“Teleporting objects… as far as possible?”

  Javon put on a show of thinking, while inwardly clicking his tongue in amazement. Good lord—Havier isn’t just carving out a share of the black market. Now he’s trying to build logistics. Monopolize occult shipping, and the profits would be obscene.

  He stroked one of the white eyeballs as if weighing the problem.

  Teleportation… a Veil ability?

  With his deep foundations in occult scholarship, Javon understood the essence behind so-called teleportation and blink.

  Because the two worlds were already interwoven, no longer truly separate.

  If a Transcendent stepped from the mundane into the Ethereal Realm, then moved within the Ethereal Realm to a point that corresponded precisely to a location in reality, it would manifest as “teleportation” in the physical world.

  Simple in theory. Brutal in practice. The constraints were numerous. Those on the Veil Path had a stronger sense of direction in the Ethereal Realm.

  And the Essence inside these eyeballs was pure Veil.

  After a long silence, Javon said, “I’m deeply honored by your regard, Mr. Havier… but I can’t promise much. I’ve only opened three Sephiroth. Why not seek a fourth-Sephiroth Machinery Mentor?”

  In Javon’s view, it was the obvious answer.

  “A Beyond Mortality-grade craftsman?”

  Havier shook his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Wynchester lately, but the National Bureau of Occult Affairs has been pulling manpower in from everywhere like madmen—like war is about to break out. Many well-connected high-tier Transcendents have already left the city for the time being. If I didn’t have a teleportation method and the ability to avoid being cornered, I’d have gone to South Indenis for a proper holiday myself.”

  Javon glanced at Gantiss.

  Gantiss wore a bitter expression. “My teacher passed away years ago. As for my former organization—the Artisans’ Brotherhood… heh. The inheritance he left me put me at odds with a faction within the Brotherhood. Lord Havier sheltered me, and his relationship with the Artisans’ Brotherhood is… not good.”

  “I used to have a line to a Lampbearer from the Sunset School, but I hadn’t heard from him in a long time. Only recently I learned he died in Verdant City during a relic expedition. I told him to be careful. How could the tomb of the Verdant Earl be anything but dangerous? Sure enough, it was a trap.” Havier sighed, as if mourning an old acquaintance.

  Javon’s expression didn’t change. Internally, he whistled. What a tragedy.

  “And besides,” Havier continued, “a Beyond Mortality-grade craftsman doesn’t charge what an ordinary craftsman charges.” He spoke with quiet feeling. “In my plan, I’d return to that Ethereal Realm site and hunt The Stiphenc Wraith in bulk. I’d need at least dozens of identical arcane artifacts to form a smooth logistics network covering all of Wynchester. To be honest, I could commission a stranger who’s Beyond Mortality-grade if I had to—but the price would be far beyond what I’m willing to pay.”

  Javon looked at Havier and saw it—ambition, clean and bright in his eyes.

  He looked again at the box holding The Stiphenc Wraith and said plainly, “I won’t deny it—this is a supreme temptation to any Forgebearer. I’ll try. No promises on success.”

  “Good.” Havier smiled. “Gantiss says you’re the finest craftsman he’s ever seen beneath Beyond Mortality-grade. If you can’t do it, I’ll have to commission a stranger who is Beyond Mortality-grade.”

  “How much of a deposit do you require?” Javon asked.

  Borrowing precious materials for forging naturally demanded collateral, and rumor had it Havier possessed some means of notarization and contract-binding—whether by innate ability or by some arcane artifact.

  “No deposit.” Havier was unexpectedly lenient. “Go all out, Elvander. Failure is fine. In truth, Gantiss has already used up three batches of the same material. All failures.”

  As expected of a black-market kingpin. Money like water.

  Javon admired it, accepted the materials, and Havier’s smile deepened.

  The three of them spoke of other things—oddities of Wynchester, jokes from the upper circles. Havier truly was a local spider at the center of a web; bits of information he dropped casually were worth their weight in gold to Javon.

  At the end, as if idly curious, Javon asked, “While exploring Wynchester, I came across a club that seemed… interesting. The Bloodcoat Club. Do you have any impression of it, Lord Havier?”

  “The Bloodcoat Club…”

  Havier nodded. “That’s a hidden gathering run by gourmands of The Epicurean Society. Their motto is the finest food should be enjoyed by the finest epicures. Their gatherings often feature unbelievable dishes—properly cooked cuts of Ethereal Realm creatures, for instance. It’s exquisite beyond words. They’re skilled at preparing all kinds of Essence-laden ingredients, letting Transcendents build Essence by eating. But…”

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Javon’s expression grew grave. He knew the real information was coming.

  “Epicures are the sort of Transcendents who walk along the lip of darkness,” Havier warned. “To them, ‘food’ has no boundaries of species, morality, or ethics. If you don’t want to swallow some truly grotesque dark cuisine, keep your eyes open.”

  “I understand.”

  Javon nodded. William’s accidental brush with that place meant he’d stepped into a darker corner of the occult world.

  For now, though, the danger still looked manageable.

  He thanked Havier for the warning, gathered the materials, and rose to leave.

  When the drawing-room doors closed, Gantiss immediately looked at Havier. “My lord…”

  Havier had closed his eyes, as if conversing with something that could not be seen.

  After a moment, he opened them and smiled. “I can’t use probing spells that would alert him, but he was inside my castle. I can still sense this much—Elvander’s vitality has not undergone the qualitative change. He has not stepped into the domain of the fourth Sephiroth.”

  “Good.” Gantiss let out a long breath.

  “But he is dangerous,” Havier said lightly. “His Beyond Mortality-grade combat power is real. He’s a fine partner.”

  Havier’s smile remained gentle. “We aren’t plotting against him. We want cooperation. We only need to show sincerity.”

  Hunter’s Bar.

  The stall door of a toilet cubicle opened. Javon stepped out first, with William trailing behind on legs that trembled slightly.

  So the boss really is Beyond Mortality-grade combat power…

  William, who’d already gathered plenty of chatter and rumors in the market, stared at Javon’s back and felt his knees soften. He was grateful he hadn’t harbored any crooked thoughts—one finger from this man would be enough to crush him.

  There were other people in the washroom.

  The cubicle’s “magic” was that, if someone was inside, the door would not open into the castle—sparing them the awkwardness of encountering strangers mid-trouser-adjustment. But outside the cubicle, that guarantee didn’t apply.

  A drunken brute saw Javon and William emerge from the same stall and immediately looked stunned.

  William could guess exactly what the man was thinking and wanted nothing more than to hit him with a forgetting curse.

  “Hey, brother, I support you. It’s not a shameful hobby—our king is the same… the same…”

  The drunk yanked his coat open to reveal a rainbow belt and threw William a knowing look.

  William fled the washroom as if running for his life.

  And when he imagined that—now as the bar’s “occult business manager”—he might have to escort people through this entrance regularly, he felt an impulse to jump off a building.

  Before long, his “great reputation” might spread through the neighborhood.

  William had a dreadful certainty: this place would become his nightmare.

  No. Even if it means never getting a raise again, I have to beg the boss to move this passage somewhere else.

  Javon didn’t spare William’s small anguish a glance.

  After changing his appearance, he returned to his residence on Phoenix Street.

  In the renovated basement, he took out the box containing The Stiphenc Wraith eyeballs and confirmed there was nothing suspicious about the box or the materials.

  This makes it annoying. If you were plotting against me, it’d be so much easier. I could just pull the same trick as last time and rob you clean.

  Javon brushed a hand over The Weeping Blade at his waist and muttered under his breath.

  Then his eyes turned pure white. Using Essence appraisal, he began testing the material’s composition, purity, and the forging methods best suited to it.

  “If it only needs to transmit objects, not living beings, the difficulty drops sharply…”

  “The key technique for forging something like this is Ethereal Realm positioning. Conveniently, I happen to have the best signal tower available.”

  In sheer forging capability, Javon felt he was already comparable to a pure-Forged Light fourth Sephiroth. In cleansing and suppressing negative effects, he surpassed Machinery Mentors by an absurd margin.

  Before long, a rough design took shape in his mind.

  He lifted a hand. Pure white flame wrapped around an eyeball, and he began to temper it…

  Night vanished in the blink of an eye.

  When the first thread of dawn lit Wynchester, four wardrobes stood in the basement, similar in shape.

  “I was going to call it the Vanishing Wardrobe…” Javon murmured. “On second thought, Transposition Drawer is better.”

  He ran his fingers over the set with the more elaborate patterning.

  “This arcane artifact works in pairs. Place an object in one drawer, wait a while, and it appears in the opposite drawer. Range? Transmitting from Wynchester to Verdant City is entirely feasible.”

  “As for capacity: ordinary items are no problem at all. But a Beyond Mortality-grade item would likely break it after a single use. Something higher might not fit in the drawer at all.”

  “The negative effect is that after each use, you experience a degree of disorientation—anywhere from half an hour to two hours.”

  This pair was for his own use. The other pair was intended for Havier.

  “Both pairs function the same, but one set has shorter range and harsher negative effects.”

  Javon was still only at the third Sephiroth. Delivering a masterpiece that was too good would draw eyes. He planned to wait a week before handing Havier his set.

  Verdant City.

  Lilia Doran—neat and composed behind delicate spectacles—finished dressing and stepped out, headed for the bank.

  The morning streets were quiet. Now and then, workers hurried past.

  Upper-circle women, in winter, paraded their precious fur coats as if changing styles daily…

  “So calm. So peaceful… so… boring,” Lilia murmured.

  Ever since the divine emissary Ryan and Mr. Rapier had left, Verdant City had instantly sunk back into stagnant stillness.

  Not only had the legend of The Butcher of White Alley been “rapidly solved” as a case—an ending too neat to be satisfying—but the occult world itself had gone quiet.

  The gatherings hosted by the gentleman still happened, but with barely half their previous attendance.

  Verdant City’s occult circle—official and unofficial alike—had taken catastrophic losses at the Sothos relic site.

  The result was a vacuum.

  Until outside powers moved in and a new generation of Transcendents grew up, this calm would likely persist for a long time.

  But… it’s so boring.

  Lilia complained inwardly and subtly altered her route.

  She’d recently taken a liking to the doughnuts from a bakery on the corner of Goldforest Street and sometimes detoured to buy breakfast.

  As she passed a row of apartment buildings, a gust of cold wind rattled the mailboxes nailed beside the building’s nameplate. Essence—imperceptible to ordinary eyes—delivered good news to her.

  A letter from Mr. Ryan? Wonderful.

  This was a safehouse known only to Lilia; the mailbox was usually empty.

  Her heart lifted. She decided she’d come back at night, disguised, to retrieve it.