I Loaded the Occult Panel

When Richard woke, sunlight was streaming through the east window. It was already noon.

The deep ache in his bones hadn’t entirely faded, but it was much better than last night when he staggered up the stairs.

[Breathing: Healing] had quietly done its work overnight.

His throat was no longer tight, the cuts on his fingers had scabbed over cleanly, and the frostbite from working outside was mostly healed.

He rolled over and sat up.

A white porcelain plate sat on the table, weighing down an envelope.

A small blue butterfly was drawn next to the recipient’s name.

Richard’s expression, soured by last night’s dream, gradually softened.

Those round letters were definitely his sister’s handwriting.

He pulled the envelope from under the plate. Someone had thoughtfully left a letter opener beside it.The postman must have delivered it this morning. Seeing him sleeping so deeply, the landlady had just left it on the table.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he opened the envelope.

He tipped out four sheets of paper. All four were entirely about food.

How much powdered sugar Mother had sprinkled on the apples;

How Father had snuck a few canned cherries but stubbornly refused to admit it;

Why the first red bean pie she baked hadn’t turned out sweet...

In the middle of the third page was a yellowish stain, and next to it, a drawing of a grinning rabbit.

The rabbit had one long ear and one short ear, with a line of small text underneath:

”I drew myself. Don’t laugh.”

Richard didn’t laugh. He blinked hard twice and rubbed a fingertip over the yellowed stain.

The scent of red bean paste had long since faded, but a faint sweetness seemed to linger in the paper’s fibers.

On the bottom half of the fourth page, Evelyn’s handwriting suddenly changed.

Gone were the densely packed small words, replaced by large, deliberate letters drawn stroke by stroke like a child practicing penmanship:

”Happy New Year, Richard!”

”When you come back, I’ll bake you a red bean pie.”

Nowhere in the letter did his sister urge him to come home soon, yet every single sentence seemed to long for his return.

Richard folded the four pages back along their original creases and returned them to the envelope.

He slid the envelope back under the white porcelain plate and moved it to the corner of the table.

Sunlight caught the edge of the plate, the glaze reflecting a soft, muted white.

When he went downstairs, the landlady was the only one in the main hall, wiping down the tables.

”Awake?” the landlady asked, looking up at him.

”Yeah.”

”There’s porridge warming in the pot. Help yourself.”

Richard walked over to the kitchen and ladled a bowl of oatmeal from the iron pot on the stove.

It was thick enough that a spoon could stand upright in it.

He carried his bowl back to the hall and sat at the table next to the fireplace.

Halfway through his meal, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Theodore trudged down with three tufts of hair sticking up and his eyes still half-closed.

”...What time is it?”

”Half past twelve.” Richard glanced at the wall clock above the bar.

”Half past twelve!” The stable boy jolted.

”I’ve never slept until half past twelve!”

”You fell asleep in the carriage last night,” Richard reminded him.

”...I did?” Theodore scratched his head.

”You slept on Maggie’s shoulder.”

Theodore’s face instantly flushed crimson.

”Did... did she hit me?”

”No.”

”That’s good.” Relieved, Theodore hurried to the kitchen to get some porridge.

He returned with his bowl and sat across from Richard.

They ate in silence for a while.

”Right, your hand last night...”

”Hm?”

”Did the silver ink wash off?”

Richard opened his right hand to show him. The silver stains between his fingers were still there.

Theodore leaned in for a closer look.

”What did you use to wash it?”

”Soap.”

”Soap won’t work,” Maggie called from the stairs.

She came downstairs wrapped in her oversized wool cloak. Her red braids had been neatly redone, and her freckles stood out clearly in the sunlight.

”Use turpentine.” She walked over to Richard’s table and glanced at his fingers.

”The silver ink seeped into the cuticles. Soap only gets the surface.”

”How do you know?” Theodore asked.

”My uncle is an apothecary,” Maggie said matter-of-factly.

”I’ve known how to wash off silver ink, mercury ink, and lead powder since I was eight.”

She turned and rummaged through the kitchen, emerging with a small brown bottle from a cabinet beneath the stove.

”Turpentine.” She handed the bottle to Richard.

”Pour a little on a rag and rub it between your fingers.”

Richard did as told.

The turpentine smelled sharp and pungent, as if someone had shoved an entire pine tree up his nose.

But it worked. As soon as he wiped, the silver ink began to dissolve.

”It works.”

”Of course it does.” Maggie sat down across from him and stole a bite of porridge from Theodore’s bowl.

”Hey!”

”You still have half a bowl left. Don’t be stingy.”

Theodore pulled his bowl closer, guarding his food like a hound pup whose bone had just been snatched.

Paying him no mind, Maggie went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of her own.

After the meal, the landlady carried a stack of washed tablecloths in through the back door. She paused as she passed their table.

”Young sir,” she said to Richard, ”Mrs. MacNeil is in the small lounge inside. She asked you to drop by when it’s convenient.”

”All right, thank you.”

Richard returned his bowl to the kitchen and walked toward the small lounge at the far end of the first floor.

The door was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Mrs. MacNeil was already there.

The small lounge held only a loveseat, two armchairs, and a small fireplace.

Mrs. MacNeil sat in the armchair opposite the fireplace, holding an iron poker.

She shifted the firewood, making the flames jump higher.

”Sit.”

Richard sat in the other armchair.

”I know you must be wondering why we brought you newcomers into such a dangerous sealing ritual.”

Mrs. MacNeil set the poker on its iron stand and turned to face him.

”In truth, while last night’s ritual seemed perilous, we were never in any real danger.”

Richard looked up. ”I guessed as much. When you summoned the Seventh, you didn’t speak its name aloud.”

”You noticed?”

”Yes.”

Mrs. MacNeil raised her left arm, pulling back her cuff to reveal the Bone Bracelet on her wrist.

”Inside this Bone Bracelet is a wisp of my teacher’s spirit.”

”...Madam Marie?”

”My teacher gave me this bracelet personally when I completed my apprenticeship.”

Mrs. MacNeil pulled her cuff back down, covering the bracelet.

”She sealed a wisp of her own spirit inside it. Whenever I do fieldwork, that spirit comes with me.”

”What can... a wisp of spirit do?”

”Beneath the veil, the spirit of a Major Adept of the Secret path is equivalent to a fortress wall that can be instantly raised.”

”If the sealing field truly collapsed, she would intervene.”

”To what extent?”

”To the extent of draining every last drop of reserves inside this bracelet.”

Mrs. MacNeil spoke evenly. ”Enough to let her stand beneath that patch of the veil for three minutes.”

”In those three minutes, she would have plucked all eight of us out of that hall and thrown us back into the material world.”

”...Thrown.”

”Thrown.” Mrs. MacNeil smiled. ”She wouldn’t care if it hurt when we landed. As long as we survived, that was enough.”

Richard recalled his experience from last night.

The arm of the Seventh had reached out from the Bone Bracelet and pinched the fissure beneath their feet back together.

If that arm was formed from Madam Marie’s power, then it all made sense.

”Captain Field had a fail-safe on his end, too.”

Mrs. MacNeil continued, ”The authorities equip them with something called a Veil-Piercing Awl.”

”It’s single-use. It burns lifespan as a toll to forcibly rip open an escape route from beneath the veil.”

”How much?”

”Five years.”

Richard looked surprised.

”The captain had already burned two years last night.”

”That’s why he didn’t use the Veil-Piercing Awl. Otherwise, he really wouldn’t be far from death.” Mrs. MacNeil shook her head.

She spelled it out clearly:

”There were two layers of fail-safes in this ritual.”

”Going by the standard process, the seal gets completely repaired, the Mother completes her sleep-return, and the entire team comes back safely.”

”In a crisis, I’d release the spirit in my Bone Bracelet, which could hold for three minutes.”

”If even my teacher’s spirit couldn’t hold, the captain would use that window to rip open a path with the Veil-Piercing Awl, allowing all eight of us to escape. My teacher’s true body would then cross over from the material world to clean up the mess.”

”Meaning... our worst-case scenario was failure. No one was going to die down there.”

Richard stared at the spirit medium before him.

”So yesterday really was just a training exercise?”

”Of course.” Mrs. MacNeil nodded. ”Forging the blade and reading the verdict—Mr. Hutton could have done all that on his own.”

”Taking the four of you down was just to let you experience a complete field mission.”

”Though honestly, what you demonstrated last night far exceeded everyone’s expectations for a Newcomer.”

She left it at that, not pressing him any further.

”How you stabilized the shadows and the Spell Formula you used to help the captain... I know you wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, so I won’t.”

”But speaking purely of a Scholar’s duty, you alone saved Mr. Hutton at least a third of his time.”

Richard’s fingers curled slightly, though outwardly he kept a half-joking tone as he asked:

”So, I suppose I performed the best in this exercise?”

”You could say that.” Mrs. MacNeil returned his smile. ”After I reported the events of the sealing to my teacher last night, she said she was quite impressed with you.”

Richard didn’t feel particularly happy.

True, he had previously considered establishing a connection with Madam Marie for the protection she could offer.

But now that she was bringing it up unprompted, he felt an indescribable discomfort—as if someone were holding up a lantern and closely scrutinizing him.

”What exactly... do you and your teacher have in mind?” he asked probingly.

Mrs. MacNeil raised an eyebrow and got to the point.

”Have you ever heard of an ’automatic scribe’?”

Richard searched his memory. ”No.”

Mrs. MacNeil gave a nod, unsurprised.

”There’s a part-time job in our line of work.”

”A Scholar acts as the scribe, and a spirit medium acts as the caretaker. The two form a team to take on commissions.”

”What kind of commissions?”

”Dictation.”

Mrs. MacNeil picked up a teacup from the side table and took a sip.

”The formal name is Scriba Automatica—the automatic scribe.”

”There are many colloquial names for it: dolls, transcribers, the medium’s pen.”

She set the teacup down.

”This tradition traces back to the classical era. The Oracle of Delphi would enter a trance to receive divine revelations, while an interpreter beside her recorded them.”

”The principle of the scribe is similar, but the direction is reversed.”

”The oracle was a passive receiver; the scribe actively opens the way.”

Richard tapped his finger on the armrest.

”Opens what?”

”The channel to the Spirit Realm.”

Mrs. MacNeil’s gaze fell on the flames in the fireplace.

”The scribe consumes an herbal decoction. It uses Ashcore Grass as a base, mixed with poppy husks, bay leaves, and spirit moss.”

”Upon drinking it, the scribe enters a trance state.”

”In that state, they can receive fragmented information transmitted through the Spirit Realm channel.”

”And after receiving it?” Richard tried to picture the scene.

”The hand moves on its own.”

Mrs. MacNeil mimed writing.

”The scribe’s hand writes autonomously. They have zero control over what is penned, acting merely as a conduction terminal.”

”Most of what comes out is garbage,” the spirit medium said bluntly.

”Over ninety percent of it is fragmented text, symbols, and doodles. Utterly meaningless.”

”Occasionally, scattered fragments of Latin, Ancient Greek, Persian, or even older dead languages appear. These might hold occult knowledge waiting to be deciphered.”

”And in exceedingly rare cases...”

She paused.

”...complete Spell Formulas, lost rituals, or prophetic phrases emerge.”

Richard’s back tensed slightly.

”Since it involves the Spirit Realm, there must be risks, right?” he asked, feeling tempted.

Mrs. MacNeil didn’t avoid the question.

”The Spirit Realm channel occasionally communicates in reverse. Certain... gazes might follow the tip of the pen backward to look upon the scribe.”

”Information corruption is another issue. Long-term, high-frequency scribing leads to auditory hallucinations and chronic headaches. In severe cases, it can cause mental illness.”

”Therefore, a Secret path practitioner with sharp Inspiration must guard them. We call them the ’caretaker’.”

”The caretaker monitors the scribe’s condition and forcibly interrupts the connection when necessary.”

”Of course, if a scribe believes themselves skilled enough, they can undertake this work alone, though we advise against it in almost all cases.”

She finished speaking.

Richard mused for a moment, organizing the information.

”You want me to try doing this job?” he asked.

Mrs. MacNeil nodded, clearly pleased that he had brought it up himself.

”Your Learning far exceeds your Rank, and you possess ample Inspiration.

”Judging from your performance last night, your spirit hasn’t become unmoored due to high Inspiration...”

Richard did not deny it.

”Taking all that into account, if you take up automatic scribing in the future, you’ll be far more stable than the average scribe.”

”Not right now?”

After all that, she was just dangling a carrot... Richard found it uncomfortable to have his appetite whetted only to be denied.

Mrs. MacNeil shook her head.

”The semi-detached state of consciousness is too much for a Newcomer to bear. If you force the channel open, you might drown on your very first try.”

Her tone left no room for negotiation.

”What about after Signature?”

”After Signature, you’ll be a Practitioner. Your Micro-circulation will be calibrated by the ritual, taking your stability to another level.”

She looked up at him.

”Once you complete your Signature and become a Practitioner, I’ll arrange commissions for you.”

”I will personally act as your caretaker.”

Richard’s finger paused on the armrest.

Mrs. MacNeil was a Minor Adept. Her acting as his personal caretaker carried significant weight.

”How much is the base pay per commission?”

”Around two pounds. What’s more, if the translated material doesn’t involve corruption, you’re free to read it yourself. After all, you’re the one who wrote it.”

Two pounds, with potential occult knowledge thrown in as a bonus.

Richard was much more interested in the latter.

”If you’re lucky and stumble across something rare, the price could multiply dozens of times.”

That would mean dozens, or even hundreds of pounds! Enough to buy several antiquities.

He buried that figure in his mind, keeping it off his face.

”I understand.”

Mrs. MacNeil watched his expression, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.

”By the way, my teacher mentioned that she’ll come find you herself after some time.”

She dropped this out of nowhere.

”She has her own methods.”

Her own methods?

Hearing those words, Richard suddenly thought of the golden-eyed black cat at 17 Flower Moon Street.

The way that cat had looked at him back then was like it was reading a book.

Reading from the cover to the title page, and from the title page to the table of contents.

”Is she the cat?”

Mrs. MacNeil had already stood up to leave.

Her hand rested on the doorknob. She didn’t look back.

”I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

As the door opened, light from the hallway spilled in, washing away some of the dimness in the small lounge.