.

He didn't need to project anything to see that, aside from Hecate and Nemesis, everyone else present had looked away at the exact same moment.

Some looked down at their cups, some adjusted their cuffs, and others looked up at the sea of stars that had just faded from the dome.

And they all looked away in his direction.

Sitting in his stone chair, Richard was also thinking.

Just how much ether would a genuine high-tier supernatural item possess?

Among the supernatural items he had handled over the past year, the richest was the brass fragment torn from a Virtuoso's Signature item—it had yielded just over three points.

The ascetic's 1,100-year-old stone bowl yielded nearly one point. But a high-tier supernatural item...

He had even started calculating: if he stopped extracting at 95 percent, roughly how many points would it yield? The four attributes of the [Body] category, excluding [Breathing], each required two points—how many more would he need to gather?

Halfway through calculating, he caught himself and froze.

His [Speculation: Inner Awakening] lit up right then.

A high-tier supernatural item to buy a Practitioner. Anyone who could afford such a price obviously wasn't a fool.

Unless the buyer knew—or believed—that this Practitioner possessed something even better than a high-tier supernatural item.

Regardless of what the other party was thinking, this wasn't good news.

...Or perhaps, this buyer didn't exist at all.

The way Hecate had presented this matter was simply too calculated.

She hadn't named the buyer, hadn't named the target, but deliberately announced the price.

The price was the part that could make the entire table's hearts pound on the spot.

By merely uttering 'high-tier supernatural item,' the six of them immediately began guessing who it was, calculating their own worth, and mentally weighing the value of this table all over again.

Then, by simply following up with 'This table will not swap anyone out,' she could buy the loyalty of the entire table.

Without spending a single cent.

If she had made it up, it was a beautiful play.

If she hadn't made it up... then things were even more troublesome.

The scarlet-gold flame on Prometheus flickered and then stabilized.

'...If he leaves, the priority slot I earned from three years of unpaid labor is gone.'

'...No, it's more troublesome than that.'

'...Could she actually be talking about me?'

This thought lingered in his mind for less than half a second before he shook his own head.

Nemesis was simply thinking: 'If he leaves, what am I going to do?'

Demeter's hands were gathered in her lap, and the little theater in her mind hadn't stopped running since the term 'high-tier supernatural item' dropped.

'...Everything my plot of land produces year-round wouldn't even trade for half an item, even if I sold it all.'

'That batch of Requiem Poppies from the year before last sold for a good price. I was happy for days over eighty-three pounds, but eighty-three pounds isn't even a fraction of what they're offering.'

'...Then again, if the bidder was willing to swap the high-tier item for seeds, my plot next year...'

She stifled the thought, feeling somewhat ashamed.

She lifted her head and glanced toward the head seat.

The Golden Mask happened to be looking at her as well.

"Chief," Dionysus said, setting his cup down on the table.

"I just want to ask one thing."

"Speak."

"Has the one making the offer considered swapping the person?"

He threw his hands wide.

"I happen to be short one high-tier supernatural item myself. If we can reach an agreement, I'll move over tomorrow—I won't even need to bring my bedroll."

Heracles was the first to laugh.

"They're offering a high-tier supernatural item in exchange for excellent support, not to buy a drunkard."

"This drunkard just closed a deal last month."

"How much did you make?"

"...Seven pounds, two shillings."

"Seven pounds." Heracles hoisted his great club over his shoulder.

"Their single high-tier item would be enough to keep you drinking for three hundred years."

"I won't even live for three hundred years."

The tense atmosphere at the table was instantly dismantled by their bickering.

Hecate waited until their brainstorming had fully played out before withdrawing her hands from the table.

"I've replied on behalf of everyone here."

"I told them: this table will not swap anyone out."

Richard sat in his chair and said nothing.

He knew exactly who that line was meant for.

"Moving on to business." Hecate folded her hands on the table.

"I explained the threshold for Third Stage last year: all seven chairs must reach Minor Adept."

"Right now, there are still two Practitioners at this table."

The scales above Nemesis dipped slightly.

"I won't rush you. Rank cannot be rushed."

"But I can pave the way."

She held up three fingers.

"I have a venue on hand. I will personally act as the protector. And I can offer suggestions for your preliminary Tradition."

Her gaze landed on Nemesis first.

"You walk the path of Moon-Hunting. You don't need to change it. The one backing you is a Major Adept Scholar of Moon-Hunting; the path has already been paved for you."

Then, she turned.

"Hermes."

Richard looked up.

"I suggest you preliminarily choose Web Weaving."

The temple fell silent for a moment.

"Over the past year at this table, you've done appraisals, acted as a middleman, performed decryptions, and pulled strings for people... Web Weaving governs exactly these things: seals, divination, destiny, and connecting two unrelated things."

"I've seen your Spell Formulas. What you excel at most is dismantling a structure and reassembling it, and structures are exactly what Web Weaving has no shortage of."

"Moreover, Web Weaving has deep roots within the Empire. On the path from Minor Adept to Major Adept, I can introduce you to quite a few people."

Richard sat in his stone chair, his hands resting on his lap, showing no anomalies whatsoever.

The Web Weaving Tradition... Hecate herself was on that tree. If she grafted him onto it as well...

Richard suppressed these thoughts to the very bottom. Not even his own Still Water reflected a single ripple.

"Thank you, Chief. I have noted it all down."

"But I am still quite a ways off from that threshold."

Hecate looked at him for a long time.

"You said the exact same thing the last time you rejected the second seat."

"It was the truth then, too."

"...Fine."

She retracted her hand.

Moving on to the next segment, Dionysus raised his Two-Handled Cup.

"Bad news first: my cup can't be fixed."

He lifted the cup again, poured a little bit in, and took a sip, his brow furrowing before relaxing.

"It's still bitter."

Heracles then mentioned that his injuries had completely healed.

"Has your resonance increased?" Hecate asked.

"It spiked by a huge margin. The club feels much lighter to lift than it did in June."

"That's very normal." Hecate nodded.

"What the god of strength spent his whole life doing was making his injured self stand back up."

Heracles sat back down.

"Getting back to intelligence, evil creatures have started spawning in the blood-soaked belt of the no-man's-land."

"Last month, I entered the southern sector with a Hunter squad. They opened the valves on that section in April. The poison gas in the low-lying areas hadn't completely dissipated, and beneath the yellow layer at the bottom of the craters, something was moving."

"When I first saw it, I thought it was a wild dog. Four legs, head hanging down, sprawling on the edge of the crater. I threw a rock at it, and it burrowed into the bottom of the crater."

"We lured one out and brought it up to the clean highlands. It took less than twenty steps before it dissolved."

"They can't leave that stuff. They have to soak in it to stay alive."

When it was Richard's turn, he took the items from his canvas bag and laid them on the table one by one.

A small jar of yellow powder, a piece of a conveyor belt, three bullet casings, and a small vial of nitrocellulose solution.

Prometheus was visibly intrigued.

"Hermes, where are these from?"

"The weak point of a loading plant that was retrofitted in March of this year."

Prometheus walked halfway around the round table and crouched down next to the small vial of nitrocellulose.

"Since the beginning of spring this year, the entire alchemy circle of the Western Continent has been studying what industrial products turn into after being tainted by the veil."

"Such products are in high demand but short supply. Our trade has been doing this for centuries, and everything passing through our hands is old stock."

"So I'll take all of this. Name your price, sir."

Richard shook his head. "What I want is for them to be processed."

Prometheus didn't agree immediately. He first examined the four items one by one.

He stopped when he saw the piece of the conveyor belt.

"This is useless. It's too loose to be a medium, too soft to be a vessel. Whatever you pour into it won't hold."

"If you sell it, it might fetch a few shillings; if you try to make something out of it, it doesn't even qualify as a rough mold."

Richard nodded.

He hadn't been sure about this piece himself, and now he had his answer.

Prometheus pushed the piece of belt back.

"The remaining three are all good materials."

He placed the small jar of yellow powder and the vial of nitrocellulose side by side.

"You've likely noticed it yourself: the characteristic of one is 'sequence,' and the other is 'direction.'"

"In our line of work, that translates to the fuse and the charge."

Heracles snapped his head over.

"Are you saying..."

"Yes, we can make enchanted explosives," Prometheus nodded. "And not just the kind where a couple of inscriptions are carved into lead."

"The price?" Richard asked.

Prometheus explained that because these items were so rare, his master might also step in.

The commission fee for a Major Adept craftsman was exorbitant. He said frankly, "For a Major Adept to personally fire up the furnace, the starting price is one hundred and fifty pounds. And there's a waiting list—the current queue stretches all the way to next spring."

Heracles drew a sharp breath.

"One hundred and fifty pounds?"

"That's the market rate." Prometheus looked back at Richard. "But for Hermes, it definitely won't be that amount."

"Just last month, he was complaining to me that he lacked this kind of experimental material."

He held up his fingers.

"For you, I only want thirty pounds in cash."

"And five pieces of Ether Condensate, at least of medium concentration."

"We will keep the research logs of the entire manufacturing process on file. Additionally, you get seventy percent of the finished product, and the workshop keeps thirty percent as samples."

Richard calculated it in his head.

Thirty pounds, plus five pieces of condensate.

He definitely had enough cash on hand: the fifty pounds from the Empire's Cultural Promotion Committee, Demeter's sixty pounds, and his half of the split from selling Donner's two cursed objects.

The condensates were even less of a problem. Heracles paid his tabs with them every time, Demeter provided a batch every quarter, and he received another share from his grandfather each quarter.

"Deal."

Prometheus packed the three items away one by one, acting even more carefully than Richard himself had.

As he packed the last item, he paused.

"Right, I also have some news on my end."

"Speak," Hecate said.

"On the seventeenth of last month, that Hearth Fire Tradition Virtuoso in the Imperial Capital took the lead in preparing for anti-gas warfare."

"Every relevant Major Adept within our borders responded to the call. Not a single one was absent."

"The Ministry of War approved a separate line for it, officially designated as the Special Engineering Company."

"What are the accounts filed under?" Hecate asked.

"Chemical Firefighting."

Prometheus wasn't finished.

"My master also took quite a few orders, mostly for filter materials and coatings."

"There was one blueprint he unrolled facing away from me. After looking at it, he rolled it up and locked it in his cabinet."

"After locking it away, he told me: 'Do not learn this.'"

Everyone present understood. The Empire didn't just want to defend; they wanted to use the poison gas to retaliate in kind.

"There is one final matter tonight."

By the time Hecate said this, the people at the table were already packing up their things.

"The head seat of the Black Earth River table, Apophis, has sent something over."

Upon hearing that name, they all stopped what they were doing.