Chapter 546: Where Will the War Go?

"Maybe I should just carry you in," Mortimer half-joked.

"You might count as my luggage. As a member, the door can't exactly stop me from bringing my bags inside, right?"

Richard pictured it: the old professor lugging a sickly young student on his back, panting as he sprinted up the institute's steps.

There were people selling postcards in front of the museum across the street. If they saw that, they'd probably talk about it until summer.

"Can you even carry me?" Richard joked back.

Mortimer looked him up and down. "I can carry that canvas bag of yours. You've lost so much weight, you're practically the same size."

"Or you could push your luck one more time."

Richard shook his head. "It might teleport me into some specimen cabinet in the basement. I can't afford that gamble."

He pulled the invitation out of his notebook. A line of fine print ran along the fold in the margin:

"Those who fail to arrive on time will be deemed to have forfeited their claim, and all deposited items will become the collection of this Society."

Mortimer squinted and leaned in, searching for a long time before spotting the sliver of purple text. The old professor cursed, "Printing notices in such tiny font... a hundred years and they haven't changed a bit."

Richard flipped the notice over and explained his solution.

"Since the door can't stop members, and I now have an invitation personally issued by the president, I should be able to pass through freely even if I'm not a member.

"Professor, Mr. Mercury taught me a business principle back in Genoa:

"The sign pasted at the door is for passersby, but a handwritten note is just for you."

The brass plaque represented the institute's rules—the general terms.

The notice in his hand was a summons signed personally by the president—a special term.

Special terms always superseded general terms.

Mortimer understood and burst out laughing. "You're using a lawyer's logic!"

Richard made up his mind.

He rolled his wheelchair forward, leaned out, and pressed the notice against the brass plaque.

The moment the invitation touched the plaque, the text on it automatically morphed, shifting into: "Bearer of the letter, please enter." Beneath the brass plaque, a new line of text—smaller than ants—appeared: "Members may accompany."

Mortimer curled his lip. "It even factored me in."

They pushed the door open. Inside was neither the boiler room nor the president's office they had expected, but a remarkably long reading room.

Several green-shaded lamps hung from the ceiling. The moment Richard saw that green light, a chill ran down his spine.

A few elderly members sat on either side of the long table.

A row of plaster skull models sat on the table by the window, each bearing an ink-written serial number on its forehead.

The opposite wall was stacked high with photographic negatives, each with a label slotted in front:

"Southern Continent Zulu, male, approx. thirty years old. Frontal portrait."

"Ibid., profile portrait."

"Subcontinent Punjabi, male. Frontal and profile portraits."

"Spice Islands Dayak, female. Frontal and profile portraits."

Richard's spirit hadn't fully recovered; his Spirit Vision tingled whenever he touched anything. But sitting in this room, he didn't even need to make physical contact. He could feel threads finer than spider silk trailing from those index cards and skull negatives, stretching out infinitely. They connected to the grasslands of the Southern Continent, the deep wells of the Subcontinent, and the stilt houses of the Spice Islands—tying back to living, breathing peoples.

So that was it. That was why it was called the Royal Anthropological Institute.

The back of his head started to throb again, and Richard quickly looked away.

One of the members looked up and warned them, "The president's office is at the end of the hall. Do not touch the photographic negatives under any circumstances. Touching them counts as borrowing."

Mortimer pushed the wheelchair forward, keeping his voice incredibly low. "Don't look too closely. Your spirit hasn't recovered yet."

Richard was slightly confused; the old professor seemed like a stranger here. "Professor, aren't you a member too?"

"I can't stand this place, so I rarely come. I've paid dues for eighty years, but I can count the number of times I've walked through these doors on one hand."

The old professor frowned at the plaster skulls.

He added, "You definitely don't want to know how those models are made."

Portraits of past presidents lined the walls on both sides of the corridor—over thirty in all, stretching all the way to the end.

The earliest portrait had a Latin nameplate, followed by figures in powdered wigs, high collars, and long robes.

Each figure held a pen, its tip hovering over paper. In the final frame, the background, the desk, and the poised pen were all present, but the chair was empty. The nameplate read: "Current President".

"It doesn't like taking photographs, and it doesn't like being painted," Mortimer noted.

The door at the end of the hall opened on its own.

Beyond it was a windowless room. Ledgers stacked from floor to ceiling covered all four walls.

The desk lamp cast the faint silhouette of a person against the wall, but the chair was entirely empty. Only a pen hovered slightly in the air.

Just as the front wheels of the wheelchair crossed the threshold, the grandfather clock in the corner struck three times with a heavy chime.

As the clock announced three o'clock, ink began to piece itself together into words, stroke by stroke.

Richard recalled the president's honorific name: "Blood Turned to Ink." So this was what it meant.

"Mortimer." The old president called his name.

The professor's fingers tightened slightly on the wheelchair handles.

"On December 26th, you came to see me. I told you to wait a week for news.

"Later, the boy woke up, yet you didn't come to clear the account. Originally, I was going to issue a minor punishment to both of you.

"That threshold in Chelsea was the first door. There were supposed to be eighteen more after it, but you didn't walk through a single one."

After a pause, the ink formed another line, its strokes noticeably heavier than before:

"That path from the New Continent... overreached far too much."

Richard stared down at his wheels, not daring to speak.

The ink continued to flow downward, each line representing a door:

"Winter of 1803, the kitchen of a hosiery village in Leicestershire."

"1817, the Year Without a Summer, the moors of Northumberland."

"1844, your Mentor's bedroom."

"1856, the cemetery, elder brother."

"1861, Loughborough, the street where your sister married; the same year you advanced to Major Adept."

The ink automatically arranged itself line after line. Mortimer stood to the side, watching in silence. When it reached the eighteenth line, the ink paused for a long time before writing:

"1893, heavy fog at sea. Your proudest student failed to advance."

Mortimer stared at that line, his Adam's apple bobbing.

As a bystander, Richard's [Speculation] allowed him to understand the old president's intent:

As a Virtuoso of the Classics tradition, the president definitely knew that their tradition's Master had already approved Mortimer's advancement application.

A Virtuoso's advancement relied on anchor points. These eighteen doors were a punishment, but also an unspoken, subtle reminder.

The ink arranged itself, folded into a paper slip, and hopped over to Mortimer's hand.

The old professor picked it up and tucked it into his inner coat pocket.

Upon confirming receipt, the ink slowly formed new words on the paper:

"Your items have been stored with me for a week.

"The one who handed them over gave me a heads-up first.

"He said this person has a sharp mind and asked me to test you."

The ink paused for a moment before generating the next line:

"My question is this. The 1815 Congress of Vienna was my most important weighing."

Richard's heart stirred. From the autumn of 1814 to the summer of 1815, Napoleon had first been exiled to Elba, only to make a lightning return, before ultimately suffering complete defeat at Waterloo.

The post-war settlement conference ran for nine months in Vienna, but it was just one ball after another. Someone mocked it, saying: "The Congress does not march, it dances."

By the time the dancing stopped, the borders of the Old Continent had been redrawn, and every nation returned to its respective seat.

"Over the following hundred years, though local conflicts never ceased, there was nothing that swept across the entire Old Continent quite like the outbreak in August 1914."

Richard stared at the words slowly forming from the ink.

"Where do you think this war will go from here?"

That was the question.

Mortimer was highly protective of his own and spoke up before his student could:

"Old President, you're asking him? He's been bedridden for days. He only learned to roll his own wheelchair the day before yesterday.

"Besides, a whole room full of people in Whitehall couldn't answer a question like this. Do you really think he's better than those officials?"

The ink continued to arrange itself at its own unhurried pace:

"If those people in Whitehall could answer it, they wouldn't still be fighting.

"I won't make it too difficult. If the answer satisfies me, I will return the items and offer a small favor.

"If he cannot answer, you will pay a storage fee, calculated daily."

Mortimer clicked his tongue.

A Virtuoso charging a daily storage fee? Who could afford that?

Richard leaned back in his wheelchair and closed his eyes to think.

It went back to that same saying: a diviner was a detective, not a prophet. A mirror only reflected what was in front of it; divination could only read what had already happened and what was currently happening.

And he had already tasted the hidden dangers of blindly predicting the future once before.

After briefly organizing his words, Richard spoke in a hoarse voice.

"President, I don't know what will happen in the future, nor do I plan to find out.

"I can only infer based on current trends. There will definitely be inaccuracies or errors."

The ink simply arranged into a short phrase: "That is fine. Speak freely."

Richard began to speak with assurance. "In my view, the most prominent characteristic of this war is that it will be long."

"Oh?" Mortimer raised an eyebrow.

"The propaganda claimed everyone would be home before Christmas. They've said that many times.

"When the war first broke out, everyone thought it would end quickly, but now, neither side can back down.

"Our newly replaced commander-in-chief is someone willing to endure a war of attrition, and so is the commander on the other side.

"With two men like that clashing, it's no longer a contest of who can win battles. It's about who can bleed the other dry first.

"The Empire's conscription act just scraped together hundreds of thousands of men, and sooner or later, they'll be wiped out in one fell swoop.

"I certainly don't know what those battles will be called, but those battlefields will undoubtedly become more famous than any renowned victory in history."

Mortimer glanced at the newspaper on the table but said nothing.

"Then there is iron. Barbed wire makes it impossible for men to advance, so someone will inevitably want to build a vehicle capable of breaking through it.

"And the cars from the New Continent roll off the assembly line by the thousands every day. Combine that with those iron machines with treads used to pull plows on farms, and sooner or later, someone will merge the two and slap armor on them."

"The flying machines in the sky can currently only drop bombs or help artillery spot targets.

"But I suspect it won't be long before they develop the capability to fight their own battles in the air."

"It's the same beneath the sea. Going forward, torpedoes won't care if you belong to a neutral nation."

The ink arranged another line, showing the old president was deeply intrigued:

"Is there more?"

Richard continued detailing his deductions.

"More so than iron, this war is likely to halt first because of bread.

"The other side is already mixing potato flour into their bread and calling it 'War Bread.'

"Once the sea routes are blockaded, our white sugar will be sold by the ounce.

"As the war drags on, the soldiers might still be in the trenches, but the supply lines will break first."

"Then returning to the crowns and the nations themselves—this war might not produce a definitive victor among the countries, but several crowns are guaranteed to fall.

"Someone once told me that in the empire to the north, the crown prince in the palace bleeds endlessly from the slightest bump. If the weight of a nation hangs on a child like that, that country certainly won't last long.

"There is also an old empire with a full dozen languages under its single crown. When fighting a war, everyone can sing the same song, but if they lose, they'll all start singing their own tunes.

"And when crowns fall, people will inevitably fight over the empty seats.

"Those who claim these new positions won't necessarily be any better than the ones who originally wore the crowns."

The ink dripped down, but this time it only formed a small dot, failing to shape a word.

"Then there is the New Continent across the sea.

"While the Old Continent is being battered into ruins by this war, the New Continent remains largely unaffected.

"Over there, they have vast populations, abundant grain, endless iron, and even more money, but they lack a single governing body that can integrate it all.

"Their power is highly fragmented: a few massive corporations, a handful of ports, several universities, multiple armies, and those cities west of the Central Mountain Range, the majority of which are deeply intertwined with the veil."

At this point, Richard paused and glanced at the ink waiting for him to continue.

"As for why the war cannot be stopped, higher-ups like you surely understand better than I do. I won't expand on that here."

The reason, naturally, was what Hecate had mentioned early on: war would create more weak points and force iterations behind the veil, allowing Virtuosos to exert greater influence over the Material Realm. Richard coughed a few times here, his chest seizing with pain.

He rested for a moment before delivering his final conclusion.

"The last thing I want to say is this: every time they want to stop a war, everyone sits down at the table for peace talks.

"In 1815, even the losers were invited to the table and given adequate seats. That was why we had a century of general stability.

"If they exclude the losers this time, only safeguard the victors' interests, and turn the peace talks into retaliation, then what follows will only be..."

Richard didn't finish the sentence. He leaned back against his chair.

"That is all I can say. As for the exact details of what will happen in the future—which day, which city, or how many will die—I certainly don't know."

The ink remained motionless for a long time. It wasn't until a good while later that a line of text slowly surfaced:

"That one was right. You are indeed very clever.

"In 1815, they talked for nine months. They said far more than you, and said it far more beautifully. They tried to calculate the next hundred years, whereas you are talking about the next few years."

The ink arranged the final verdict:

"Pass. Answer archived. To be reconciled in fifty years."

Mortimer glared at the line. "Fifty years? This kid will be sixty-eight!"

"You might be gone, but I will still be here," the old president mocked him in a rare display of sarcasm.

The old professor opened his mouth, but ultimately just shook his head and muttered, "This kid said more in fifteen minutes than a year's worth of briefings at Whitehall."

A drawer beneath the counter slid open on its own.

The Smoking Mirror wrapped in linen and the Soul-Eater Beast's Tooth Blade lay side by side. The Light-Storing Pocket Watch was at the very bottom, its cover now sporting a row of shallow teeth marks that hadn't been there before.

Richard retrieved his items, leaning on the armrests to straighten his back as much as he could.

"President, it was my fault for troubling you after the winter solstice.

"You also vouched for me last February. I have always kept that favor in mind, and I came today to offer my apologies first."

With that, he exerted himself to bend forward in a bow.

The ink seemed quite satisfied, scribbling a few more lines in the ledger:

"Additional record: The lord of the hunt owes one debt. Notice of demand has been issued."

Richard looked up in surprise.

The silhouette on the wall was still seated there. The ink automatically formed a single word: "Convenience."

Upon leaving, Mortimer pushed the wheelchair but hesitated for a long time at the door to the president's office. "Where will opening the door lead this time?"

Richard rested his hands behind his head. "I don't know. The business is handled anyway, so it doesn't matter where we end up."

The old professor pushed the heavy doors open.

Outside were the front steps of the institute. Across the street, the charcoal from the roasted chestnut stand was still smoking.

"It's the right place this time."

The doors swung shut behind them. The old president's pen remained suspended over the paper.

It had never expected a Practitioner to come up with a real answer; it merely wanted to test his attitude.

As long as he provided a rough guess, the items would have been returned all the same.

But the answer the boy had just given genuinely took it by surprise.

So, upon seeing an unsettled account hanging over the boy, it had lent a hand in passing. Making debtors pay their dues was a matter of its professional ethics.

Last February, it had watched with its own eyes as the lord of the hunt used a single Antler Tip to offset the excessive price of a Virtuoso's true name. It had been slightly annoyed by the lord of the hunt's shrewdness back then.

Besides, the Master was keeping an eye on this child as well. Making him owe a small favor wouldn't hurt.

Outside the doors, Richard and Mortimer weren't in a hurry to head back.

Matthew had said that once it got dark, the oil applied to the wheelchair would automatically lose its effect.

They simply sat on the steps and waited for nightfall. It was early January anyway, so the sun set shortly after four in the afternoon.

Mortimer went across the street and bought two bags of roasted chestnuts, one for each of them.

While peeling his chestnuts, Richard asked casually, "Professor, do you think I had good luck on this trip today?"

Mortimer popped a peeled chestnut into his mouth.

"I've never seen such a coincidental chain of events. When it's this coincidental, you can't even call it a coincidence anymore."

Richard didn't reply, lowering his head to continue peeling his chestnuts. Things had indeed been absurdly smooth these past few days.

This Luck was so overwhelmingly strong that the mysteries the two Virtuosos deployed against him backfired, inadvertently helping him arrive safely at the final stage.

After a while, Mortimer looked at the smoking chestnut stall across the street and suddenly said, "Kid, before I take that final step, I want to make one last trip back to Leicestershire."

Richard knew exactly what Mortimer meant by the 'final step,' and he quickly chimed in, "I'll go with you."

The old professor patted his wheelchair. "First, learn how to get yourself down the stairs."

After escorting him back to Ashford House, Mortimer left on his own in a carriage.

Richard rolled his wheelchair into the hall and found MacFie sitting on the stairs waiting for him.

When the white-haired giant saw the wheelchair enter, he sniffed the air.

"What's going on with you?"

"...The smell of coal?" Richard looked down and sniffed himself.

"There is coal, yes."

MacFie walked over, bent down, and took a close sniff, his brow furrowing. "But it's primarily Luck."

"The Luck on you is burning like a bonfire. I could smell it from far away.

"If we were in the Highlands, hunters ten miles out would be looking up at you."

Richard recounted everything that happened that afternoon from the beginning.

When he mentioned the coal cart, MacFie leaned against the banister and burst out laughing.

When he mentioned Room 314 and Phillips's stage, he slapped his thigh in amusement.

But when he got to the part about the president's office, MacFie stopped laughing and dragged him off to see Gerard.

In the study, Gerard was sitting in a high-backed chair, reading the newspaper.

MacFie pushed the wheelchair in front of the hearth, dragged over a low stool for himself, and stretched his long legs out.

"Hunters are the most familiar with Luck."

"The final breath of resentment from dying prey is a lot like a fire."

He used the fire tongs to stoke the coals in the hearth.

"Fire needs to consume wood. How long can a fire keep burning if you just leave it out in the open like this?"

MacFie pointed at Richard's chest. "What you burned through today alone would be enough to save your life on the battlefield three times over."

Richard stayed silent. The white-haired giant sighed. "Lately, you've definitely been thinking to yourself, 'If only things would go a bit smoother.'"

"When you actually encounter a life-or-death situation and your Luck can't do anything, you're going to regret it."

He then glanced at Gerard, who had remained silent the entire time.

"And... this Luck of yours is tied to the Ashford name."

Richard's heart skipped a beat. If he used up all their good luck, what would happen? Ashford House still had quite a few family members out on the battlefield.

"Professor, since you're bringing this up, you must have a solution?"

MacFie stood up and picked up the tongs by the fireplace.

"You stayed a night in Covered Fire Village. You must have seen how the women banked the hearths that evening."

Richard remembered. Before dark, the women of every household would cover the peat fires with ashes and recite a short prayer. When they brushed the ashes away the next morning, the fire would spring back to life on its own.

MacFie pushed the coal chunks in the hearth apart, softly reciting in Gaelic.

"I bank the fire, as Brigid banked the fire, as Mary banked the fire;

Guard the fire, guard the land, guard the sleepers in this house, until the break of dawn..."

MacFie set the tongs down. "Luck is like fire, so you need to cover it with ashes, too."

"Ashes are just a tiny bit of bad luck, exclusively yours.

"Losing a hand of cards, getting caught in the rain... those are the ashes."

The white-haired giant continued to explain the mechanism:

"You have to nod in agreement in your own heart first: 'If I lose this hand, I lose. If I get soaked, I get soaked.' As long as you are willing to accept it, the Luck will remain dormant, coiled but unreleased."

He used the tongs to lightly flick one of the piles, and a flame instantly shot up.

"There's another benefit to this. Bank it for the night, and when you brush the ash away, it burns even fiercer and faster."

Richard suddenly had a thought. The lord of the hunt had hosted the Wild Hunt so many times. It undoubtedly carried Luck of its own, perhaps more than everyone else combined.

But... could it be that it was banking all that Luck first, waiting for a specific moment to ignite it all at once?

Richard shook his head to dispel those thoughts. He needed to focus on himself first.

Down in the living room, Evelyn and Grey had just returned from Covent Garden and were huddled around the table playing whist with Sophia.

Sophia had tagged along with her mentor to freeload a meal.

The butler carried the wheelchair downstairs. Richard rolled himself over to squeeze in at the table. "Count me in."

Sophia's face immediately fell. "No way, you cheat!"

"I won't cheat this time."

"Aha! So you did cheat!" Sophia pointed at him, looking extremely displeased.

In the end, Evelyn had the final say: she would team up with her brother.

When the cards were dealt into his hand, Richard took one look and completely let go of the desire to win. 'This hand doesn't matter. If I lose, I lose.'

Sure enough, Evelyn played the wrong card twice in a row, getting completely wiped out by Sophia.

Sophia swept up the final trick and leaped up from her chair.

"You lost! You finally lost!" she shouted toward the upstairs.

"Mentor! He lost! I told you he was cheating the past few days!"

Evelyn slammed her cards down. "I'm the one who made the mistake! What does it have to do with my brother?"

Richard leaned back in his wheelchair and watched them bicker, saying nothing.

[Luck: Logged · Ashford (Banked)]

...

The night of January 5th, above the North Sea.

The Twelve Nights of Yule. Tonight was the final night.

Tens of thousands of riders raced northward, skimming the crests of the waves. Their hooves struck the sea foam, freezing it into frost on the spot.

When they halted to rest in the middle of the night, the lord of the hunt unfurled the Hunting Register from his saddle as usual, preparing to log tonight's spoils.

He opened to the first page, and his hand froze.

A line of tiny text had appeared in the header: "lord of the hunt · Unpaid · Notice of Demand for Escrow."

The lord of the hunt flipped to the next page. It was there too. And on the third page.

The Old Scholar riding beside him stared down at the register, his shoulders trembling.

"What are you laughing at?"

"...I'm not laughing." The Old Scholar buried his face in the roster. "The wind is strong."

A man carrying coal poked his head out from the crowd, took one look, and his eyes lit up.

He threw his head back and hollered at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying across the entire ocean:

"The lord of the hunt is in debt—!"

Laughter erupted in the front ranks first, then rolled all the way to the back.

The Lobsterbacks slapped their saddles, the brass buttons on their red coats jingling loudly.

A barefoot old man rubbed his frostbitten toes, craning his neck to ask, "Who does he owe? Does he owe someone shoes?"

The lord of the hunt scraped his nail against the words, only to find that not only did the ink not rub off, it grew even redder.

"Don't scrape it," the Old Scholar said, revealing half his face from behind the register.

"That is the ink from the Pinnacle of Myriad Tomes."

The lord of the hunt cursed in an Old Norse dialect that none of the tens of thousands of riders could understand. He snapped the Hunting Register shut and gazed toward the southern seas.

The Imperial Capital lay in that direction, completely obscured by the fog. Not a single speck of light could be seen.

The crippled little hound squatted by the horse's hooves, also staring south, its tail sweeping across the clouds rhythmically.

"Fall in. We head back."

January 6th, Epiphany.

It was the day the Three Magi from the East, following the guidance of the star, found Jesus in Bethlehem and presented their gifts.

Evelyn announced that she was going to make a Twelfth Night Cake today.

"The twelfth night was yesterday."

Isabella came over from the Academy in the afternoon. She claimed it was for the cake, but in reality, she was just checking to see if her nephew had put on any weight.

"A cake a day late is still a cake." Evelyn planted her hands on her hips, itching to get to work.

According to the holiday customs, one dried bean and one dried pea were kneaded into the cake dough.

Whoever got the bean would be the Bean King, and whoever got the pea would be the Queen.

Evelyn had baked this cake for three years now, and for the first two, the bean hadn't landed in her brother's bowl even once.

This year, the very moment Richard made the first cut, his knife hit something.

The bean rolled out from the slice and came to a stop at the edge of his plate.

Richard's expression shifted when he saw the result. Had banking his Luck not worked?

Evelyn also pouted, looking very unhappy. "You cheated!"

"How did I cheat?" Richard felt wronged; it really wasn't his fault this time.

The young girl was just whining for the sake of it. "I don't know how you did it!"

Richard glanced at the "Banked" status on his panel. Was this truly just a coincidence?

On the other side of the table, someone else chewed twice, stopped, and slowly pinched a dried pea out of their mouth.

Gerard probably hadn't worn such a bewildered expression in his entire life.

'Well then. Looks like it wasn't good luck after all,' Richard thought to himself.

Evelyn screamed, "Grandpa is the Queen!"

Margaret laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with a handkerchief, eventually descending into a coughing fit.

Grey lowered her head, her body trembling with suppressed laughter.

Isabella had a candy in her mouth and nearly spat it out.

Evelyn cut out two paper crowns, giving one to her brother and the other to her grandfather.

Wearing the paper crown, Gerard sat at the head of the long table, looking like a prisoner on trial.

While Ashford House was bursting with laughter and noise, the sound of a ringing bell suddenly drifted in from the intersection.