Chapter 516: Envoy of the lord of the hunt

The wind threw the edge of the hood back a fraction, and Richard instinctively tried to look at the face.

There was nothing beneath the hood, yet the contours of a face were undeniably present: the rise of cheekbones, the line of a jaw, even the shadow cast by the bridge of a nose.

But as for what kind of face it was, he couldn't say.

It was like looking at someone through a pane of fogged glass—knowing they were an acquaintance, yet unable to name them.

Richard shifted his gaze to the rest of the procession.

The young man wielding the axe, the one in the red coat, the old fellow demanding sheepskin shoes... they were all the same.

He had dealt with this procession twice before, and he had never been able to see them clearly.

Only when Richard activated the Condensed Mirror Method, spreading Still Water over that person, did he suddenly understand.

He couldn't make out the face, but he recognized the circuit.

A main pathway ran down from the left shoulder, bearing an old fracture mark in the middle.

On the outer edge of that break sat a dense row of needle punctures, lined up evenly from the elbow to the lower edge of the deltoid.

Richard had recorded it all in his notebook: which session it was, the number of days between each, and the changes in the circuit's luminosity before and after piercing.

That notebook was still sitting in a drawer in his Imperial Capital University dormitory.

"How long has this one been here?" Richard asked casually.

"Not long."

"How long exactly?"

The old Scholar fell silent for a moment.

"About half a year."

Half a year. From April thirtieth to today, exactly half a year.

"Could you tell me about the situation?"

The old Scholar closed the scroll on his lap.

"Then I will make it clear to you."

"The spirits gathered here cannot die a second time. That is the benefit."

"The drawback is that with every ride, their very existence is worn away."

"At first, they forget what others called them: the name their mother shouted, their serial number at roll call, the yell of an acquaintance across a tavern table... those disappear first."

"Next goes their own appearance. If you told him to look in a mirror right now, he would see a stranger looking back."

"The last thing he forgets is why he is even here."

"By that point, all he has left are the skills in his hands."

Fatigue laced the old Scholar's voice.

"The skills of the hand are never forgotten. Those who could ride can still ride, and those who could forge iron can still forge."

"We have a carpenter here from six hundred years ago who doesn't even remember if he had a wife, but give him a piece of wood and he can plane a line straighter than a modern machine."

Richard nodded, having the Shadow shift its gaze back.

The man sat in his saddle, his left hand loosely cupped in front of him.

Richard was all too familiar with that gesture. It was the three-finger grip for the Moon Nail—thumb, index, and middle fingers pinching a needle.

This guy didn't even remember his own name anymore, but his hand still remembered how to hold it.

"Can an outsider actively remind them?" Richard asked.

The old Scholar turned his head.

"If you tell him... then he truly will remember that he lost something."

"And then he'll try hard to recall it, thinking about it endlessly if he can't."

"The more they think, the faster they wear away. It is better not to think, so they might preserve a little more."

The old Scholar himself belonged to the sort who didn't think about it at all, which was why he could still remember what he did while alive.

Even if the specific people, dates, and places were all gone.

The Shadow sat motionless in the saddle.

A horn sounded at the front of the procession again—the tune for a change of direction.

The entire host veered left, brushing past the scouting unit.

That exceedingly ordinary mount suddenly veered over toward their side.

The rider seemed taken aback for a moment, reaching out to pull the reins back.

Not knowing why he did it himself, he turned his head to speak to the person beside him.

"That envoy smells like something... like a room I used to stay in."

"It was stuffy. There was someone writing in there all day."

The man beside him grunted, not responding.

He opened his mouth, seeming to want to add where that room had been.

Unable to recall it, he simply closed his mouth and looked ahead again.

The procession paused once over a field of rye.

Only three houses in the village below had their lights on tonight.

Hay bales stood by the thresholds. The pack of hounds went down for a sweep and came up with nothing.

Only the small, limping hound scurried back, clutching half a discarded hemp rope in its jaws.

When the host scattered to rest, the man beneath the hood walked over from the middle section.

He stopped three paces away from the Shadow, raised his hand, and gave a military salute.

"Envoy."

The Shadow gave a sound of acknowledgment.

"I have a matter I'd like to ask you about," the man said.

Richard waited.

"I vaguely remember that someone owes me a meal."

The chatter in the procession fell silent. The red coat, who had been arguing with someone about how this year's fires were smaller than last year's, stopped mid-sentence and looked back.

"I don't remember who it was, or what year it was, or where it was said.

"I just remember this one thing, and I haven't eaten it yet."

"The Envoy manages the records."

He lowered his head slightly, full of respect.

"Could you check for me if this matter can still be fulfilled, and whether the person who owes me that meal is still around?"

The entire cloud grew quiet.

Richard, of course, had that meal in his hands. He had even decided on the private room at the Royal Grand Hotel.

But when the Shadow spoke, it simply said one sentence.

"I've checked. It is still owed."

The man stood there for a moment, then nodded.

"That's good."

He turned around and walked back toward the scouting unit.

After a few steps, Richard saw him raise his left hand again to confirm something, only lowering it once he was satisfied.

The red coat clicked his tongue from the side.

"Being owed a meal is the worst."

"Shut up."

"The year I died, someone still owed me two shillings."

"You deserved that. Nobody made you gamble."

Laughter rippled backward through the ranks, carrying on even when it faded from hearing.

The old Scholar glanced at the Shadow.

"Young man."

"Old gentleman."

"Your answer just now was a good one."

"How so?"

"It was good because it was short. One more word, and he would have started trying to remember."

Richard watched that figure on horseback gradually blend into the procession, until he could no longer tell which one he was.

To hold onto Coleman, Coleman had to keep owing him a meal.

Owing him, all the way until... even Richard didn't know when.

Perhaps until the day he could fish Coleman out of this procession.

Perhaps that day would never come. But as long as that meal was owed, Coleman still retained something that belonged to a "human".

Even if he forgot his mother's name, even if he forgot his own face, he still remembered that someone owed him a meal.

The wind on Cloud Ridge changed direction.

The lord of the hunt raised his horn at the very front of the procession. The tune this time was short—two long notes and one short.

"Rally," the old Scholar said, closing his scroll. "The host is splitting."

The host divided down the middle. Through the Shadow, Richard looked to both sides.

The branch heading east stretched out, tens of thousands of riders pressing down upon the clouds. The vanguard had already vanished from sight, while the rearguard was still pushing forward.

The branch heading south numbered only a hundred or so, their formation loose, ready to go their separate ways at any moment.

The lord of the hunt hung his horn back on his saddle and pulled his reins, turning his mount to squarely face the Shadow.

"Tonight is different from usual."

Richard waited for him to continue.

"On the nights of the hunt, we ride out, and all the evil creatures and vengeful spirits across the Old Continent ride out as well."

"All Hallows' Eve is a night for everyone. We are simply the fastest branch."

"Displacement battles, table consumptions, promotion preparations, pouring power into masks... everything that requires the backing of the veil converges on these few nights."

"Therefore, I have arranged a task for you tonight."

Richard made the Shadow plant the Caduceus firmly.

He had expected this. The lord of the hunt had granted him a title free of obligations and afforded him ample courtesy.

But he had grown familiar with this miser's personality. There was no way he would let Richard off for free.

The old Scholar turned back two pages in the register on his lap.

"April thirtieth. Even though we won that night."

"We paid a price. Hundreds of riders in the rearguard fell into the shadow abyss. Thousands of mirrors flipped out, snuffing out the members of our procession in droves."

Richard remembered.

That night, the Shadow had been atop the clouds, watching the rearguard go dark in swathes.

At the time, his mind had been entirely focused on how to hide properly. He never thought that those Wild Hunt members caught in the reflections of the Black Earth River Master would actually be wiped out just like that. No wonder the lord of the hunt had been so furious back then.

The lord of the hunt spoke.

"The fires of war burn endlessly across the Old Continent. The dead create more weak points year after year. From now on, the number of hunts will only increase, never decrease."

"So I am short on people."

"Doesn't the Hunting Register collect them every night?" Richard asked.

"It collects the dead."

The lord of the hunt answered quickly. This issue had troubled him for more than a year.

"The dead are useful. They don't complain of fatigue, they don't demand wages, and they don't ask why."

"But some things can only be done by the living."

The lord of the hunt's antlers lifted slightly toward Bohemia.

"That Norse table."

Richard's heart stirred. Skadi sat at that table.

"Loki's table has fallen behind this year. You can go and bring them into my procession."

"By what means?"

"I don't care about that. It's up to you."

The lord of the hunt wound the reins halfway around his palm.

"You're an envoy, aren't you? Aren't envoys best at saying their piece and walking right back out?"

"I can handle the killing myself. I don't need you for that."

The lord of the hunt added, "But I need you to convince them. Make them work for me with their whole hearts."

"Otherwise, every time we hunt in the future, I'll have to watch them to make sure they don't run off halfway."

"I can't do that. You do it."

Richard instantly grasped this Virtuoso's scheme.

The lord of the hunt could have forced them.

He was a Virtuoso. Dragging the Norse table into the procession was as simple as lifting a hoof.

But that would draw the lord of the hunt much deeper into the murky waters of the Theogony Salon, and possibly start a war with other Virtuosos.

He didn't want to get involved that deeply. He was only willing to show his hand occasionally and provide a tiny bit of support.

So this was, through and through, a ploy to have Richard get something for nothing on his behalf.

This miser wanted people to risk their lives for him, yet refused to promise too many benefits.

Nor was he willing to fight other Virtuosos over the Theogony Salon... and so he shoved this hot potato onto Richard.

This really is... Richard sneered inwardly and asked directly, "Name the payment."

The lord of the hunt's antlers twitched.

Richard could clearly sense that this figure was likely flicking the beads of an abacus in his mind.

The lord of the hunt spoke slowly. "If you succeed, they will be registered under your name."

He was still very reluctant.

"When they ride out in the future, I will only take fifty percent of the profits. The rest..."

Beside him, the old Scholar took his pen and wrote a line on the scroll. When he finished, he looked up at the lord of the hunt.

There was nothing in that glance, yet the lord of the hunt coughed first.

"Then I will only take twenty percent."

"Twenty percent isn't a lot... I provide the place, the path, the procession, and reserve their spots on the register."

"You can distribute the remaining eighty percent as you see fit. I won't interfere."

"And if I fail?" Richard asked.

"Then forget it."

The answer came even faster this time.

"You make a wasted trip tonight, and I suffer no losses on my end."

When he said this, he didn't feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

Richard, conversely, felt a bit of admiration for his brazenness.

This Virtuoso had never intended to put on airs. He just wanted to take advantage of the situation.

"I accept."

A thin layer of frost condensed on the lord of the hunt's antlers, indicating a measure of pleasure.

"Good."

The old Scholar closed the scroll, fished out another roll of paper from his saddlebag, and handed it over with a tip:

"The room you are entering tonight only recognizes this paper in your hand. Therefore, you can safely conceal your specific identity."

At those words, Richard suddenly realized he could push his Mask of the Defiant Envoy to its absolute limit.

Any power attempting to define, name, or overwrite his identity from the outside would be deflected.

But the cost was the nullification of the original mask, the scattering of the Caduceus, and the loss of his envoy status.

But now that the other party had given him a mandate to prove his identity, he had nothing to worry about.

"Old gentleman, what is written on this slip?"

The old Scholar withdrew his hand from the paper.

"It says: The bearer of this acts on behalf of the lord of the hunt."

"Just that one sentence?"

"Just that one sentence. Add another, and people will start second-guessing its meaning."

The lord of the hunt raised his horn, and this time, he blew it the longest.

The long note pressed over the clouds, carrying all the way south to the rolling hills.

"I will set the stage for you." The lord of the hunt pulled his reins, turning his mount eastward.

"The rest is up to you to convey."

The old Scholar's mount remained in place.

"Young man, tonight is the third match for that table."

"The one sitting in that chair holds a hunting name."

"Winter and hunting, Skadi."

The old Scholar wheeled his mount around and headed east.

A layer of specially structured ether pressed over the skies of Bohemia. Richard made the Shadow dive downward.

The two gold threads at the ankles of the flying shoes smoothed out behind the veil; this side was their home ground after all.

He gripped the antler wrapped in reins in his left hand, and held the rolled-up slip of paper clamped between his right fingers.

He descended for an unknown depth before the hall appeared before his eyes.

There was no porch and no steps. It was just a door.

Outside the door was absolute, empty blackness. A sliver of light leaked from beneath the crack of the door.

Richard stopped three paces away from the door and spread the Still Water forward.

The moment it spread over, he knew what this hall was.

That sliver of warm light was fake.

The light leaking from the crack didn't illuminate the three paces outside the threshold; it only lit itself.

Fires burned inside, but the fires gave no heat. Cups were set out, but the cups were empty. A feast was laid on the table, but the feast was an illusion.

The entire hall was built upon a pile of promises that were never meant to be fulfilled.

A fight was breaking out inside. He could hear it even through the door.

A massive gale wrapped in shards of ice slammed against all corners of the hall, making the door rattle violently in its frame.

Empowered by Perception, Richard could faintly make out someone half-kneeling in the blizzard.

There was a wound on her left forearm, its color washed out by the snow, and her opponent had already closed to within three paces.

The veil of snow blurred both figures. Looking in from the outside, one could only see two shadows, one high and one low, enveloped in a mass of white.

If the half-kneeling figure couldn't hold on, her head would rise up and hang in the darkness of the vaulted ceiling.

Richard sped up and knocked on the door: two short taps, one long.

This was the secret signal he had agreed upon with a certain young girl when visiting the abandoned greenhouse in the old garden behind the main building.

Following the knocks, the howling winds of the blizzard inside the hall abruptly slowed.

In that fleeting moment, the masked female silhouette half-kneeling in the snow seemed to freeze entirely.

Then Richard knocked three more times, took a half-step back, and raised the antler wrapped in reins.

The coils of reins on the antler unfurled on their own. The scent of frozen earth flooded out, along with the stench of horse sweat and the smell of grass trampled to mush by tens of thousands of hooves.

At the exact same moment, the lord of the hunt blew his horn in the east.

The sound was extremely distant; those nearby only took it for a ringing in their ears.

Soon, tens of thousands of riders struck their hooves in unison, trampling over pathless ground.

The drumbeat of their thundering hooves resounded above Bohemia, making the entire sky behind the veil threaten to collapse.

Every fire in the hall flattened toward the entrance. The flames whipped violently toward the door, perfectly mimicking a person bowing low in subservience.

The blizzard stopped. The shards of ice hung suspended in the air, refusing to fall.

The half-kneeling Lillian raised her head. The wound on her left forearm was oozing blood, yet she felt nothing.

Her opponent, wielding a short axe, froze with his arm raised in mid-air.

He could have finished off the kneeling Lillian with a single strike, but when the false fires dipped low, his strength was sapped along with them.

This hall was built on promises. Whoever stood in it borrowed power from it.

The door opened. The Shadow stood in the doorway, holding a rein-wrapped antler in his left hand and a slip of paper torn from a scroll in his right.

There were seven chairs in the hall.

Sitting in the highest seat of honor, Loki slowly lowered his crossed legs.

A circle of candidates enveloped in Curtains stood on the periphery, their identities obscured.

Kneeling amid the shattered ice, Lillian stared at the Shadow. A sudden, inexplicable sense of relief washed over her heart, though she couldn't say why.

"To think the Envoy of the lord of the hunt has arrived," Loki said, rising from the highest chair.

"A truly distinguished guest. It has been years since my shabby hall has welcomed someone of your stature."

"The fires are too weak, the cups are not full, and the feast is meager. Everyone..."

He turned around and swept his gaze across the circle of chairs.

"What are you standing around for? Clear a seat for the Envoy."

Not a single person in the hall spoke. Richard kept the Shadow standing on the threshold, neither advancing nor retreating.

The rules of an envoy had been explained by the old Scholar on horseback.

Do not strike first, and do not speak first. Let the hall realize on its own just what stands outside its doors.

Hela's reaction was the most severe. The gates of the Underworld she had borrowed were absolutely nothing in the face of a true procession of the dead.

She knew better than anyone in the hall exactly what that host outside was.

That was a genuine march of the deceased, the vengeful spirits gathered one by one into the Hunting Register by the lord of the hunt over countless years.

Tyr clamped his single hand onto the edge of the table. Freyja pushed her dish aside, the crimson-gold light dust shrinking back.

The False Flames filling the hall bowed and submitted the very instant the true procession passed by.

Although Richard wasn't the one doing it, because he stood in the doorway, everyone attributed this crushing pressure to him.

Richard could feel every gaze in the hall locked onto the Shadow.

Those stares contained shock, fear, calculation, and an indescribable awe.

This was exactly what he had been waiting for.

Before he came, the lord of the hunt had the old Scholar give him all the information on the people at this table.

Who was doing what and where, how many family members they had, which harbors they frequented every year, what they lost and where during their last field operation... everything was there.

Next came the classic moment of exposing their secrets, to establish his absolute dominance.

"Loki."

The man in the high chair tilted his head, slightly puzzled.

"You are in Copenhagen.

"On the street behind the docks, writing guarantees, pulling strings, and mediating for the ships coming in and out of port.

"Denmark isn't at war, so your business never stops.

"But what you want most was never that meager commission. When you spread rumors, you never lie; you only distort.

"Because lies can be traced back through divination. Distortions cannot.

"You adopt the lowest possible posture because you know better than anyone else that you are replaceable.

"If this table collapses, the lord of the hunt will simply appoint a new head and keep it running."

The loose smile on Loki's face froze.

Richard didn't pause. The Shadow's gaze moved to the next chair.

"Hela."

The half-dead face turned toward him.

"You are in Gothenburg's rear military hospital.

"You register the rosters of dead soldiers. A stack a day, signing them off and transferring them into the card ledger.

"You deal with dead people every day, yet you are terrified of standing before true victims of death.

"You are afraid that with one glance, they'll recognize that the Underworld gate above your head is borrowed."

Hela didn't speak, but the living half of her face paled.

"Tyr."

"You are in Stockholm, in a small office of the Quartermaster Department.

"You lost your right hand on the Eastern Front. After losing it, the army sent you packing to the rear to manage records.

"You refused to even utter a sound while being tortured, because the moment you do, that last shred of dignity will be gone."

Tyr's single hand tightened its grip on the edge of the table.

"Freyja." The Shadow's gaze fell upon her.

"In that pawnshop on the back streets of the Hamburg Harbor, you appraise items, issue loans, and collect interest. Your ledgers are flawless down to the page.

"You've been calculating ever since you sat in that chair. You calculate more clearly than anyone, which is why you haven't made a move all night."

Freyja pulled her dish back in front of her, but she didn't lick it again.

Richard made the Shadow's gaze finally land on Skadi.

Lillian was still kneeling in the shattered ice.

The Shadow looked at her for a long time.

Through that wisp of spirit, Richard rehearsed what he wanted to say in his mind.

Her mother was in the sanatorium; once you looked into that door, there was no turning back.

Her hands had been cold for the entire past year.

She walked this path to find a power that could cure that illness.

He knew all this, but he couldn't breathe a word of it tonight.

Saying it would be equivalent to telling the whole hall... that the Envoy of the lord of the hunt knew Skadi.

Richard chose the least hurtful sentence, which was also something the entire hall already knew.

"Skadi, Winter and hunting."

Lillian raised her head.

"You have no guide to teach you hand by hand.

"You searched step by step, learned step by step, and every step you took was forged by yourself.

"At this table, you are the only one who climbed up from nothing."

After the Shadow said this, he said no more.

Kneeling there and staring at that mass of blackness, Lillian's eyes inexplicably grew hot.

The warmth was a good thing; she hadn't felt it in a long time.

Richard finished his roll call. Not a single person refuted him, for refutation was tantamount to admission.

The figure at the head of the table finally lowered his hands.

He rounded the corner of the table and took two steps toward the door.

He stopped five paces away from the Shadow.

The distance was measured perfectly. A half-step closer would be an offense; a half-step further would be cowardice.

"The Envoy has a keen eye."

Loki looked back and swept his gaze across the circle of chairs in the hall.

"Did you all hear that? How many times have I said it? The truly powerful people in this world can bring everyone to heel without even lifting a finger."

Then he turned back and picked up a wine cup from the table behind him.

"The Envoy has traveled far."

He raised the cup to chest height, assuming a deferential posture.

"With this cup, I toast the lord of the hunt."

"And I toast the Envoy."

Everyone's eyes in the hall fell upon the cup. The circle of candidates wrapped in Curtains shuffled a half-step forward.

Richard stood three paces inside the door, not reaching out.

"An Envoy accepts no food, accepts no drink, accepts no oaths."

Loki's hand paused in mid-air, the faint smile on his face faltering.

The Spell Formula he excelled at most was making people accept.

Once they accepted the wine and gave a pleasant reply, they would fall right into Loki's rhythm. At that point, he could easily gauge the true mettle of this Envoy of the lord of the hunt.

But the man wouldn't accept it, and Loki couldn't force him to.

Loki held his hand in the air for about three seconds, then smoothly pulled the cup back and drank it himself.

After drinking, he smacked his lips.

"...It's cold."

In the hall, two people gave a low chuckle. It was the laughter of women.

Loki set the cup back on the table and turned around, that loose, casual look returning to his face.

"Envoy, since it is a mandate from the lord of the hunt."

He held out his hand.

"By the rules, it should be handed over to me, the head seat, to convey to everyone present."

Richard understood what he was after.

Once the mandate passed through his hands, Loki could read it in full, read half of it, or pause an extra beat on a certain word.

Richard held up the slip in his right fingers, finally realizing why the old Scholar had instructed him so carefully.

"The bearer of this acts on behalf of the lord of the hunt."

He turned the slip sideways, letting the entire hall see that line of ink.

"I've finished reading."

The outstretched hand of the head seat was still hanging in mid-air.

"You all heard it," the Shadow said.

"In the future, if anyone wants to know what the lord of the hunt's intentions are..."

Richard pulled the slip back, rolling it up and securing it between his fingers again.

"You can come ask me."

The hall went silent for two seconds. Tyr let out a snort through his nose.

Loki slowly withdrew his outstretched hand.

"...As the Envoy says."

He bowed at the waist.

"Envoy, it just so happens I have a matter here."

"I'd like to ask for your help in finding someone."

"Speak."

"The lord of the hunt asked us to keep an eye out for a certain person."

"It was more than half a year ago. That night, the lord of the hunt singled out our table for punishment, and mentioned it in passing."

"He said, 'I saw a Divinely Crafted Armament above that person's head.'"

Every person in the circle of chairs in the hall raised their heads.

"A Caduceus, flying shoes."

Loki stroked his chin.

"He should be from the Greek Theogony table, though we don't know which chair."

"That person's divine name is... Hermes."

In the library in Milan, Mortimer looked at his student, who seemed to be trying his hardest to endure something, leaving the professor somewhat baffled.

Telling him, Hermes, to go find himself?

Standing inside the great hall at this moment, Richard's face was completely stiff.

He was very glad that he literally didn't have a face tonight; otherwise, there was a real risk he wouldn't have been able to keep a straight one.