Chapter 509: Set and Horus

The sounds in the room vanished in an instant, leaving only the steady drip... drip... echoing from the enamel washbasin.

Richard sat behind the desk by the window, momentarily in a daze.

A Master of the Classical Records Tradition, not a Virtuoso.

His throat suddenly felt dry. That blue-cloth-bound Record of Successive Great Deeds: Classical Records Volume resurfaced in his mind.

"...Professor."

"What is it?"

"Why are you bringing me along?"

"A student's job is to carry bags and run errands. Do I even need to say it?"

Mortimer looked thoroughly impatient. "I'm already at this age. You ought to have some self-awareness."

"Just to carry bags, from the Imperial Capital all the way to Milan?"

Richard stared at that wrinkled old face.

The face revealed absolutely nothing, looking exactly the same as every time the old man played dumb.

"Professor."

"Mm."

"Are you..." The rest of the question caught in his throat.

It couldn't be, could it? Richard's palms slowly began to sweat.

There were usually only two reasons to meet the one sitting at the absolute pinnacle of their tradition.

One was to pass on a message for someone else, and the other...

"What are you daydreaming about?"

Mortimer picked up a pair of scissors and gestured with them at a damp, limp newspaper.

"Milan has fog in November, though it's a bit cleaner than the fog in the Imperial Capital."

"We'll have to pass through Franc. Get your passport and paperwork sorted ahead of time, lest you get stopped at the docks."

"Once we get there, speak less and watch more."

"That person is different from me. They don't play dumb."

...

...

On the night of October 15th, Richard closed his eyes and counted to seven.

As the sea of stars receded, the marble temple materialized. Seven stone chairs surrounded the round table.

Hecate's first sentence tonight was brief.

"Last month, was anyone questioned?"

Heracles struck his Giant Olive Wood Club against the floor, the first to answer.

"Got into a fight."

Dionysus lifted his cracked Two-Handled Cup from his lap, then set it back down.

"I suppose I fought half a battle."

"What does half a battle mean?" Heracles turned his head.

"It means I didn't lose."

Demeter's hands lay open on her lap. The dirt beneath her fingernails had been washed clean tonight.

"Someone came my way too, though we didn't come to blows."

Prometheus nodded as well.

"My master's workshop took an order last month, and the person who came wasn't quite right either."

Above Nemesis's head, two words surfaced on the left pan of her scales.

"It happened."

Having gone around the circle, all eyes finally fell upon the last chair.

Sitting in his seat, Richard nodded. "Yes."

Hecate folded her hands on the table.

"Six people. Every single one of you was questioned."

The slight relaxation that had lingered over the table was instantly drained away.

Heracles was the first to react. "...What about you, Chief?"

"I wasn't."

Hecate tapped the table. "One or two people being sought out individually might be a coincidence, but for everyone except me, the head seat, to be approached..."

Dionysus chuckled mockingly. "If they came to question the Chief, that would mean tearing away all pretense to start another full-scale team battle."

...

Hecate remained noncommittal. "There is another possibility."

"Which is?"

"They already obtained enough information from the six of you. They don't need to come looking for me anymore."

The moment she said that, the atmosphere—which Dionysus had managed to lift slightly—plummeted once more.

The woman withdrew her hands from the table. "We won't discuss this tonight."

"Let's begin our exchanges as usual."

Prometheus made the first move today. He raised his hand, and a small projection materialized in the center of the round table.

Six hand grenades stood side by side, their casings engraved with the serial numbers a01 through a06.

Heracles craned his neck as far as it would go.

"These... these are what Hermes commissioned from your workshop, right? They really do look quite interesting. Not at all like standard enchanted products."

Prometheus nodded, turning toward Richard, the client, to begin his introduction.

"In August, Your Excellency provided that jar of yellow powder that lines up on its own. We used it for the fuses."

"The bottle of nitrocellulose with the sediment was used for the directional charges and payloads."

"The casings act as carriers. The shells, explosives, and fuses were all sourced from the exact same shed. They are a natural fit for each other."

Dionysus rotated his cup halfway.

"So you didn't actually create anything new, you just assembled them."

"Correct." Prometheus nodded. Assembly and refinement were what the vast majority of craftsmen actually did.

He rotated one of the hand grenades in the projection.

"This portable explosive has three detonation methods.

"Using ether as the fuse, the caster only needs to trigger it from a distance.

"Alternatively, lighting it with fire allows for a delayed detonation of about seven breaths; impact also triggers it instantly."

"The explosion isn't particularly strong in the material realm. It can't match a proper military grenade."

"But it's a different story in the ether layer," Prometheus stressed.

"It can entirely tear open the ether structure of a small area."

...

"Lower-tier evil creatures will dissipate instantly. For mid-tier ones, their ether layer will be torn open with a wound that cannot heal."

"It can even cause short-term disintegration in the Spell Formula structures of a Minor Adept."

Richard took note of the somewhat imprecise wording.

"...How short is 'short-term'?"

Prometheus retracted the projection. "At the absolute minimum, two seconds. However, the final round of stability testing for these explosives isn't finished yet."

"We've all seen the rain in the Imperial Capital this year.

"That jar of yellow powder came from a damp shed in the first place. We don't know if it will lose its effectiveness after absorbing moisture."

"We're also worried that the explosives might spontaneously combust in high-ether fields—igniting right in your pocket the moment you carry them into a weak point."

"Sympathetic detonation is another issue. If all six are kept in the same bag, we don't know if one going off will trigger the other five."

"What about the delivery time?" Richard asked.

"At our next gathering in mid-December. I'll hand them directly to Your Excellency."

Richard nodded. He took a Cloth Bag from his breast pocket and pressed a cashier's check on top of it.

"Thirty pounds, plus five pieces of condensate, medium concentration or higher."

Prometheus untied the Cloth Bag, glanced inside, tied it back up, and pocketed it.

"Finished products split seven-to-three. The workshop keeps samples for our archives."

"As usual."

After settling the bill, Prometheus didn't immediately sit back down.

"Your Excellency, my master has a message."

Richard looked up.

"He said that if you have more materials to deliver, the price is always negotiable."

"He also said he's willing to speak with Hermes in person, without passing messages through me."

Everyone present looked thoughtful. A Major Adept craftsman actually wanted a face-to-face meeting with a Practitioner.

Richard was very gracious. "It is my honor. The next time I have materials, I'll prioritize your master."

"I will relay your reply."

Heracles couldn't wait any longer. He slapped his palm onto the edge of the table.

...

"Those six explosives... I want to buy two."

"What do you need two for?" Dionysus shot him a glance.

"When you smash that club of yours down, it makes a much bigger bang than these."

"The club isn't very effective against non-corporeal evil creatures."

Heracles turned serious, swiveling his head.

"Your Excellency Hermes, I'm heading out to the no man's land on the front lines again next month."

Richard thought for a moment. "Then I can spare two for you."

"How much?"

"No charge."

Heracles scratched his head. He knew perfectly well that what came free was always the most expensive.

Richard stated his objective: "I want first-hand materials from the front lines.

"After you detonate them, dig up the layer of dirt at the blast site and bring it back to me.

"Also, write down the wind direction at the time, the effects of the explosion, and your own ether consumption."

"That's it?"

"And in the future, if any new types of evil creatures appear in the no man's land, tell me first."

"Deal!"

The moment the deal was struck, the Ancient Bronze Mask tucked in Richard's breast pocket began to burn hot.

If wealth only came in and never went out, if one merely clutched all their coins tight, that was being a miser, not engaging in commerce. Only where there was circulation was there true business.

Besides, first-hand intelligence and collected samples were far more valuable than a few paltry gold pounds.

What followed were routine transactions. Demeter, as usual, handed over her quarter's condensate in exchange for two appraisal reports Richard had prepared for her;

Nemesis posted a commission for inscription collation, while Dionysus and Prometheus both produced a few texts;

Heracles took out a small parcel of evil creature fragments from the northern wastelands and sold them to Prometheus's workshop.

In less than a quarter of an hour, all trading was concluded. Hecate once again folded her hands on the table.

"Now for the main topic: the nature of the probing you all experienced."

"Let's start with Demeter."

...

At these words, Demeter began her account.

"The one who came to me was a traveling peddler buying herbs."

"At noon on the nineteenth of last month, he drove a mule cart right to the edge of my fields."

"He was very polite. He waited off the ridge, only speaking up after I finished tending that ridge of soil."

"What did he want?"

"He offered an absurdly high price."

She flipped her hand over.

"My ordinary goods—dried chamomile, wormwood, a few handfuls of aged Poppy Capsules... at the town market, they'd sell for a pound at most. Yet he gave me two pounds."

But from start to finish, the man only repeatedly asked different variations of a single question:

"Have you seen anything this year that came from elsewhere, something whose age you couldn't determine?"

Demeter had sold him two common items to send him away, not thinking much of it at the time.

Last month, the workshop run by Prometheus's master received a massive anonymous order, with a price so high that even his master found it suspicious.

They wanted hollow supernatural items. The older the better, the cleaner the better, with no limit on the quantity.

His master didn't accept the order. The reason: the other party refused to say what they intended to put inside them.

Here, Richard's heart skipped a beat as he recalled the theory he'd formulated in his dorm room back in August.

If cost and pollution are poured into a hollow shell, the shell instantly becomes... a cursed object?

Back then, facing a room full of drained supernatural items, he felt he had stumbled upon a path no one else had walked.

As it turned out, someone was doing the exact same thing, but on a vastly larger scale.

Hecate skipped over this topic, moving on to the next person.

"The next two—Dionysus and Heracles—actually came to blows with that side."

"I wonder if you two are willing to project the scenes of what happened."

Dionysus sighed.

"Chief, my fight was not a pretty sight."

Heracles hollered from the side, "What are you afraid of? You didn't lose."

The mouth beneath the ivy mask opened and closed.

...

"...Fine."

He first explained the cause and effect. Following the battle in the City of Seven Hills, his Two-Handled Cup had suffered a crack during the team fight.

"I've been trying to fix it these past few months."

Dionysus draped both arms over his chair's armrests and leaned back.

"I sought out quite a few alchemists. The first one said the crack was in the ether layer and couldn't be mended;

"The second one was young and highly capable. He said he could mend it, but after it was fixed, the cup would ride on my head and demand to be the master."

Demeter let out a laugh from the side.

"The third one charged me twelve pounds and spent half a month repairing it. In the end, whatever poured out was still bitter."

Dionysus had even asked Prometheus to consult his master. The master had glanced at it from behind a curtain and said, "It might not be a bad thing."

He hadn't understood at the time. The turning point came on a night in early September.

In the projection, there was an old, closed tavern. A man was slumped over the counter, nothing in front of him but an empty wine glass.

"That day, I had drank my way to the seventh cup. It tasted so unbearable that I slammed it down onto the table."

In the projection, the Two-Handled Cup struck the wooden counter with a muffled thud.

"I cursed at the cup: 'Can't you give me something sweet for once?'"

"It didn't."

His sluggish, casual tone suddenly grew serious.

"Then, lying there, I suddenly figured it out. Bitterness isn't actually a bad thing.

"I tried to purify this bitterness, just enough to make it barely palatable."

He spread his hands.

"Dionysus governs intoxication and Boundary Dissolution. The wine I originally developed using this cup made people spit out the words suppressed in their hearts."

"This newly created bitter brew... let's call it that for now. It's incredibly bitter on the tongue, much like medicine, with only a sliver of sweetness in the aftertaste."

"When poured, the liquid clings to the sides of the glass, thick and viscous as syrup."

"The effect of this bitter brew is also reversed. It makes people sober."

Heracles snapped his head up. Makes people sober? Is that even wine anymore?

Dionysus ignored him and continued speaking:

...

"For about two or three hours after drinking this wine, a person cannot be disturbed by emotions."

"Fear, profound grief, homesickness... or the dead calling your name from outside the door."

"Even the sheer instinct to respond when your name is called—all of it is suppressed by the bitterness."

The silence in the temple suddenly took on a different quality.

Richard pressed his back against his stone chair. During the Night of Mourning, through Madam Marie's mirror, he had seen doors being knocked on, one after another, down the entire street.

Behind half the doors came screams, and behind the other half, laughter.

That night, if the people behind every door had a small bottle of this in hand... And that night at the Black Trench, or in the Unresponsive Pit...

Seeing everyone staring at him with burning eyes, Dionysus quickly added its flaw.

"Drink too much, and you won't even feel hunger anymore."

"What is the production capacity?" Hecate asked.

"Very limited. Constrained by my paltry ether reserves, one bottle a night at most."

"At first, I only gave it away."

In the projection, inside a small room of a Guild office, three dark bottles sat on a table.

"The first batch I gave to a few familiar Civilian Guilds in the Imperial Capital.

"To field operatives, those who 'see guests off', and an old man keeping watch at a funeral parlor."

"When I gave it to them, I told them it was an experimental prototype and probably tasted awful, so don't hold it against me."

"A week later, that old gatekeeper actively sought me out to buy more."

"He said he had stood the night watch since he was young until his hair turned gray, and it was the first time he'd gone an entire night without hearing someone call his name."

"He offered me three shillings. I wouldn't take them, so he stuffed the money into my pocket and ran off."

"After that, people started asking for shipments by the crate."

Dionysus picked up his cup once more.

"The buyer was a middleman running errands for the military quartermaster system. Ostensibly, they were procuring medical sedatives. Their actual destination is unknown."

"I was very cautious at first."

"I wrote nothing on the bottle labels. Later, the distributor came to me and complained it was hard to sell without a brand, so I stamped a mark on it."

The projection zoomed in. The label on the small, dark bottle was stamped with a single ivy leaf.

...

Richard's breathing slowed.

"By this month, these bottles stamped with an ivy leaf have spread across nearly half the Empire."

Dionysus spread his hands.

"Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow... Last week, I saw it in the window of a pharmacy in a southern town. A diluted version sitting right next to rheumatism tonic, selling for one shilling and two pence a bottle."

"The pharmacy owner told me it sells faster than aspirin."

He set the cup back on his lap.

"Because this bitter brew is selling so well, my resonance has skyrocketed over the past two months."

In truth, he had already quietly manifested a second Divinely Crafted Armament, though he kept that fact to himself.

Some inside the temple grew puzzled. While curious about this bitter brew, it didn't seem relevant to the current topic.

Richard and Nemesis exchanged a glance; both had already figured it out.

The bitter brew was highly effective and sold phenomenally well. Tall trees attract the wind. The next logical step was someone coming knocking because of it.

Sure enough, Dionysus immediately returned to the main point.

"Now let's talk about the one I fought."

The projection shifted again. It was the same old tavern, its door bolted from the inside.

A man stood in front of the counter. He was very tall, his exposed skin a reddish-brown hue.

The man wore no mask, yet his face was impossibly difficult to remember. A cloud of incredibly fine red sand swirled around him, suspended in the air without settling.

Seeing that man, Dionysus looked as though he had swallowed a fly.

"The moment he walked in, he tried to talk business. I refused."

"Then he offered a price so high I was genuinely tempted, but I refused again."

"Only then did he ask about the night of June 17th."

From the head seat, Hecate tapped a finger against the edge of the table.

"Go on."

"I told him: On the night of June 17th, I was drinking."

"He replied: 'Then let us have a drink too.'"

In the projection, the man pressed a hand onto the counter, and the air throughout the tavern began to violently shudder.

...

"This was the third seat at the Black Earth River table—Set. His power is thirst."

Hecate chimed in with an explanation:

"The desert, red sand, foreigners, and chaos. Anything wet, soft, or intoxicated cannot maintain its form before him."

Dionysus raised his cup slightly.

"The Chief is correct. His power countered mine to some extent."

"My power is intoxication. The moment he walked through the door, he sucked all the alcohol fumes right out of the room."

In the projection, the man bearing the divine name Set raised his head.

Red sand shed from his body onto the floorboards, churning up sand across the entire tavern floor.

"At the time, I thought: I'm done for. I need to figure out how to slip away.

"After all, I'm not good at head-on combat, as you all know."

That was what he said, but looking at the man in the projection, whose face was obscured by a layer of purple, Richard couldn't spot a single trace of panic.

This person was absolutely not as helpless as he made himself out to be.

Heracles, on the other hand, tightened his grip on his Great Club.

In the projection, Dionysus tipped his cup over, pouring out a syrup-like fluid that splashed onto the floorboards and seeped right in.

The swirling sandstorm was instantly paused. Set's red sand could no longer pour in.

In the projection, Set had no choice but to withdraw his hand from the counter.

"Your business is doing very well. So well that our head seat has heard of it."

"If you ever wish to trade, the price is negotiable."

Heracles leapt up from his chair.

"You sat on something this good and only brought it out now?!"

"The last time I brought it out, you said it tasted terrible."

"When did I ever say that?"

"In August. Your exact words were: 'This tastes like the medicine my grandmother boils.'"

"...That's because I didn't know it could do this!"

Heracles rubbed his large hands together.

...

"I want a hundred bottles."

Dionysus set down his cup.

"I produce one bottle a night."

"...Then spend a hundred nights on it."

"If I spend a hundred nights on it, I'll die first."

This bit of banter eased the tension in the room somewhat.

Prometheus suggested his workshop could help with bottling and stabilization, turning the production into a replicable industrial process.

But if it wasn't made by Dionysus himself, its effectiveness would sharply decline. However, with increased production, it could at least be supplied to ordinary people.

He laid out a condition: a copy of the formula's archives had to be kept on file. Dionysus hesitated.

From the head seat, Hecate spoke up once more.

"Dionysus, I must remind you. Set was the first, but he certainly will not be the last."

The mouth beneath the ivy mask twitched.

"...I know."

"You don't. You will only truly know when the second person shows up at your door."

She lifted her hands from the table.

"Heracles."

The eyes beneath the Lion-Mouth Mask lit up.

"My turn."

The projected location was the northern wastelands, at an evil creature nest that was currently being cleared out.

Heracles was busy working when a figure appeared on the ridgeline sweeping across the wasteland.

The man wasn't walking fast. He stopped about twenty meters from the edge of the pit.

A golden falcon-head mask, with heterochromatic eyes—the right eye like the sun, the left eye like the moon.

A short spear in hand, a live peregrine falcon perched on his shoulder, the ether surrounding him both brilliant and unyielding.

In the projection, the man spoke.

"I am Horus, second seat of the Black Earth River."

...

"On the night of June 17th, where were you?"

In the projection, Heracles, carrying his Great Club on his shoulder, yanked the club out from a crevice in the rocks.

"I was fighting."

"With whom?"

"With the Rome table."

The golden falcon-head mask tilted slightly.

"Then let us have another fight."

"If you win beautifully, I'll believe you."

"If you're hiding anything, I will see through it at a glance."

Inside the temple, Dionysus lowered his cup to his lap.

In the projection, the peregrine falcon took flight from the man's shoulder.

Heracles struck first.

He never used any fancy tricks in a fight. Gripping his Great Club with both hands, he unleashed a massively heavy swing.

The club carved through the air, splitting the fierce gales of the wasteland.

The golden falcon head stepped half a pace to the side—dodging perfectly into the one spot the club's wind couldn't sweep through.

The club smashed into the earth. Crushed stones flew far into the distance, and the impact gouged a crater deep enough to bury a man.

Horus lunged forward, thrusting out with his short spear.

The spear thrust landed precisely in the opening right after Heracles's smash, before his body could recover its posture.

The Great Club swung horizontally to block.

The spear tip slid off the surface of the club. The moment it deflected, the peregrine falcon swooped down from the side, its wings brushing past the back of Heracles's neck.

"That bird is incredibly annoying," Heracles said through gritted teeth.

"It didn't peck me, it just flew right past my edge."

"When its wings hit me, I flinch and tilt my head out of sheer instinct."

"And the moment I tilt my head, Horus's spear arrives."

In the projection, the short spear thrust upward, striking Heracles beneath the ribs.

...

Even through the projection, the scrape of metal against leather armor could be clearly heard.

"My rage flared up right then and there."

Heracles sounded somewhat deflated.

"You all know the cost of my mask. The fiercer I fight, the more I lose myself to the bloodlust. And once the bloodlust takes over, I don't think about anything. All I want is to smash everything in front of me to pieces."

In the projection, the large man wielding the club saw his entire ether state become erratic and volatile.

Almost fully materialized blood-flames surged from his shoulders down to his arms, dyeing the surface of the olive wood club with a crimson glow.

He smashed downward, strike after relentless strike.

The first swing missed, the second swing missed, and the third swing forced Horus to retreat two paces.

Halfway through his fourth swing, he suddenly changed it into a horizontal sweep.

In the projection, Horus was already gone from his original spot before the swing was even halfway finished.

"...That's it."

Heracles furrowed his brow tightly.

"This feint has become my pure instinct. No matter how much I lose my reason, I execute it without thinking. It leaves no chance for anyone to read my intentions."

"But he didn't even have to look. He had already moved away before I even executed the feint."

In the projection, that golden right eye was staring directly forward.

The right eye like the sun, the left eye like the moon.

Horus and Set had fought for eighty years. During that time, Horus's eyes had been gouged out once.

Later, the sun and the moon were set into his empty sockets. One illuminating the day, the other lighting the night.

In the projection, that battle dragged on for a long time.

Heracles fought fiercer and fiercer, his blood rage burning him cherry-red.

With every single smash of the Giant Olive Wood Club, the withered grass of the wasteland was battered aside by the shockwaves.

Horus kept retreating.

His retreat was incredibly methodical: he would retreat three paces and hold his ground; retreat another two paces and hold his ground. Every single position he stopped at was positioned just out of reach of Heracles's next swing.

The peregrine falcon circled above their heads, neither crying out nor swooping down.

Heracles smashed harder and harder, but his attacks grew sloppier and more disjointed.

...

The Giant Olive Wood Club was no longer aimed at the man; every strike was just smashing the dirt.

Horus was still retreating.

"He was testing me the whole time," Heracles said.

"Testing what?"

"Testing exactly when I'd completely lose my mind to the bloodlust."

The eyes beneath the Lion-Mouth Mask, however, were currently stone cold.

In the projection, the crimson-burned man heaved his club up again.

It looked no different from his previous attacks—another top-down swing leaving no room for recovery, striking with the reckless abandon of someone completely blinded by rage.

Horus stepped half a pace to the side.

But the club crashed down onto the patch of crushed stones right in front of Horus's feet.

In the projection, the wind-frozen layer of gravel beneath the heather shattered into a sweeping barrage of shrapnel.

Horus's evasive maneuver distorted.

He snapped his short spear sideways, twirling the shaft in front of him in a full circle.

The flying gravel clattered against the spear shaft, ricocheting loudly in all directions.

The peregrine falcon dove from the sky, rushing in front of its master to shield him.

But out of thin air, an invisible net suddenly scooped the bird up, violently dragging the falcon down into the grass.

A woman stood up from the grass, her face obscured by a headscarf.

"...Who is that?" Dionysus asked.

Heracles scratched his head. "My wife."

In the projection, the peregrine falcon was pinned in the grass, thrashing wildly.

Horus instinctively glanced at his bird.

Dropping his club, Heracles lunged out from the gravel barrage to seize that spear.

"My thought process at the time was very simple. I figured that spear was the most unreasonable threat."

"If I just grabbed it, the fight would be over."

In the projection, those two massive hands gripped the spear shaft, successfully wrenching it away.

...

The force of the pull yanked Horus forward into a stumble, the short spear slipping from his grasp.

Then, inside Heracles's grip, the spear spun itself around.

The spearhead flipped, plunging upward right into the big man's chest.

"The weapons of the Black Earth River recognize their masters."

Prometheus, the one most knowledgeable in this area, spoke up.

"When an outsider grips their weapons, the tighter they hold on, the harsher the backlash."

"...I know." Heracles rubbed his head. "I know now, at least."

The large man in the footage looked down at his own chest, where the spear tip had already impaled him.

He gave a sharp grunt, raised his fist, and threw a punch.

...