I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The white-haired giant didn't answer; he simply opened the book in his hand.

Lillian recognized the book's cover—"Structure and Evolution of Gaelic Script"—she had seen it in the library.

The professor is certainly not here to give a lecture today.

McFee turned to a page, looked up and scanned the six people at the table.

His gaze lingered on Lillian's face for a fleeting moment, so brief that she thought she was seeing things.

Then he spoke, in Gaelic.

Words rolled out of his throat one by one, like boulders falling from a mountain, carrying the air of judgment.

Lillian couldn't understand Gaelic, but the Skadi Flame above her head trembled.

"What is he reading?" Freya put down the plate and curled up into a ball, tense.

"He's reading our names," Hela said, her voice trembling.

The goddess of death, whose face was half alive and half dead, now had both halves of her face turn white.

"It wasn't those we borrowed, it was..."

She didn't finish speaking.

McFee finished reading that passage and closed the book.

The hall was so quiet that you could hear the faint crackling of burning flames.

Then, the wolf-shaped divine name projection above Fenrir's head cracked, as if someone had used a pen tip to slice it in half.

Fenrir howled.

He lunged at the white-haired giant at the door, the chains on his limbs clanging loudly.

The power gained from the expert's gaze is enough to smash a concrete wall into dust.

McFee raised his large hand and wrote a stroke very lightly.

Lillian saw that stroke clearly.

It is a clef in Gaelic script, a short blade cut diagonally outwards.

The character would have required a chisel to carve on stone, but the professor wrote it in the air with his bare hand, and the ether condensed into a solid white mark following the path of his fingertips.

The moment Fenrir lunged at the white mark, half of his body disintegrated.

He was still howling, but the howl stopped as soon as it came out of his throat.

"You've swallowed the names of that Celtic table."

McFee finally spoke a word in Albion.

"The higher-ups originally didn't want to get involved with you."

"Let the person behind your table collect whatever he wants."

But you little brats who haven't even settled in yet, you've managed to swallow up the Celts from the Empire's homeland at this very moment..."

"Someone has to come and teach you a lesson."

Loki finally stood up, all traces of his drunken languor gone from his face.

"Old man, do you know what I just ate? You still dared to come alone."

McFee casually tucked the book, "Structure and Evolution of Gaelic Script," under his arm.

"Kid." He looked at Loki with disdain in his eyes.

"Can you digest what you eat?"

Loki's expression changed.

"You swallowed all the names on the table."

McFee took another step forward: "Your strength has increased, but you haven't even figured out what you've swallowed."

"I'll count the things you can't count!"

His hand moved in mid-air, writing and drawing, and one Gaelic character after another flowed from his fingertips, the white marks forming a net in the air.

Lillian understood.

Those words were renumbering the names of the gods that Loki had just swallowed and were not yet fully formed inside his belly.

Morrigan's name, Cú Chulainn's name, Ruger's name... were originally swallowed whole by Loki and mixed up together.

McFee's word net covered them, and he "read" them out from Loki one by one.

The moment they were read aloud, they no longer belonged to Loki.

"McFee!" Loki growled.

He unleashed all the power he had just swallowed—fire and deception, chaos and transformation—and hurled it all at the net of words.

The flames in the hall were all extinguished, and Lillian could only see through the darkness with her crow's eyes.

She saw Loki's full ether being drawn out, word by word.

McFaye stood still.

Scholars of the Moon Hunting tradition never chase after their prey; they set traps, recite names, and then wait.

The moon doesn't need to chase anyone; as long as it shines, the shadow will have nowhere to hide.

"Tyr!" Loki shouted.

The one-armed god of war lunged forward, the ether so thick it was almost dripping with blood.

McFee turned to the side, dodging the lunge.

With his free hand, he added a rune to the path Tyr had taken.

The name Tyr already symbolized a severed hand, and now another stroke has been added, removing Tyr's only remaining hand from his name.

The God of War, along with the name he borrowed, vanished.

Freya wanted to run away.

Before her golden-red light could spread, it was caught by the ever-expanding net of words.

Hela was already half-dead, and when McFaye's web of words swept over her, the living half of her face slowly faded away.

Lillian huddled in Skadi's chair, too afraid to move.

She clutched the needle hidden in her sleeve, trembling all over.

Fenrir, that unlucky fellow, is completely dead. The others were also scattered, though they weren't dead, they were all half-dead.

Only Loki and Lillian remained.

Loki was completely entangled in that web of words; the entire table of names he had swallowed were being pried out one by one.

He reached out, but what he pulled out was no longer power, but emptiness.

"You think people who've had their fill will spit out some bones for you?" McFee scoffed.

"The moment you sit in this chair, you're already someone else's meal."

He dropped the last talisman.

Loki, along with the aether that had been filled with the names of the gods, faded into the darkness.

The hall collapsed, and the walls with fake flames and empty lamps turned into mist.

Lillian was thrown off Skadi's chair.

She collapsed into nothingness, surrounded by dissipated mist.

McFaye's figure walked towards her through the fog.

Lillian gripped the needle even tighter.

The professor just crossed out the entire table of people who had received expert attention, like crossing out a typo.

She was just a newcomer to the profession and knew she couldn't escape it.

McFee stopped in front of her.

The white-haired giant looked down at her and stared for a long time.

Lillian waited for the white mark to fall on her body.

"Skadi," McFee said, using her borrowed god name.

Lillian held her breath.

"Did you choose this name yourself, or was it given to you by someone else?"

Lillian opened her mouth, but she didn't lie.

"...I took it myself." Her voice was very soft.

McFaye stared at the needle in her cuff, then at her eyes for a moment.

He had seen far too much of what was hidden in those eyes.

The sweetness of the abyss can form a film on one's eyes.

"Is your mother in a nursing home? If you look through that door, you can't go back."

Lillian was startled, but then she wasn't surprised.

This professor could read out the names of an entire table of people, so reading out a girl's background probably wouldn't take him much effort.

"……yes."

McFaye sighed softly, but his calloused hand did not fall.

When Lillian opened her eyes, the void was already receding.

She was lifted by a force and floated back towards the side of the curtain.

In the last moment before she floated back up, she saw McFaye bend down and pick up a few things from where the people had dispersed.

When Lillian woke up, it was still dark.

The first thing the girl did was reach for the needle.

The needle is still there.

Lillian sat on the cold bed and hugged her knees.

She wanted to talk to someone.

But who can she say these things to?

She thought of someone.

The boy who shared a desk with her and never asked many questions when peeling bones.

No, I've already taken a different path.

There is no turning back on this road.

………………

Professor Mortimer strolled slowly down the corridor, his hat askew, holding the chipped teacup.

Upon seeing Richard sitting at the door, he didn't stop walking.

"It's you again."

"Professor." Richard stood up.

"Your aunt said you've been blocking my way for two days." Mortimer pushed open the office door.

Mortimer sat down in his old armchair and poured himself half a cup of pale, colorless tea.

"Go ahead and say it." He took a sip.

"You didn't bring anything for me to open this time, and you look so upset. Looks like you've run into real trouble?"

Richard closed the door.

He took a stack of things out of his pocket.

Those were the clues he had gathered bit by bit over the past few days.

After hearing the whole story, the old professor put down his teacup.

"I know a little bit about what happened to the Ashford family in that generation."

Mortimer glanced at him.

Your maternal grandfather should have told you everything.

Richard nodded:

"He said that the ritual of reverse hunting is something only a madman would do, and he refused to talk about the specific ceremony."

"He's right not to tell," Mortimer shook his head. "That's what hunters do; you can't learn that."

"Professor, what I want to know is... the replacement."

Richard shared his thoughts.

"Could you... use something else to remove my grandfather's name from that book?"

Mortimer stared at him for a long time.

The murky look in those half-open, half-closed old eyes was gone, replaced by the feigned ignorance.

"Richard," he said, "do you know what you're asking?"

"I know."

"This alternative path is viable," Mortimer said.

Richard held his breath.

"It has an ironclad rule," the old professor said, holding up one finger.

"The scales must be balanced. If you want to remove a name from the register, you have to put a substantial substitute on top of it."

"The quantity is insufficient; it cannot be replaced."

"If the quantity is enough, then the stand-in will have to..." Mortimer paused for a moment.

"Really go to the place that name belongs."

"I can't do this ceremony." The old professor picked up his teacup again.

Richard felt somewhat disappointed.

"I'm an old bookworm who follows the traditions of classical texts," the old professor said, taking a sip of tea.

"I can read it, I can disassemble it, and I can tell you what its skeleton looks like."

"But simply understanding this matter isn't enough."

"It involves the Wild Hunt, the traditional 'hunter and hunted' rules of the Moon Hunt."

Mortimer stood up.

"For this matter, we need to find someone who is both knowledgeable about Moon Hunting and an expert in it."

"Who?"

The old professor had already walked towards the door.

"Perfect timing." He turned around. "He went back to the capital today too."

Mortimer led Richard to another office.

No notes were slipped under the door of that office; people looking for him didn't dare to put anything under the door.

Mortimer pushed the door open; it wasn't locked.

Richard felt a chill run down his spine; the person in the office had just returned and still carried a murderous aura.

McFaye sat by the window, a head resting on the table in front of him.

With eyes half-open, there was a look of astonishment, as if someone had sliced ​​him in half.

The ether wrapped around that head gave him a sense of déjà vu.

Mortimer went inside and sat down in another chair by the window, acting as if he were a complete stranger.

"Old Mike, are you tired?"

"What's tiring?" McFaye finally looked up: "Just a regular business trip."

His gaze fell on Richard.

"It's you! I remember your name is Richard?"

"Good morning, Professor." Richard bowed slightly.

"I haven't seen him since the last training course." McFee leaned back in his chair.

"You look even stronger now. Catherine said last time that you were the biggest eater in the whole college."

When he said this, his expression softened considerably.

"Did you receive the bottle of wine that Catherine mentioned later?"

Richard used this topic to build rapport.

McFaye laughed.

"Received it. The peaty flavor is authentic, not much worse than the one from my own brewery."

"That girl Catherine doesn't drink, so for her to pick out a bottle like this, she must have had someone help her."

"It was Phillips' help," Richard said, not taking credit for himself.

"He spent ages picking through the pub counter, saying that Highlanders drink peaty drinks."

"That kid has a good nose." McFee said, his murderous aura completely dissipating.

Mortimer steered the conversation back on track at the right moment.

"Old buddy, he has important business to attend to."

McFee grunted and looked back at Richard.

Mortimer took out Richard's stack of clues and spread them out on McFee's table.

McFee's gaze swept over the rubbings, the hunting schedule, and the antler reins.

He looked quickly and then reached out and picked up the rubbing of the deer antler rein symbol.

"The Wild Hunt," he said.

"The Ashford family's old debts," Mortimer added.

"His maternal grandfather performed a ritual of reverse hunting when he was young, which incurred debts for his descendants. Now, an invitation is being posted on the doorpost."

McFee put the rubbing down and looked at Richard.

"You want to take my place."

Richard was somewhat excited; the other party had hit the nail on the head in just one sentence.

"……yes."

McFaye remained silent for a long time.

He pushed Fenrir's head toward Richard.

"You're lucky."