A breakthrough in the clues

"...At this stage, we can be certain of three things," Winslow said. "First, its activity is cyclical and possesses unknown supernatural properties. Second, its secretions exert a powerful attraction on Deepclaw Demons. Third, the casket itself has nothing to do with the spiritual source we're looking for."

"The casket isn't important," Peter summarized.

"Exactly," Winslow said. "I hope we can turn our attention back to the Blackwater River. What exactly is in it? How does it keep contaminating the fish? Could this threaten the safety of the city's residents? Once we understand how the Blackwater River works, the casket's secrets will fall into place."

Gordon had to admit that Winslow was remarkably capable.

Without being able to see the answers, the professor had come close to identifying every correct lead.

"The casket needs to be sealed away, but we should also weigh it regularly and measure its spiritual response. If those secretions appear again, resume observation immediately," Gordon added.

"Very good." Winslow nodded. "Very rigorous."

Gordon understood.

He had personally brought the casket project to a provisional close.

From now on, everyone would be looking toward that river.

"Speaking of which, Gordon, I examined the corpse you donated. Quite good," Winslow said.

"In what respect?"

"Only when those freshmen discover that a person whose heart stopped has octopus tentacles will they realize the world isn't as simple as they think. If they don't broaden their horizons while they're young, all the supernatural phenomena they'll encounter later will make their jaws drop," Winslow said.

"Very true," Gordon agreed.

"But what I'm more curious about is how you ended up in a fight with him." Winslow changed tack.

Gordon gave him a brief account.

"...He carried a portrait of you, knew about the casket, and exhibited bodily mutations. In other words, a group of people who have undergone abnormal modifications are approaching you in an organized fashion," Winslow concluded.

"Professor, this is a personal matter."

"Our students may encounter strange things, but they should never be threatened by thugs who appear out of nowhere," Winslow said.

"...Thank you, Professor." Gordon paused in surprise.

Winslow nodded meaningfully.

"The Silverfish Casket project is over," he said. "But the Blackwater River remediation project has only just begun. Whether you're tracing the Source Substance in the river or establishing how the Cultists transform, you'll be dealing with that river quite often from now on."

"That's true." Gordon remembered that he still had to deal with Harold.

"This is for you." Winslow handed Gordon a small metal case.

"This is..."

"It will come in handy during fieldwork," Winslow explained. "I should have given you one the day we went fishing."

[Portable sampling kit. Slightly improves research professionalism; greatly improves pocket hygiene.]

Gordon glanced inside. It contained quite a few things.

The most valuable was the Sealing Wax, a substance that could temporarily preserve items securely, including but not limited to Source Substance, Aberrant remains, and contaminated samples...

There was also precipitation salt, used to precipitate Source Substance and spiritual imprints, separating them from their physical carriers.

There were measuring flasks, droppers, brown glass bottles, samplers, specimen bags...

"Is this your way of encouraging me, Professor?" Gordon asked.

"Promising students deserve encouragement," Winslow said.

Looking at the professor's sharply defined features and steady, keen eyes, Gordon felt a rare sense of being cared for.

He felt that he still knew far too little about the professor.

"I love university." Gordon fastened the case.

The metal clasp clicked, as though locking away an entire stage of his life and leaving it behind.

He left the Biomedical Building carrying the case, sunlight spilling across his shoulders.

Gordon returned to 9 Knights Road and began planning his next move.

He studied the nascent Source Substance, which resembled a dried pinecone.

Source Substance was connected to the phenomenon from which it had solidified.

Gordon had already made up his mind: he would imbue this Source Substance with some profoundly nascent power.

That would suit both its imagery and Gordon's own style.

The university had not taught him how to complete this step-how to give a newly born Source Substance the power it ought to possess, making it live up to its nascent nature.

Supposedly, there was a specialized Arcane Ritual that could influence, modify, and grant special powers to Source Substance.

The real answer had to lie with Harold and the Blackwater Hermitage.

Gordon pieced the clues together again.

The Silver Fish Holy Casket, an antique the old Count Montfort had purchased in the Blair Lock District years ago, bore reliefs of fish and seeped water. It had once enshrined Greater Source Substance, but now only an empty nest remained.

The Immaculate New Source Substance was a product nurtured by the Holy Reliquary, innocent and unknowing.

Harold Wade, an old servant of the Montfort family, was now on the run, and Vera was searching for him.

Back then, he had whispered to the casket. The cook had thought he was apologizing.

Now it seemed that had been a special Arcane Art. He had activated the casket's supernatural properties, making it exude womb amniotic fluid and continuously send a summons into the Blackwater River, ultimately drawing that Water Monkey revel to the Montfort Ancestral Home.

It was hardly surprising that Harold hated him.

If the Blackwater Hermitage truly regarded Deepclaw Demons as brothers and sisters, then what he had done that day was quite something.

It was roughly equivalent to someone using holy communion to attract believers, holding a ceremony, then stabbing the kneeling worshippers to death one by one.

Whatever the case, he had to find Harold.

He needed more clues, more supernatural knowledge.

The next day, Vera finished her final round of reconnaissance.

She looked at Gordon with a grave expression.

"The time has come," she said. "Let's go kill Harold."

"I'm ready."

"First, the Old Fish Market. Both the information and the smell came from there," Vera said. "I broke two fat men's legs to get the lead. They refused to say anything else and just kept screaming."

"We can find Peter first." Gordon picked up his coat. "If we're only after information, we'll need him at the Old Fish Market."

"He'll run," Vera said.

"So we need to catch him before he sees the danger," Gordon said. "Besides, with Peter there, you wouldn't have needed to break any fat men's legs in the first place."

Vera accepted that logic.

Half an hour later, at the rear entrance of the Royal Academy of Natural Sciences University's anatomy building.

"I'm off work for the day." Seeing Gordon and Vera standing beneath the gas lamp, Peter had a very bad feeling.

"Congratulations. Now there's an opportunity for off-campus practical experience," Gordon said. "Location: the Old Fish Market. Partner: the Blackgill Gang. No academic credit, but it will permanently resolve that threatening letter with the wet handprint."

"Am I getting dragged into some twisted Esoteric Cult incident too?" Peter asked.

"Yes."

"Danger, Esoteric Cult, off-campus. Put any two of those three together, and I'm not going." Peter counted the three words off on his fingers. "Now not only are all three here, there's a fourth."

"A fourth word?"

"'Gordon,'" Peter said.

"You have an unnecessary prejudice against your fellow student," Gordon said. "We're just looking for someone. Vera already nearly stabbed somebody at the Old Fish Market. If you come, you can reduce a lot of hostility."

"Well..." Peter fell silent for a moment. He clearly would rather go home.

"We're going to solve the problem," Gordon said. "As long as you help, you'll never again have to worry about the Wet-Foot People stopping you at night and asking whether you had anything to do with the Water Monkeys' deaths."

That settled Peter's decision.

"Talking only. No going into the water, no touching anything with gills," Peter said. "Except fish. Oh, and if a fish starts talking, I'm turning around and leaving."

"Deal."

The Old Fish Market, dusk.

The place looked as though it had first weathered a downpour, then a funeral. The paving stones were thoroughly marinated in fish blood, mud, river water, and slime that preferred to remain anonymous. Stepping on them produced a faint popping sound.

The shacks crowded crookedly together like a cluster of malnourished, ill-tempered mushrooms. Iron hooks hung from the beams, bearing gutted river Aberrants.

[Black cat. Its eyes suggest it wants to steal cod.]

[Fishing net. Daily workload exceeds that of a city hall official.]

[A large barrel of blood. Don't ask. Keep walking. This is none of your business.]

Gordon looked away.

Along the way, vendors greeted Peter again and again.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Gershkovich."

"You people didn't store that last batch of White Rat Monster eyeballs properly. I didn't deliberately sell you rotten ones."

"Is the university still buying Aberrant willies? Fresh ones. Walked over here themselves last night."

Peter scratched his ear with a finger, not even bothering to raise his head.

"How do so many people know you?" Gordon felt that he had underestimated Peter.

"If you handled logistics, you'd know a whole bunch of suppliers too."

"I get the feeling this has something to do with the university's criminal activities."

"Of course. Most things at the university are illegal. You surely know that better than I do."

Gordon wholeheartedly agreed.

Vera walked at the back. She had not threatened anyone, yet the vendors around them still instinctively shifted their wares farther inside, as though they had spotted a knife that could walk.

They passed row after row of shacks and finally reached a warehouse behind the market.

The warehouse was fairly large, with several long sections of blue-green fishing net hanging at its entrance.

Two fat members of the Blackgill Gang guarded the door.

Each had a broken leg, swollen like overproofed bread, and their sleeves were rolled up to their elbows. The moment they saw Vera, they glared at her and put their hands on their guns.

Peter went over and whispered a few words to them.

Gordon would never know what Peter had said, but the two exchanged a glance and immediately cleared the entrance.

Old Baz was inside the warehouse, sitting in a chair.

More barrels, crates, and fishing nets were piled inside, and a map hung on the wall.

[Hydrological Map. The waterways and drainage channels resemble black veins, drawn in by hand.]

[A puddle on the floor. Composition complex enough to warrant a dozen different charges.]

The scars on Old Baz's face remained conspicuous even in the dim light, as though something had tried to tear his face apart, decided he tasted bad, and finally given up.

He saw Vera and grinned.

"You broke two of my brothers' legs just to find a man named Harold," Old Baz said.

"You really have a lead on Harold?" Gordon asked.

"Of course." Old Baz looked perfectly composed. "But I need to get my brothers' legs fixed first. Otherwise, how am I supposed to keep their respect?"

The atmosphere in the warehouse instantly grew tense.

Old Baz was confident because this was his turf.

Vera rested her hand on her sword. She did not care whose turf it was.

Peter huddled beside the door, hoping everyone could talk things through a little more civilly.

Gordon, meanwhile, set two vials of womb amniotic fluid on the table, drawing everyone's gaze.

"I have this," Gordon said.

He and Peter had previously collected an entire case of it.

Now that the Holy Reliquary no longer secreted it, this batch had become a discontinued commodity as of today. He would have to use it sparingly.

Every drop ought to buy something more valuable and useful than a Deepclaw Demon.

"..." Old Baz made his peace with it.

He simply pretended he had never had those two men.

Old Baz wanted it, but Gordon did not hand it over. He left it on the table for Vera to watch.

"Two vials?" Old Baz asked.

"Half a vial. And that depends on whether what you tell me is worth it," Gordon said. "Where is Harold?"