I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 533 People of the Underworld

The torch beside Hecate hadn't recovered from the oath as everyone had just finished reciting it.

Just as she was about to continue, Hercules slapped his knee.

"My lord, I have something interesting to share that I've been keeping to myself for a long time."

Hecate didn't stop him, and in fact, she couldn't have.

"There's a kid from Shetland in my camp who went home on leave a few days ago."

Hercules stretched out his two hands and made the shape of a wine barrel in mid-air.

"Last month he paid with a barrel of whale oil, plus an ancient Viking harpoon, saying it was the entrance fee."

"Tickets?" Dionysus raised an eyebrow.

"If you have the documents, submit them; if you don't have the documents, pay cash."

Hercules grinned:

"I heard that the Nordic group got recruited into the Wild Hunt, and they're even selling Wild Hunt memberships like tickets! Back then, an envoy stood at the palace gate, and tens of thousands of riders turned their swords on him! The hunter's master led out his own horse for him!"

Demeter chuckled softly, and a few ears of wheat above her head swayed slightly.

Prometheus was also intrigued: "A master like you actually gave up your horse to someone else?"

That's why it's so strange.

Dionysus placed the cup on the table.

"If only this esteemed envoy could sit at our table..."

"Where will he sit?" Hercules asked. "All seven chairs are full."

"If someone like that is willing to come, we can always find a place if we move around a bit."

Demeter chuckled, "Then move yours first."

Dionysus was speechless and could only put the cup back in his hands.

Richard smiled but remained silent, not participating in the discussion.

Hecate looked at him. "Loki is also spreading another piece of information: Your Excellency is looking for Hermes for them."

The hall fell silent, and Nemesis's scales tilted slightly in this direction.

All eyes turned to the last chair at the same time.

Richard waved his hand dismissively: "He won't find it."

Hecate responded with an "Oh," and then said, "You seem quite confident."

"The news that Loki sold it might not be true," Richard replied casually.

He thought to himself, "Loki is quite the competent information broker; he spreads any news he gets everywhere."

Should I say something next time we meet...? Never mind, I'd better not say anything. The more I say, the more mistakes I'll make.

"Alright, besides the winter solstice night, there's something else I need to tell you about this gathering."

Hecate raised her hand and pulled a long box from the shadows behind the chair.

The lid slid open by itself. Inside lay a ship's wheel.

Aside from the main body being made of black oak, the rudder blades were edged with a gleaming, oily metal, somewhat resembling the color of a lamp burning out. Richard recalled the copper wicks mentioned in "The Products Behind the Curtain," suggesting that the ship was destined for great depths.

The rudder was also cast from bronze wick, with seven grooves engraved on the shaft, five of which were lit.

A two-handled cup, tinged with pale purple;

A short stick; if you bring it close, you can smell the olive wood.

A curved sickle, with the texture of wheat stalks;

A cluster of crimson flames sat very quietly in the trough;

At the very end, closest to the handshake area, is engraved a key.

The other two slots are dark, one engraved with Libra and the other with a caduceus.

Prometheus's anger suddenly flared up: "This is the one the chief commissioned my master to make."

"Yes," Hecate nodded.

Richard remembered that Prometheus's master had carelessly removed the mask, triggering the safety mechanism inside.

Hecate didn't ask for compensation, only saying that he should have his master do the work according to the blueprints for free. At the end of the year, Prometheus mentioned on the table that his master had finished, and Hecate just responded and then said nothing more.

At the time, everyone was guessing what it was that could make such a master craftsman personally make it.

Now the answer is clear, Hecate places her hand on the rudder:

"A ship in the deep must have a rudder."

"The seven god names together form the hull of the ship, the resonance is the thickness of the planks, and the mask is the sail."

"But only five of the seven slots are lit, and the rudder won't turn."

Her gaze slowly shifted from Nemesis to Hermes: "We're just waiting for the two of you to be promoted."

Prometheus stared at the rudder:

"My master burned out two furnaces and said he would never take on this kind of work again."

Hecate didn't reply; her hand remained there.

Richard's eyes were also fixed on it. His "Speculation and Restructuring" function was working automatically, and he discovered that the steering wheel handle was designed to fit only one hand.

Hecate closed the box: "It's been quite a while since the last team battle ended, and everyone should have improved. You can all show each other your latest mask resonance so you can have a better understanding of each other's progress."

Dionysus was the first to stand up; he had been waiting for this very sentence all night.

He reached out and pulled a staff from the void.

The cane is taller than a person, and ivy wraps around it from the pine cone at the top down, with unripe green grapes hanging from the gaps in the leaves.

"The Staff of Dionysus." He slammed the staff on the ground.

A crack appeared in the marble floor, from which a stream of deep purple spring water gushed forth, filling the hall with the sweet, slightly fishy smell of freshly pressed grapes.

Richard looked down at the bricks; they had been joined together by the spring water, and even the patterns had matched.

"Eliminating boundaries," Dionysus explained. "Let the wall forget it's a wall, the lock forget it's a lock, and people... when they're drunk, they forget who they are."

"You lousy spring water, you've gotten my boots all wet."

Hercules stomped his wet boots on the ground and stood up.

He reached behind his back and pulled out a giant bow. A leather quiver had appeared on his shoulder at some point, with arrows that were entirely black.

"Before, if I encountered something that could fly or hid behind a crater, I could only chase after it with a stick or throw stones." He patted his quiver: "Now I don't need to."

"Have you tried it? Does this poison have any effect on non-physical evil entities?" Dionysus asked.

"I tried it once. There's been a strange thing floating around in the no man's land lately. It looks like a cloud of smoke during the day, and at night it hangs down into the trenches specifically to target sleeping people."

He slung the bow over his shoulder: "I shot an arrow, and it was grazed and immediately rotted and fell apart."

"This poison shouldn't be able to distinguish between friend and foe, right?" Demeter asked.

Hercules's momentum immediately diminished.

"Yes, my daughter has just learned to climb on stools and grabs everything in sight, so I dare not take it out at home."

Demeter then also put her hand on the table, palm up.

A flower emerged from the lines of her palm, with four petals, a dark red.

"Oriole and millet".

She gently shook the dried fruit after the petals had fallen, and a few black seeds landed on the table.

Dionysus opened his mouth to yawn, but startled himself halfway through and quickly covered his mouth. Demeter glanced at him and tucked the dried fruit back into her sleeve.

"If a living person smells it too much, they will keep thinking about it after they wake up, so I usually don't use it on living people."

At this moment, the scales above Nemesis's head slowly descended, transforming from a hazy ball of light into a solid bronze artifact.

Words appeared on the scale: "Whip punishment, scale weighing."

All eyes then turned to the next chair.

Prometheus picked up a dry fennel stalk from beside the chair; it looked like a piece of withered grass casually folded off from the edge of a field.

Dionysus craned his neck a little: "...That's it?"

Prometheus flicked his thumb, pressed down on the scar at the top of the stalk, and pinched it downwards.

The core of the fennel stalk is a soft, white pulp that burns very slowly when lit.

When shepherds travel at night, they will put a small fire inside the fire, and it will stay lit all night.

In mythology, the fire thief used this to hide the fire and take it away.

A sliver of light shone through the opening he had made, and at the same time, all the other lights in the temple went out. "Stolen fire cannot be hidden anywhere it shines."

"What can't be hidden?" Dionysus was unconvinced, took out a shilling from his sleeve, and flicked it with his thumb.

"The opposite," Prometheus quickly announced.

"After landing, roll to the left, until you reach Hercules' feet, where he will step on you with his wet boot."

The silver coin finally fell, rolled half a circle upright, and then wobbled to the left.

As Hercules watched it roll toward him, he stepped on it without thinking.

He only realized it after stepping on it, and when he moved the boot away, he found that it really was the reverse side.

"...I didn't step on it because I listened to you." The big guy raised his hands.

Prometheus nodded: "I saw it before you lifted your foot."

Hercules, unconvinced, said, "Well, you know I'm going to hit you with my club now..."

"You won't swing the club," Prometheus concluded. "You'll ask the question first, then reach for the quiver with your right hand, only to remember halfway there that the arrows are poisoned, and then pull your hand back."

As he spoke, Hercules' right hand was already hanging behind his shoulder, just a little distance from the mouth of the tube. He quickly pulled his hand back.

Richard realized that his mirror could also read people, but it only read what his opponents were already showing signs of, which was ultimately what was happening in the present.

The fire of Prometheus, however, refers to events that have not yet occurred.

Demeter asked, "How far into the future can you see?"

Prometheus thought for a moment: "Within ten seconds, it's no different from seeing it with my own eyes. After a quarter of an hour, there's only a blurry shadow left. Beyond that... the image comes to me on its own."

"Very well," said Hecate. "Your turn, Hermes."

Richard, who was used to being last, took the dog-skin hat out of his pocket.

As soon as he took it out, Hercules sniffed: "What's that smell?"

"The hat of Hades borrowed from Hermes, it has that same feel to it."

As Richard spoke, he thought to himself, "Even in dream rituals, you can smell the dog's scent. It seems this has all become a concept."

He put the hat on his head.

For a fleeting moment, nothing happened in the hall. Then Hercules sprang up from his chair, and Dionysus's cup overturned.

He didn't bother to help, his eyes scanning back and forth across the last chair.

Prometheus snapped open the fennel stalk, and white flames shot out, brighter than ever before.

The light spilled onto the last chair, where it parted ways.

"...I couldn't see it either. Fire can only illuminate living things, so it went around him."

Richard remained seated, one hand still resting on the armrest.

Nemesis's green eyes, through the mask, stared at the armrest of his chair, where there was a mark.

The scale pan on the left is facing the chair, and the scale rod is sinking little by little in that direction.

Richard then looked at the person in the main seat and found that Hecate's golden mask was facing him directly, without any deviation.

She suddenly laughed, the laughter overlapping, the young voice carrying a hint of surprise, the old voice full of understanding.

"Hermes...you have never shone so brightly in my eyes."

Richard sat there, suddenly remembering the hint from the Hades Helmet: the existence of the dead, the sounds of death, and the underworld was clearer to him than usual. He took off his hat and reappeared in his chair.

Hercules managed to stammer, "Your Excellency, Your Excellency..."

"The goddess at the crossroads, holding torches for the dead at night."

Hecate glanced at him: "Read more books in the future. I think the recently popular 'Olympus Chronicles' is quite good."

The big man scratched his head sheepishly, looking at the floppy leather hat in Richard's hand.

"The Hades-affiliated faction saw the helmet that Hades lent out most clearly, which makes sense."

Richard tucked the hat back into his pocket.

It can completely cover the eyes of living people.

Unfortunately, the helmet failed to protect the person it was trying to blind.

The subsequent trading session was quiet and uneventful.

Dionysus's cup was refilled, but the wine was still bitter.

Prometheus placed a small row of stabilizers on the table; Hercules bought two bottles, saying he wanted to keep some for the hunters in the camp. Richard looked at Demeter: "Do you still have the Hades narcissus you took out last time?"

"Yes." Demeter took a small earthenware jar out of her sleeve.

"I already told you last time, you should know what this is for."

Richard nodded: "The medium for guiding spirits and communicating with the soul, if ingested directly, will enhance inspiration, but it is more likely to attract attention and is more vulnerable behind the scenes."

"But I don't eat it; I keep it for research."

[Eating] Only a little progress left to reach lv.5. The lv.5 trait [Decomposition]: Take in the bones and flesh behind the curtain and metabolize the contents of it.

He was uncertain, both envious of the enhanced inspiration brought by the Narcissus of the Underworld and unwilling to bear the side effects.

So I'll keep it for now and figure it out someday.

Demeter's terracotta mask concealed no expression as she stared at the other person for a moment.

"What will you trade?"

"Same as always, authentication." Richard continued his scheme of getting something for nothing.

"Put it on the tab this time. If you ever have any questions about your fields in the future, just have a messenger bring it to me. I won't charge you extra." "As expected of Hermes, taking my things and then making me come back to you."

Demeter pushed the entire pottery jar towards her.

"You can use it six times in total, take it all."

"If it can't be identified, I'll tell the truth," Richard told her first.

"OK."

After all the transactions were completed, Hecate moved on to the final stage.

"Alright, let's start sharing the information."

Dionysus said that the supply system had ordered a large quantity of bitter brew from him, supposedly for evacuation from a certain coastline, to ensure that the soldiers could retreat silently and without panic.

Seth came again, but was chased away, leaving only the words, "The price is negotiable."

Hercules grinned and continued.

He kept his promise from the last gathering and used Prometheus's sample grenade to test-fire those four-legged monsters that couldn't live without poison gas; the soldiers called them Yellow-throated Dogs.

After the evil creature's ethereal energy was torn apart, it coughed up all the poisonous gas it had swallowed. "Where's the wind direction?"

"I got it. The soil for the explosive point has been dug up and sent out." He gestured with his chin toward Richard.

"besides……"

Hercules lowered his voice.

"The enemy is stockpiling new gas cylinders behind their positions, and they've been doing so for several days."

Our people touched it and smelled it, saying the smell was different from before.

"What does it taste like?" Demeter asked.

"Like freshly cut hay."

The fire above Prometheus's head suddenly burst into flames.

He arched his back, pressed his hand tightly against his right rib, and began to dry heave.

His shoulders twitched, and he was panting heavily under the mask, as if a bird was pecking at his ribs.

Dionysus reached out to help him, but he waved his hand, indicating that it was unnecessary. Those who steal fire foresee punishment.

Every time it gets a clear look, the eagle comes and pecks at its liver.

"Nineteen..." he squeezed out through his teeth.

"Yipour...north..."

The flames fell and shrank into a small cluster.

Prometheus slowly straightened up, his hands still pressed against his ribs.

Hercules immediately expressed his high regard for the matter, and indeed, his previous prediction had come true.

He gritted his teeth and said:

"The camp just issued new medicine-soaked headgear, but those guys think it's stuffy and none of them are willing to wear it."

I'll send a telegram as soon as I get back, telling you to wear it while eating, sleeping, and even while you poop, starting tomorrow!

"Anyone who doesn't wear it, I'll throw him into the yellow-throated dog's kennel!"

The next two women have less information: Nemesis (writing): "Thessaloniki, the dead stand, the living are locked in barbed wire."

Demeter said that the farmers of Flanders would turn up bones when they plowed the fields in the spring.

When it was Hermes' turn, Richard stood up.

"I'm passing on a message: the former Mercury of Genoa asked me to give his regards to the head of state."

He said that if anyone wants to do business with this table in the future, they can pay him the regular customer rate.

The crowd was buzzing with discussion:

"Mercury? The one at the Rome table? The Genoese arms dealer..."

Richard added, "Now, he is a member of the Chamber of Commerce's Wartime Shipping Committee."

Hercules slapped his thigh: "So from now on, if I want to buy or sell something from him, I'll go to you?"

"Find me."

Everyone realized that one of the greatest legacies of the Roman table was now in the hands of Hermes.

Richard's mask shifted slightly, and the two golden snakes adjusted to a more comfortable position. Hecate hesitated for a moment, then said:

"Please thank him for me. Since it's a business transaction, let's discuss it like a business transaction."

She also shared a rare piece of information: "I have one too, from Ross."

"That table has recently been doing business for that Siberian elder in the palace."

"The crown prince over there has a blood disease; he bleeds uncontrollably at the slightest touch."

Some time ago at the front-line headquarters, the Crown Prince suffered a nosebleed that even the palace doctors couldn't cure, so they had to send him back to the royal village by train overnight.

But the elder stood by the bedside for a while, said a few words, and the bleeding stopped.

"What did Ross's table do for him?" Richard asked.

"I don't know," Hecate shook her head.

"All I know is that they received twice as much money as in previous years, and after taking this order, they never replied to my emails again."

She stood up.

"The next gathering is in mid-February." "Remember, that vow you made about the winter solstice was recited while facing your own masks."

"If anyone breaks their oath, I will know immediately."

The torch went out.

………………

In Cairo, Horus sits on the roof of an abandoned mosque.

The plaster on his face was removed a few days ago, but his nose is still crooked to the left.

The old man who was setting bones shook his head and said, "Your friend, who's a little shorter than a camel, really doesn't hold back."

The peregrine falcon was circling above his head, round and round, flapping its wings rapidly but refusing to come down.

"Get down!"

It circled around again, then jabbed itself up with the tip of its claw, as if there was charcoal on its arm that would burn the bird.

Finally, the peregrine falcon landed on the eaves of the opposite minaret and tilted its head to look at him.

Horus lowered his arm. The shadow beneath his feet stretched northward, over the edge of the roof, and all the way to the clothesline of the neighbor's house.

The shadow at noon in winter is naturally longer than a person and naturally points north, so he didn't pay much attention to it.

As the sun began to set in the west, the shadows of everything—the awnings, the palm-tree benches, the soldiers on the benches—slanted across the sand, spreading long and thin.

Horus looked down and found that his shadow was still pointing north, exactly the same as at noon, only a bit longer.

He quickly got up and walked briskly towards the north of the city.

By the time we reached Victory Gate, the sun was almost setting, and the shadow of the gate had already stretched far to the east.

His shadow was still pointing north, growing longer and longer until it no longer resembled a human shadow.

It was like a rope, one end tied to his ankle, the other end fastened to something far away and unseen.

Meanwhile, in mid-December, a large ship arrived at the port of Copenhagen.

The guests this time were quite unusual. Car magnate Ford chartered the entire ship, which carried over a hundred pacifists, pastors, wives of feminists, forty-odd journalists, and a group of university students.

At the New World dock, the slogans shouted by those seeing them off drifted across the ocean with the ship:

"Get the lads out of the trenches before Christmas." Ford had a powerful secret backer; in fact, most people who were successful in the New World had strong secret backgrounds.

The night before the ship set sail, several machines were found in the boiler room, packed in lead boxes labeled with Ford's logo. They hummed without emitting smoke.

The stoker on night duty pressed his face against the porthole and saw the sea outside change color several times.

The ship arrived, but Ford himself fell ill at the Grand Hotel in Christiania.

He lay in bed for several days, and one morning without saying goodbye to anyone, he wrapped himself in a blanket and boarded a mail ship back to the New World.

Before leaving, he only left his secretary with one sentence: "I think I'd better go home and see my mother."

Everyone in the car company knew that he called his wife "Mom".

The newspapers of the Western Continent didn't care about any of that; the next day, every page of them printed this sentence, just like the joke columns before Christmas.

The rest of the group continued their journey. After three days of meetings in Stockholm, today was Copenhagen's turn. The Peace Association had booked the banquet hall at a large hotel near Königsängenplatz.

Loki, holding a glass of wine, wandered around in the crowd.

On the long table were pickled herring, rye bread, and a large barrel of steaming spiced red wine.

The association's wives kept refilling the drinks, doing so very frequently, as if the more drinks they poured for the guests, the fewer cannon shots would be fired from across the strait. A young man raised his glass to him.

He was twenty-three or twenty-four years old, his face was red from the cold, and when he spoke, he had a Kansas plains accent, with each vowel drawn out.

"Sir, are you a local?"

"Half of it," Loki said, clinking glasses with him.

"I've lived in this city longer than this glass of wine has been in the barrel."

The young man was a reporter for the Capital Daily. It was his first time abroad and also his first time drinking a strong liquor like Acquavit.

He choked on his drink until tears streamed down his face, but he still solemnly raised his glass high.

"For peace!"

"For peace." Loki smiled and nodded.

"Mr. Ford said..." the young reporter lowered his voice:

He said war is a bad business, and once those people sit down and do the math, no one will want to keep losing money.

Loki couldn't help but laugh out loud upon hearing this. The young reporter blushed even more: "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, every word you said is correct." Loki stopped laughing.

"It's a real shame you're late."

"Too late? This war has only been going on for a little over a year..."

"It's too late. If only you had come a few thousand years earlier."

For those in high positions behind the scenes, war is undoubtedly profitable, a fact that was recognized thousands of years ago.

Every major war brings about a new round of changes and iterations behind the scenes.

However, many people are unaware of this fact about the New World, where resources on the mystical side are overflowing.

Loki didn't explain further, and walked away with his cup.

He's made a fortune this past month, and with so much money in hand, he can't resist the urge to buy things.

What Loki really wanted to see tonight was the Ford technical advisor by the fireplace.

For the past few days, the entire port has been talking about the car their company brought on board. Loki observed it in the square that afternoon and discovered that the car was actually alive.

Or rather, this car has its own thinking ability.

Loki knew quite a bit about the New World.

Leaving aside the blank space west of the Central Mountains, even the cities on the East Coast with their lights on at night have a much thinner curtain than those on the Old World.

Of the millions of cars that roll off the assembly line, there are always a few that can find their way on their own.

Loki wanted a car like that, and he happened to have some information that could get him one: a master had flipped through a hunting book, and the hunter had pulled out a Vasa ship ring to show off.

He walked over with two glasses of mulled wine and placed one of them next to the technical consultant.

"When Danes return to Denmark, they always have to have a glass of Danish sweet wine."

The technical consultant glanced at the glass, then at him, and cautiously refrained from touching the wine.

"You're the one who recruits people on the back street of Freeport."

"...The news travels really fast."

"The port isn't that big." The technical advisor snapped his pocket watch shut. "Speak quickly if you need anything. Mr. Ford doesn't like wasting time, and neither do I."

"Then I won't beat around the bush."

Loki gestured with his chin towards the window: "I want that car by the door."

The technical consultant's eyebrows twitched: "That's a sample car we brought here for display; it's not for sale."

"I didn't say I'd buy it." Loki smiled.

"I'll trade you a message."

"What news?"

"About one..."

The word was already on the tip of his tongue, and he heard himself continue speaking:

"...A librarian once told me that if a book is overdue by one day, the Royal Library will fine one ol."

Loki stood there, stunned. The words came out so smoothly, as if he had always intended to say this.

The technical advisor looked at him, already frowning. "Sorry," Loki cleared his throat.

"I meant to say, there is someone..."

This time, he deliberately uttered each syllable one by one.

"...The local library, where there is a librarian, closes at 3 p.m. in winter, and people from out of town often find it closed."

The technical consultant opened the pocket watch and checked the time.

Loki felt a chill run through him.

He tried a different approach, taking out a pencil and a business card from his inner pocket.

"I'll write it down for you!"

He watched every stroke of the pencil as it fell.

A line of small print appeared on the back of the business card: This document is for museum viewing only.

Loki stared at the red stamp for a long time, his fingers slowly closing, crumpling the business card into a ball.

The technical consultant suddenly spoke up: "It's been seven minutes." "Huh?"

"You took up seven minutes of my time."

The consultant shoved the pocket watch right under Loki's eyelids. Inside the watch case were engraved lines of small print: Highland Park Factory - Hour Records.

"Seven minutes to put it in the Highland Park factory, and a dozen taxis can come off the assembly line."

Loki instinctively clicked his buzzer; one car every thirty-five seconds.

Then he realized that now was not the time to calculate this.

"Give me just one more minute, just one minute."

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth:

"Your million cars are really nice, but they're all the same color running around the streets."

He inwardly cried out in alarm, but the worst part was that he couldn't stop himself from talking:

"Mr. Ford went home to find his mother, and he probably rode in that same color car, right?"

The two ladies from the Peace Association, who had been carrying wine jugs and heading this way, froze in place, one after the other. The young reporter was just a few steps away.

He thought to himself, "Finally, today's press release is settled."

The consultant snapped the watch cover shut and put it back in his pocket.

"I've seen plenty of scammers in Detroit, selling patents, oil fields, and even miracle oil, claiming that if you put a drop in the gas tank, your car will run for a hundred years."

These people at least know what they're dealing with.

But this is truly the first time I've ever met a conman who can't even explain what they're selling.

"I know what I'm selling!"

This time Loki's mouth finally obeyed, but it was too late.

The advisor turned and walked out, and Loki followed him out the door.

He noticed that the other person came to the door, opened the car door, got in, and placed both hands flat on their knees without even touching the edge of the steering wheel.

The car honked its horn, turned on its lights, and drove forward, its wheels crunching through the snow.

After the car creaked and rattled for about ten yards, the tire tracks disappeared on their own. Half an hour later, a waiter from the restaurant brought over a note.

Ford's West Continent Purchasing Office hereby informs you that the company and its affiliates will no longer have any dealings with the gentleman on Freeport Backstreet.