Gargoyle

He first brought out a stone sculpture.

It was about the size of two adult fists, made of gray-black stone, with bold, rugged carving.

It depicted a crouching Gargoyle.

Its half-spread wings clung to either side of its back, its head stretched forward, its mouth wide open.

The mouth was particularly unusual. The gap between its upper and lower fangs had been deliberately carved into a hollow channel, as if the Gargoyle were exhaling toward some direction.

The base was square, with different symbols engraved on each of its four sides.

Richard recognized them at a glance. The style of the inscriptions differed from that of the priestly inscriptions in the Black Soil River Basin.

The strokes were rounder, with connecting lines between them. It was an ancient inscription system native to the Western Continent.

Gerald set the Gargoyle on the writing desk. Its stone base struck the tabletop with a dull thud.

Richard took two steps closer, but the panel showed no response.

Dead, as clean as the other ornaments in the study... No.

The bronze sculptures and silver candlesticks in the study had produced no reaction because there was no Infection buildup inside them.

The Gargoyle was different.

When he approached it, the warm Seat of the Sun in his chest gave a faint tremor. His Internal Circulation told him there was something inside this stone.

Yet the panel remained still.

There was only one explanation: the seal was too airtight. The Aether had been locked away so thoroughly that not even the slightest trace leaked out.

Gerald stood beside the writing desk, watching the subtle shift in his grandson's expression after he approached the Gargoyle.

"Can you sense something inside?"

Richard nodded.

Gerald brought his right hand out from behind his back and rested his fingertips on the Gargoyle's head.

The inscriptions on the Gargoyle's base lit up, and the panel jumped.

[Available Points: 0.52]

A crack had opened in the seal, and Aether seeped out through it.

But the old man had only turned it halfway, leaving the other half untouched.

An unfinished cake was worth more than one swallowed in a single bite. He was clearly doing it on purpose.

"Take this with you."

He removed his hand from the Gargoyle's head.

"What's sealed inside?" Richard asked.

Gerald sat down in the chair beside the writing desk, crossing his legs.

"To be honest, I only know the general category. I can't tell you the exact contents."

It sounded rather strange, so Richard waited for an explanation.

"Put simply, the work in the Old Continent is gatekeeping—watching this side of The Veil and keeping filth from getting out.

"But the true front line is in the New Continent. That is where The Veil is thinnest.

"The Ashford Family has been doing this work for three generations. Our branch has mostly followed the Hunter path: direct confrontation, capture, and disposal.

"It is a practical and effective path, well suited to our duties."

"But this Gargoyle does not belong to our family."

He lightly tapped one of the Gargoyle's wings with a finger.

"What is sealed inside is a Scholar's secret Spellcraft."

"Scholars have a habit of writing important things into inscriptions and carving them into artifacts."

Richard stepped closer, flipped the Gargoyle over, and carefully examined the four sets of inscriptions on its underside.

Each set differed in length, symbol arrangement, and writing density.

"You can figure out how to decipher the inscriptions on all four sides yourself. Since you managed to chew through those hidden texts in a month, this should not take you too long either."

As Richard accepted the Gargoyle, a question occurred to him.

"According to what you said before, Aunt also follows the Scholar path. Doesn't she need this?"

Gerald waved a hand. "Your aunt looked at this ten years ago. She has no use for the secret art inside."

He rapped his knuckles against the Gargoyle's wing.

"Besides, the path she follows is not the same branch as what is carved in here.

"To her, it is merely an old textbook from another discipline, gathering dust on a shelf."

"But for someone just starting out like you, it is exactly right."

The old man leaned back in his chair.

"You want to head toward the Scholar path. I do not know the rules among Scholars, but I know one thing... if answers are spoon-fed to them, they look down on them instead."

He continued explaining.

"In truth, our branch has the most Hunter-related resources and inheritances. We could carry you all the way to Adeptus Minor, though the Ritual for advancing to Adeptus Minor would still have to be handled by yourself."

"Unfortunately, the best age to begin the Blood-Burning Path is thirteen. Fourteen is the threshold. Beyond that age, the body becomes far less malleable."

"It is not impossible to begin at sixteen, but..." He looked at Richard's slight frame and could not help frowning.

"With your foundation, it truly will not do."

The old man placed both hands on the desk.

"Back to the point. The academy path has its advantages: independence, freedom, and not too many restrictions."

"But in terms of advancement and related resources, you can only endure and climb step by step on your own."

Richard did not respond, waiting for him to continue.

"They will give you an evaluation system, a group of like-minded peers, and a door that will only open once you have reached a sufficient position."

"Before that, you will have to find Curios yourself, gather resources yourself, and explore from scratch where to obtain every kind of material."

He could hear the implication, but he did not rush to state his position.

"Grandfather, you said before that you could provide support. What level of support, exactly?"

Gerald glanced at him and smiled.

"Guidance in information and direction. We can also make some introductions through our connections.

"And when you reach critical junctures, we are willing to vouch for you."

"I understand." Richard nodded.

Gerald looked down at the crouching stone sculpture.

"I do not understand the precise intricacies of the Scholar path, but I know one thing.

"The farther Scholars go, the more Hunters and Seekers depend on them.

"They are the kind of people who can change the situation—not by throwing a punch, but by understanding things others cannot."

He shifted his gaze from the Gargoyle to Richard's face.

"This does not conflict with a Gatekeeper's duty. In fact, it may carry you farther than the Blood-Burning Path alone."

"Consider the Gargoyle my personal compensation to you. Even if you choose not to return to the Ashford Family in the future, this is yours. No one will come to take it back."

Richard placed the Gargoyle back on the writing desk, the rough texture of its stone surface still lingering in his palm.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Gerald nodded, then pulled a flat wooden case from a drawer.

The lid bore the Ashford Family crest—an oak tree and a rearing lion.

"This is for you too."

He pushed the wooden case onto the desk, placing it beside the Gargoyle.

"There are some things inside that you may need in the Imperial Capital. Not much, but enough to handle what is immediately before you."

"After the Cicero Cup is over, if you are willing, you may stay here permanently. The Ashford Family's doors will always be open to you."

The conversation was nearing its end. The fire in the hearth was also close to dying, and the temperature in the study was slowly falling.

"Go get some rest," Gerald said. "Don't you still need to prepare for the Cicero Cup?"

Richard tucked the wooden case under one arm and held the Gargoyle in the other. "Then I'll head back to my room."

"Go on."

Richard walked down the corridor toward the guest rooms, both items in his hands carrying considerable weight.

He looked down at the wooden case tucked beneath his arm and the Gargoyle in his hands, feeling like a laborer hauling cargo.

But gaining so much from a single conversation was a happy kind of burden.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted his mother standing by the window at the far end of the corridor.

The curtains had been drawn back only a little, and the moonlight turned one side of the woman's face deathly pale.

Margaret still wore the old dress she had arrived in, with a thin cardigan wrapped around it, her arms folded across her chest.

Her posture was completely different from how she had been in the sitting room during the day.

During the day, her back had been held perfectly straight, her expression proper and distant, every movement shaped by training from childhood.

Now, her shoulders had relaxed. She leaned against the window frame, clearly having stood there for a long time.

She was waiting for her son.