Chapter 549: At the Time When "All Nations Shattered"

Inside the inverted pyramid, the same line of text squeezed out across every mirror: "This library is temporarily closed to this reader."

The Black Earth River Master paced in circles inside the tower, inspecting every mirror.

It was useless. He couldn't push open a single one, nor did they reflect a thing.

The mirrors were still intact, but the librarian had plastered a library card over every single one. This was even worse than if they had shattered.

Someone from beneath the Deep Realm had come to collect a debt. The incarnation of the abyss master lacked even a physical shape—it was nothing more than an echo.

"The original price was only eight shadows. But since the seven collaterals are gone, it converts to a total of fifteen."

The Black Earth River Master said in exasperation, "Someone else let the collateral go!"

"Whoever released them is your business. It has nothing to do with me."

The echo carried no emotion, faithfully transmitting only its demands.

"You are responsible for what was pawned to you."

The old priest fell silent, calculating his final shadows. During the Winter Solstice, the hounds of the Wild Hunt had snatched away quite a few, and a large string of them had been set free in the library... He had just counted to fifty when he stopped.

He simply couldn't count any further. Everything after that was just empty, unfilled spaces.

He had to go out and hunt for food!

The mirrors were sealed off, and he dared not—nor could he—touch the water's surface.

Glass, bronzeware, and anything else capable of casting a reflection fell under the jurisdiction of the library's rules.

Finally, a trivial detail surfaced from his memories.

It was something he had learned in his youth.

The Arabs called the pupil the "person in the eye," because one could see a miniature version of themselves reflected in that small patch of darkness within another's eye.

Plato once said that for an eye to see itself clearly, it must look into another eye.

The library had no jurisdiction over eyes.

Furthermore, eyes were always reflecting.

Heliopolis, Luna Park. This place had long since been converted into a hospital.

The roller rink was now a ward, with thermometers hanging from the railings. Only a few roller coaster tracks remained, yet to be dismantled, looking jarringly out of place beneath the moonlight.

In early January, a group of wounded soldiers evacuated from Cape Helles had been transferred here. The nurses often muttered privately about how talkative they were.

The typhoid ward had enough hands, so Sekhmet had been assigned here for the night shift.

At two in the morning, she made her nightly rounds.

Just as she reached Bed Fourteen, she heard the low voice of the Queensland corporal.

"Head Nurse, I want to ask a question. It might... sound a little strange."

Though Sekhmet wore the face of a lioness, beneath the mask she was a young woman with a baby face.

Of course, no one dared underestimate her. After all, she was a Minor Adept in the Secret path.

"Go ahead," she said.

"That miniature version of me in your eyes..." The corporal swallowed hard.

"It seemed to blink before I did..."

The atmosphere froze. Sekhmet remained silent for a long moment before slowly bending down to look the corporal straight in the eyes.

Her pale gray eyes didn't blink. Reflected in her pupils was a tiny version of him.

Soon, his tiny reflection turned its head to look in another direction.

Sekhmet's grip on the bed railing suddenly tightened.

She clearly hadn't moved a muscle.

"Head Nurse?"

The corporal's voice sounded again. Sekhmet noticed that the flame inside the lampshade was still burning steadily.

The ward was quiet, save for the occasional snore and sleep-muttering. Everything was as normal.

"Corporal, you just have a fever."

Sekhmet gently tucked him in, her tone soft.

"Go to sleep. Sweat it out, and you'll be fine when you wake up."

She turned and walked back toward the nurses' station, but halfway there, she was drawn by intermittent sobbing from the supply room. The door was ajar. Through the gap, she saw an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl crouched beside a stack of bedsheets, burying her face in her hands as tears streamed uncontrollably through her fingers.

Sekhmet recognized her.

The young girl was from the New Continent, having joined the volunteer ambulance corps.

That afternoon, the young man she had meticulously cared for over the past two weeks had died.

Sekhmet let out a soft sigh, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The moment the girl looked up, the light spilled across her face, teardrops still clinging to her eyelashes.

The next moment, Sekhmet's hand, reaching out to wipe the girl's tears, halted in midair.

She saw her own reflection in the teardrop, along with a terrifying shadow looming behind her.

The shadow's face was indistinct—or rather, it had no face at all. The pharaonic feathered crown on its head teetered as if about to fall.

Sekhmet whipped her head around, only to find the doorway completely empty.

She turned back and pulled out a handkerchief, but her hand froze halfway. After a long moment, she simply crushed the handkerchief in her fist.

As long as it could reflect light, it counted as a mirror. Tears were no exception!...

The biggest news over in the Empire was Parliament formally passing the Military Service Act.

The clauses laid out in the newspapers were crystal clear.

Unmarried men and childless widowers between the ages of eighteen and forty-one would uniformly be deemed to be enlisted in the armed forces starting March 2nd.

After finishing the paper, Gerard folded it up and set it aside on the breakfast table without saying much.

Evelyn smeared butter over a slice of bread and sized Richard up.

"Brother, does that mean you count as being enlisted right now?"

"Your brother is a man too, so of course I count." Richard nodded.

The corners of Evelyn's mouth twitched upward in a stifled smile. "Do they really want you charging the front lines in a wheelchair?"

"Evelyn, eat your food!"

Scolded by her aunt, Evelyn stuck out her tongue and lowered her head, placing the buttered bread in front of her brother.

Three days later, at the Duke of York Barracks, Richard had come in for his medical examination, even though he was still bound to his wheelchair.

The examination area was packed. The line stretched all the way from inside the building out to the courtyard gates.

He waited a long time before his turn finally arrived. The military doctor was a middle-aged man wearing the collar insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps.

The doctor first used a stethoscope to thoroughly listen to Richard's chest, then tapped his knees with a small hammer to test his reflexes.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes, but not for long."

"Try taking a couple of steps, then."

Richard gripped the armrests of his wheelchair with both hands and slowly pushed himself up. His face flushed bright red, and his legs trembled precariously.

He struggled immensely just to shuffle a single step forward, a fine layer of sweat already beading on his forehead.

Seeing the young man swaying on the verge of collapse, the doctor hurriedly supported him and eased him back into the wheelchair.

"That's enough, lad. Medically unfit. Next!"

The doctor quickly filled out a form and handed it to Richard, adding a worried word of advice. "Don't rush it. Come back when you've recovered."

That afternoon, Kasalis also arrived, bringing a pot of hyacinths with him.

Evelyn saw the extremely awkward clerk standing in the living room doorway. She stared at the flowers in his hands with an odd expression.

"Is bringing flowers a Department of Internal Affairs regulation for visiting patients?"

"No, it's not..." Kasalis looked a bit embarrassed.

"I paid out of pocket for these at Covent Garden."

Richard rolled his wheelchair over.

Kasalis hastily dug a certificate out of his bag and offered it with both hands.

"Your status on the roster has been changed to Grade B. Your conscription is temporarily deferred."

"This was the most I could fight for... ahem, this is a special exemption from the higher-ups."

Richard smiled and looked over the certificate.

Printed on the document were the lion and unicorn symbolizing the Department of Internal Affairs, with a bold line of text squarely in the center: "This certifies that the bearer is engaged in work of vital national importance."

"Thank you!" Richard expressed his sincere gratitude.

Kasalis took off his hat and offered a gentlemanly bow. "Please rest well."

Richard kept the hyacinths and placed them on his windowsill. At this point, the flower buds were still tightly shut.

Hugh also came to visit, mentioning that he had been drafted into a special engineering park under the Royal Engineers.

"They're having me build trees!"

He pulled a sketch out of his bag and handed it to Richard.

"They're made of steel plates, and there's even an observation post inside."

"We have to chop down real trees at night and replace them with these fakes, making them look authentic enough to fool anyone."

Richard examined it closely. Drawn on the page was a dead willow tree.

The outer bark was dry and cracked, while the trunk was hollow, concealing a ladder inside.

"Who's leading you in making these?"

"An old academician from the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. Apparently, he's spent his entire life painting portraits of noble ladies," Hugh mused.

"When he went to the front lines for the first time, rumor has it he made a complete joke of himself."

"What kind of joke?"

"He tried explaining to the staff officers how he was going to use colors to deceive the enemy's eyes. The officers nearly thought he was insane."

Hugh rubbed the sketch with his fingers and muttered to himself.

"Now it's my turn. I have to paint the bark perfectly. If it looks off even a little bit, the people inside might..."

Hugh left the rest of the sentence unfinished, but Richard already understood.

He had handed over that art studio to three of his more trusted classmates.

One was nearsighted and had failed the Tribunal's medical exam. One was from the Women's Academy of Fine Arts. The last was only sixteen, far too young to be drafted.

"Just let them know that their pay will be calculated by the panel," Richard said.

Hugh slowly went over them. "Dougal's line work is a bit rough. Mel is pretty good when it comes to coloring. As for Tommy... never mind, he can sweep the floors."

Richard memorized everything one by one and slipped the sketch back into Hugh's bag.

After Hugh left, Richard formally calculated the operating costs for the studio behind Russell Square.

The paper and ink consumed by three people in a month, the rent... these were easy enough to resolve, but he drew a question mark next to Tommy's name. Could a mere sixteen-year-old apprentice really hold the studio together?

Warren also sent a letter. It was written on official stationery issued by the Briston Coal Mining Association.

Richard:

My dad managed to secure an exemption for me. He has me managing the accounts in his office.

He keeps emphasizing that coal mining is a critical national industry, so this counts as me making a contribution to the country.

Last week, I ran into a woman on Central Avenue.

She handed me a white feather and gave me a smile. I stuck it in my ledger.

I know what you want to say. Are you about to laugh at me and ask how much a single feather is worth?

You'll say she probably has a few sons of her own and tell me not to fall for it, or something like that.

Don't worry, I understand all of that.

I just like looking at it every morning when I open the ledger. It puts me in a good mood.

I'm planning to join the Briston Pals Battalion and the reinforcement company. I've already signed up without telling my dad, though he'll definitely beat me when he finds out. There's a really interesting guy in the battalion who recites the same poem every night.

I bet you've heard it: 'If I should die, think only this of me.

'That there's some corner of a foreign field / That is forever Albion.'

I thought he recited it well, so I asked him where that corner actually was. He said he didn't know.

Do me a favor and tell Hugh that once his trees are ready, I'll go find him on the front lines and smoke a cigarette under one of them!

Oh, right. If my mom writes to ask about me, just tell her I'm on a business trip in Manchester.

Warren.

Richard smiled, folded the letter, and tucked it into a book.

The hyacinth on the windowsill had finally opened its first bud, releasing a rich fragrance.

Edith's brother had also been conscripted while working at the mill. The Tribunal's justification was that women could grind flour just as well.

Right after seeing her brother off on the train, Edith went straight to the Graves Registration and Enquiries unit to apply for a position as a female clerk.

She wanted to be with her brother, even if her future job meant opening files for the dead. The work itself was simple enough, though. All she had to do was write a name on a card, followed by their unit, designation, date of death, and where they were buried.

She came to see Richard just like that, her hands stained with ink.

"I wrote over three hundred cards today. There was even one with the exact same first and last name as my brother."

"The exact same name?" Richard looked over at her.

"A different battalion." Edith's face remained utterly taut.

"I had to go wash my face before I could muster the strength to go back and continue."

She pulled a book from her bag and handed it to Richard. The cover read Saturday Review.

Richard flipped through it. Inside was a new poem by Hardy titled At the Time When "All Nations Shattered".

In the final stanza, the poet wrote:

In the distance, a girl and her lover walk past, whispering;

"The annals of war will sink into the dark, but their story will not die."

Edith recited it with a very serious expression.

"I have to write down so many names every day. It's a bit exhausting, but someone has to write them down so they can be remembered."

During the second week of February, Richard prepared to go to the Academy for his re-evaluation.

According to the rules, once a Practitioner suffered trauma to this degree, their qualifications for advancement had to be reassessed.

Petrie Building, underground testing lab, re-evaluation office.

A Silver Wire ran along the wall, connecting to an instrument on the desk equipped with seventeen needles.

The school doctor practiced the Solar Tradition and had previously mentioned that Richard's ether purity couldn't be read.

Professor Wyndham, leaning on his cane, sat in the corner and quietly watched them.

The seventeen needles rose and fell one by one. Richard keenly noticed that the sixth needle, which had hovered between two markings last autumn, didn't move an inch this time.

The school doctor observed it closely with a magnifying glass, then pressed down on Richard's chest.

"Hmm, not bad. The circuit is still intact, though a wisp of your spirit has shattered."

He filled out the slip and read it aloud to Richard:

"Circuit intact, one wisp of spirit shattered. Unfit to apply for promotion within three years; permanent stagnation at the Practitioner stage cannot be ruled out."

This document was a formal conclusion to be copied to the Department of Internal Affairs and the Classical Society.

Professor Wyndham slowly stood up from the corner, picked up the slip, and stared at it for a long time, his cloudy eyes seemingly full of complex emotions.

Ultimately, however, he said nothing. He simply put down the paper and left, leaning heavily on his cane.

Richard didn't attend the departmental affairs meeting that week; Sophia recounted it to him afterward.

The seventh item on the agenda had been about him.

It was titled "Status Adjustment for Undergraduate Richard Williams."

In front of everyone, Wyndham had flipped the file to last year's page, which bore a line he had personally annotated: "Recorder, recommend keeping an eye on this one."

Now, he crossed it out with his own hand and added a new remark: "Recommend downgrading for observation."

Isabella stood up on the spot to object, arguing that the boy was only eighteen. A shattered wisp of spirit wasn't an impossible problem to fix, and the therapies of the Solar Tradition weren't the only solution.

She said a great deal, her words tumbling out urgently and rapidly until her voice finally grew hoarse.

An associate professor next to her merely gave a soft chuckle. "Isabella, does your boast of 'three Minor Adepts in one lineage' still count?"

His tone was gentle, sounding as though he was just joking, yet it made everyone at the table lower their heads to sip their tea.

Isabella remained silent for a long time before eventually sitting back down.

Sophia softly told Richard that for the entire afternoon after the meeting concluded, their Mentor had been continuously unwrapping candies without eating a single one.

News of Hale making a house call had also spread through the upper-class circles of the Imperial Capital.

An old countess from the Montagu Family attended a tea party every Thursday.

That particular Thursday, a lady had brought up Dr. Hale's visit to the Ashford House, mentioning that he supposedly looked rather grim upon his return.

Another lady picked up the thread of conversation.

"It's just like that one from 1881. He fell asleep in the museum reading room for three whole years!"

The term "Library Sleep Sickness" quickly swept through the entire upper-class social sphere of the Imperial Capital.

Even prestigious institutions like the Royal Academy and Imperial Capital University caught faint wind of the rumors.

Several graduate students gathered at the Old Badger Pub to discuss it.

Some among them had met Richard in person, and quite a few of the wealthy scions had attended that cocktail party back then.

One person raised his glass.

"I recall this guy was the runner-up in the Cicero Cup, right?"

"I heard he placed second in the summer training too. During Debate Week, his Preparatory Group surpassed Montagu to take first place, and then he was directly promoted to the undergraduate program."

Another person let out a burp and casually chimed in.

"That was all last year. You have to look at the latest news."

"I heard last year he could debate a graduate student into total embarrassment."

"...Now, he struggles just to get down the stairs."

The people who gathered here to drink were mostly gossipy busybodies.

Upon hearing this kind of news, some shook their heads dramatically as they drank, some sighed, and others whispered quietly among themselves.

There were even a few who gloatingly laughed as they asked the bartender for a refill.

Before long, the news of a "fallen genius" had spread even further.

...After the term began, Richard was able to wheel himself to his departmental classes thanks to the excellent quality of his wheelchair.

In the corridor, he ran into an associate professor who taught antiquities restoration.

The associate professor was walking toward him from the opposite direction, holding an ancient Greek ceramic vase.

Had they met under normal circumstances, the man would have nodded to Richard at most—and even that would solely have been out of consideration for his aunt being a colleague.

But crossing paths today, he actually bent down and rested a hand on the armrest of Richard's wheelchair.

The associate professor didn't dare pat his shoulder. Instead, he just patted the back of the wheelchair.

"Rest up well, young man... Life has more than just this one path."

With that, he walked off. Richard watched his hastily retreating back, opening his mouth to say something but remaining silent.

When it was time for the Classical Society's annual routine tea party, Isabella attended as usual.

But when she returned that day, she violently threw her gloves onto the sofa the moment she walked through the door.

Sophia and Clara hurried over to ask their Mentor what had happened.

Isabella fumed, snapping, "Nothing happened."

If it was "nothing," it meant there was definitely something.

The immensely resourceful Sophia activated her network of contacts, asking someone who had been at the tea party to figure out why their Mentor was sulking.

It turned out that the old associate professor who had first spoken to Richard (see Chapter 243) had said to Isabella:

"That recommendation letter from Mortimer... what a pity."

Isabella hadn't lost her temper on the spot; she waited until she was back in her own office before she started sulking.

Before Richard even had the time to sigh over how childish his aunt was becoming, bad news arrived in quick succession.

First, the Compilation Group for the second batch of the Emergency Field Sealing Manual began organizing again, spearheaded by the same old professors and associate professors.

Montagu, Fischer, and the others were all selected. Even Catherine, who was far off on the front lines, was assigned a field material gathering task. The only person left out was him, Richard Williams.

Seemingly out of consideration for the pride of Isabella and Mortimer, Pendleton personally came to his door to explain.

He claimed this was out of consideration for Richard's physical condition. The group would be locked in tiny rooms, working for entire days at a time, and Richard's current state simply wouldn't be able to handle it.

His words were so incredibly earnest that even Richard almost believed him.

Then, his undergraduate scholarship was immediately downgraded to B-grade.

The reason provided was: "The student's academic performance this year has been temporarily suspended due to health reasons."

All of these arrangements were entirely in compliance with institutional regulations.

However, there were also much more merciless signs.

Back when Debate Week ended, someone had made a special note on his transcript in red pen: "A promising speaker worth keeping a long-term eye on."

Now, that annotation had been crossed out by persons unknown.

Richard obviously wouldn't get angry over these things. His spirit injury would be healed soon anyway.

He merely marveled at how astonishingly fast his treatment had changed.

The weight behind Professor Mortimer's previous words was still increasing in value.

Before his family could even voice their indignation on Richard's behalf, Kasalis, the hapless clerk constantly pushed to the front lines, arrived at their door once again.

This time, he merely pulled a document from his briefcase and handed it over.

"Mr. Williams, based on the addendum from the Academy, we have re-evaluated your file."

"Your name has been temporarily removed from the 'Auxiliary Investigating Scholar Priority Consultation Sequence'."

"I must also inform you that the 'vital national work' certificate from last time is hereby invalidated as a result."

"Your current medical exemption for injury can only last for four months. When the time is up, the Academy will conduct a re-examination for you."

"If you are able to regain basic mobility by then, you may be assigned to the logistics department."

He raised his head and shot a cautious glance at the expressionless Richard.

"The higher-ups said the quota is limited, and we should keep an eye on more valuable personnel... I'm sorry, I'm just relaying their exact words."

Richard understood the man's predicament and gave him a polite nod.

"Of course. I know none of this is something you have the power to change."

Seeming to realize that this sharp U-turn was deeply offensive, the clerk hesitated where he stood.

"When I first came to investigate you regarding the Madam Marie incident, Professor Mortimer personally came to the door to vouch for you."

"At the time, I thought to myself, this young man has an incredible background; I have to be more polite to him."

The clerk gave a bitter smile. "And now... I still have to be more polite to you."

He was even more polite now, only the reason had completely changed.

Before Kasalis bowed and left, Richard noticed that another petal had fallen from the hyacinth pot on his windowsill.

[Luck: Logged - Ashford (Concealed)]

MacFie had once said that certain strokes of minor bad luck required one's inner consent first, otherwise the Luck wouldn't be triggered.

During this period, he had reacted with complete indifference to every piece of bad news aimed at him, so his Luck had never been triggered.

Of course, where there were people delivering bad news to his door, there were naturally those who came to proactively offer help.

The first to visit was actually Croft, the man with the most merciless mouth of all.

This old guy Croft had been the very first one to jump out during the summer training to "test" whether Richard was living up to his reputation.

Now that the genius had fallen, he was also the first one to arrive. The moment he walked through the door, he slammed a pot of bitter tea onto the nightstand.

"Drink!"

"Kid, I had it even worse than you back in the day... Failing my first promotion left me bedridden for half a year."

Croft sat down as if he owned the place, crossing his legs casually.

"My mentor used to visit me once a week, and he loved bringing me this bitter tea. I hated his guts back then."

"And then?"

Richard took a sip, his brow furrowing so hard it could have crushed a fly.

"And then every other tea I drank tasted like nothing."

Croft downed more than half a cup in one gulp without so much as a twitch in his expression.

"I've taken on all the work the department originally assigned to you."

"I'll handle the inscription proofreading for the second batch of the manual. I'll take over the preparatory tutoring for the summer training. And I'll hold your spot as the judge's assistant for Debate Week for now."

"Professor..."

"You brat, don't call me Professor. I'll only ever be an associate professor in this life."

Croft waved his hand dismissively.

"Pendleton asked me how long I plan to cover for you. I told him until you get better."

"I'll send you more of these tea leaves later. You'll drink a cup every day until you hate me for it."

Grey visited more frequently than before. On Saturday, she placed a box of pastries on the nightstand.

"My mom says you're worthless now."

Richard looked at her.

"I told her that's a good thing," Grey said, tilting her chin up. "It means I can afford you now."

The moment the words left the girl's mouth, she blushed furiously and tried to open the pastry box.

Her fingers slipped on the ribbon, so Richard reached out and untied it for her.

Clara and Sophia hadn't been visiting as frequently lately.

When Clara came, she would copy manuscripts for him and check on his coursework while she was at it.

Lecturer Fairfield was teaching more classes now and was quite busy, so she always rushed in like a whirlwind and left as soon as she was done.

Yet her weekly visits were always at a set time; she was never a minute early or a minute late.

Sophia simply came for the food.

Whenever his sister and Grey made new pastries, Sophia somehow managed to taste them before Richard did. Price and Thomson also took leave from the front lines and came back. They had been drafted to Ypres at the end of last year and had spent two months wallowing in the mud.

Price had lost a considerable amount of weight, while Thomson had actually gotten a bit plumper, supposedly from sneaking too many canned goods in the rear camps.

"Richard, we heard what happened to you!" Price announced the moment he walked in.

"We heard you caught the Library Sleep Sickness, slept for half a year, and woke up to find your thesis had been plagiarized."

Dark lines formed on Richard's forehead. "I only slept for five days."

Price chuckled; he was just talking about it for a laugh.

"Rumors are just like that. They grow longer the more they're passed around, just like this beard I haven't trimmed in months."

Thomson pulled a stack of papers from his bag. It was a copy of Richard's probatio text from last year.

"I read it again on the front lines. It's written really well."

Catherine was at the front lines, but she also sent a note almost every week.

Every time that rabbit landed on his windowsill, it would stomp its foot once, toss the note onto the sill, and turn away immediately without even touching its oats.

The notes were always full of random ramblings: "Have you eaten?"

"It's raining today. It's all mud."

"The professor said you're sleeping. I don't believe him."

"You didn't lose my IOU, did you?"

"I whipped an evil creature into pieces today. It looked like you did when you were little."

Richard paused when he saw the last one. Flipping it over, he saw another line scribbled on the back:

"I've never seen you when you were little. I was just making that up."

One morning during the second week of February, the wardrobe door opened on its own.

Matthew squeezed his way out from between the coats, stood in the middle of the room, and sized Richard up from head to toe. He clicked his tongue.

"You've lost weight."

"I can't put on weight."

Matthew plopped his behind down on the foot of the bed, glanced at the pastry box on the nightstand, and reached out to grab a piece.

"That wisp of spirit of yours—do you want me to pick it back up for you?"

Richard answered cautiously, "If you pick it back up, it becomes yours."

Matthew paused for a second before bursting into hearty laughter.

"You've got a backbone!" he said, slapping his thigh.

"Kid, I love that attitude of yours. Fine, I won't pick it up. I'll keep reciting the poems."

"Keep reciting the poems." Richard nodded.

"However, I would like to ask you for a favor."

Matthew didn't reply, simply pursing his lips to gesture for him to continue.

"The next Theogony Salon is in mid-February, which means next week."

"Just to be safe, I want you to help me request at least two leaves of absence."

Matthew raised an eyebrow.

Richard explained, "My spirit is damaged. The Chief would probably see through it at a single glance. But if I don't go, I still need a reasonable excuse."

"So you came looking for me?"

"Yes, I want to ask you to vouch for me."

Richard provided what he considered to be the best excuse:

"Just say that I'm out working with you and won't be back for a short while."

Matthew looked at him, the corners of his mouth slowly turning up in a smile.