Mist Wall Spell

The two returned the way they came, maintaining a tacit silence in the corridor.

Richard walked while organizing the images he had just seen in his mind.

The combat power of that Ghoul in the afterimage far exceeded what he had imagined from written descriptions.

Iron shuttles, fabric shears... those were already considered handy weapons in the hands of ordinary people.

A dozen people surrounding a low-level evil entity resulted in a one-sided massacre.

The two climbed out of the power distribution room, and the night wind rushed in, flapping the fronts of their clothes.

The consequences caused by a lowest-level evil entity were several lives lost and a factory shut down.

If no one had set the seal, and if the Silver Inscription hadn't been reinforced and the Wax Seal replaced every few years.

Vox Mortis would continue to permeate the surrounding environment, constantly interfering with nearby ordinary people.

Perkins had been bedridden for two weeks just from being grazed by the aftermath.

And that was just one Ghoul.

Appendix C stated in black and white: among the danger levels of the occult, Ghouls were classified at the very bottom.

Then what was the middle level? And what was the high level?

Those things Mr. Hutton mentioned in class:

The sounds described by survivors before the New Continent exploration team vanished, the large-scale anomalies that appeared after indigenous ritual sites were destroyed, and government reports with conclusions blacked out.

"We recommend ceasing further investigation."

What level was the thing behind that report?

And how many lives were represented by the "Expeditionary Force lost contact" mentioned so lightly in the newspapers?

Richard walked in the shadow of the wall where the moonlight could not reach; he hadn't felt afraid earlier, but now he felt a creeping dread upon deeper reflection.

The vast majority of ordinary people—his father, Evelyn, the old woman who set up her stall early every morning, the classmates dozing off on the school bus... all were completely ignorant of the world behind The Veil.

They did not know what they were stepping on, or what was floating in the air.

The two returned to the teaching building, and Mr. Hutton opened the door to an empty classroom.

He didn't turn on the main lights, only switching on the desk lamp on the podium.

The light illuminated two desks, while everything else remained in darkness.

He sat down by the desk and took an iron box from his leather bag, which contained two items.

The first was a silver coin, the very one placed in the center of the Silver Plate when reinforcing the seal earlier.

The surface of the silver coin was covered with a layer of gray-blue frost.

"This is a byproduct of the sealing process." Mr. Hutton placed the silver coin on the desktop:

"The silver coin acted as a 'filtering medium' in the core area of the seal; you can think of it as the scale left on the walls of a kettle after distilled water evaporates."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not to ordinary people, but for you..." Mr. Hutton pushed the silver coin toward him:

"It is actually somewhat useful. The Aether deposited on it is relatively pure because it has been filtered by the seal.

You can hold it while practicing your Breathing Technique; it will be of some help."

"I'll give this to you as a gift, and as compensation for your near-accident."

Richard nodded and did not refuse.

The moment his thumb touched the silver surface, a panel lit up in the corner of his vision.

[Available Points: +0.03]

His heart rate accelerated.

Throughout the entire trip to the basement, facing the dense Aether permeating the air, the panel had remained like a dead object.

But the moment he touched this aged silver coin, the numbers jumped.

He already knew the answer, but to further verify it, he conducted a comparative experiment.

He placed the silver coin on the desktop, and the numbers stopped as soon as he moved his hand away.

It seemed the conclusion was now beyond doubt.

Antiques that could generate points shared common characteristics: they all had a certain age and had either been soaked in Aether or used in occult rituals.

The pendant was an artifact from the Eastern Continent, the God-Descending Disk was a ritual tool, and the Sphinx Oil Lamp was a priest's implement.

Now, this silver coin had participated in a sealing ritual, deposited Aether residue, and was itself an aged piece of silverware.

Age + supernatural immersion = usable.

Age but no supernatural immersion = unusable.

No age but contains Aether = unusable.

Thinking of this, he took the opportunity to steer the conversation.

"Sir, this silver coin looks like it has some age to it."

Mr. Hutton was busy wiping down his engraving tools; he lifted his eyelids at the remark:

"You've got a sharp eye; that's an old coin."

"How old?"

"Flip it over and look at the obverse."

Richard flipped the silver coin over.

The obverse featured a relief of a profile, a man wearing a laurel wreath, though his features were quite blurred.

"Is this... a coin from the Old Dynasty?"

"It seems you learned a thing or two in my history class. I thought your heart was entirely set on Holland's side?"

Mr. Hutton cracked a joke to lighten the mood before continuing his explanation:

"This silver coin was produced by a mint in the late Old Dynasty, back before the constitution. It's been around for nearly four hundred years, maybe a bit less."

He placed the tools, now wrapped in velvet, into his leather bag.

"This batch of silver coins was passed down along with the seal itself.

The predecessor who set the seal used silver coins from that same era as a medium. The purity of the silver was high, and after being soaked in the ritual, they were reused every year to reinforce the seal.

After forty-three years of use, the residue deposited on them has only grown thicker."

"So, these silver coins have effectively become transcendent artifacts?"

"Barely," Mr. Hutton said, snapping the buckle of his leather bag shut.

"They're a far cry from true transcendent artifacts. A three or four-hundred-year-old coin that has participated in decades of sealing rituals can only accumulate a very limited amount of Aether.

It's more than enough to assist a beginner with their Breathing Technique practice, but that's where it ends."

He spoke dismissively, but Richard committed every word to memory.

As for the benefits to his practice, he didn't really need them; his progress with the Breathing Technique was already on the right track.

The greater value of this silver coin lay in the points.

He tucked the coin into his pocket, his fingers tracing the cold surface of the metal.

The second item looked rather unremarkable.

It was a small, grey-green withered stalk of grass, about the length of a pinky finger, with both ends shriveled and yellowed.

"Grey-Stamen Grass," Mr. Hutton said, pushing the stalk under the lamplight.

"It's a plant that typically grows in areas of Aether pollution. Occasionally, a few stalks pop up in the damp crevices on the periphery of the seal.

The processed fibrous tissue retains trace amounts of Aether and can be used as a medium for casting spells."

He closed the iron box and tapped his fingers twice on the lid.

"An environment like the one beneath the foundation of Greenwood, with its constant low-concentration Aether seepage, is a hotbed for such plants.

Besides Grey-Stamen Grass, there are also some mycelia, mineral crystals, and salts precipitated from scale—all of which are transcendent resources."

"Is there a market for these things?"

Mr. Hutton didn't explain too clearly.

"In certain circles, yes."

Richard didn't press the matter.

The old gentleman had drawn his boundaries very clearly:

What I can teach you, I am already teaching. As for how that circle itself operates, you don't need to know that right now.

"Then, what can Grey-Stamen Grass do?"

Mr. Hutton pulled an old piece of paper from the side pocket of his bag and unfolded it under the light.

On it, a set of operational steps was written in small print, completely different from the style of the coded language in the appendix of that book—it was straightforward, clear, and unencrypted.

"You can use it to perform a little trick," the old gentleman said, handing over the paper.

"In our line of work, we call it 'Mist Wall.' It doesn't really count as a proper spell."

"Mist Wall Spell can cause a target to experience a brief moment of sensory confusion, lasting about five to ten seconds.

Their sense of direction, vision, and hearing will all become disoriented simultaneously, equivalent to being blindfolded and spun around in circles dozens of times."

"What about against someone who isn't an ordinary person?"

Mr. Hutton shook his head: "Any practitioner who has undergone formal training can easily dispel it, but it's absolutely more than enough to deal with some blind thugs."

Richard took the paper and scanned the contents.

The steps were indeed simple: snap off a small piece of Grey-Stamen Grass, crush it in your palm, and blow a breath onto it using the rhythmic exhale of the Quadruple Breathing.

The Aether remaining in the fibers of the Grey-Stamen Grass would be activated by the breath, forming a sensory interference field in front of the palm.

The effective range is about three meters, and the duration depends on the practitioner's proficiency in their Breathing Technique.

"Grey-Stamen Grass is a consumable; every time you use it, a piece is gone."

Hutton gestured to the length of the grass stem: "The one I gave you can be used eight or nine times, enough for you to defend yourself."

Richard folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket along with the Grey-Stamen Grass.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me." Hutton stood up and buckled his leather bag.

"Everything you saw today, including the seal location, the entrance, and the Silver Inscription structure, must not be mentioned to anyone."

He added a final warning: "Not even your family."

"I understand."

Hutton carried his bag to the classroom door.

"Williams, your performance today was much better than I expected."

He turned slightly, the light from the desk lamp only illuminating half of his face:

"Your breathing faltered for two beats when you were caught by the Afterimage, but you pulled it back yourself.

Being afraid but not running, being rattled but able to regain control... that is more important than talent."

He pushed the door open, and a gust of cold wind blew in from the hallway:

"But don't be too reckless."

"In our line of work, those who are too reckless are usually the first to die."