Unable to repay my student loans, I had no choice but to work part-time as a demon hunter.

Gordon opened another document.

This is an official document with a round stamp in the lower right corner, depicting a fish leaping from the waves, with a brass anchor superimposed on the design.

"To the esteemed Earl of Montfort..." Gordon read aloud, "I have recently learned that Your Excellency is seeking a gentleman of impeccable character and expertise in the preservation of your collection... Harold Wade has been diligent and dedicated to the Society for the past four years... I am confident that whatever task Your Excellency entrusts to him, he will be equally dutiful and responsible..."

"Ouch." Vera heard it vaguely.

"This is a well-written, high-level letter of recommendation. No wonder that clam-shell man was able to work for the Monford family; someone vouched for him," Gordon frowned.

He saw the signature:

Olivia Brundl.

"The Secret Order members usually maintain a single-line of communication; they only have one superior," Gordon speculated. "If Harold is Octopus Face's superior, then the person who vouched for him is likely Harold's superior, or at least willing to put their name on Harold's behalf..."

"Kill?" Vera asked.

"Wait," Gordon interrupted. "A letter and a name aren't enough to prove anything. But if this Olivia dares to oppose us, this piece of paper will become a knife to her throat."

Finally, Gordon took out a rubbing of a stone slab.

This thing is of great significance and cannot be measured in money.

"The Tide's Birth Ritual." Gordon compared it to Harold's notes; this rubbing was something Harold had obtained from a senior member of the church.

"I can't understand it." Vera looked at the marks on the rubbing.

The characters on the rubbing are very ancient and no one can understand them.

At first glance, it looks like a strange mural left by a Tantric practitioner after drinking too much.

Upon closer inspection, Gordon felt that the ancient characters and lines were quite logical, like an engineering schematic diagram.

An embryo is drawn in the center, surrounded by a circle of symbols that resemble spiral eyes connected end to end. Countless lines extend from all sides, and the whole thing is enclosed in a container. Below the container is a passage that points to something that shines brightly.

Just like childbirth. It seems there's a reason why Harold is cosplaying as a teru teru bozu at the pump station; it's probably a way to advance his life level.

Gordon's "Newborn, whose shape has not yet been chosen" is precisely missing this secret ritual that is so close to the image of "birth".

The shape of the embryo in the middle was exactly the same as the new source material in Gordon's hand, both with wrinkles, like dried fruit, as if it were drawn by the same person.

Since these things all come from the Blackwater Hermitage, and the Silver Fish Box is responsible for creating embryos, it seems reasonable that there is a corresponding ritual to allow the embryos to take shape.

The only problem is...

Gordon did not recognize the ancient inscriptions on the rubbings, nor could he rely on guesswork to carry them out.

We need to find a knowledgeable person to decipher it.

Gordon immediately thought of Professor Winslow, guessing that he would have to rely on the professor's resources for this matter.

"..." Vera was not interested in the unfamiliar characters and turned to look at the sealed storage bottle.

The gray glow inside the bottle drifted slowly, like a rotten fish.

It doesn't look like anything.

  

However, in the hunter profession, "it doesn't seem like much" is usually the first part of a dying statement.

So Vera looked at Gordon.

"What's wrong?" Gordon asked.

"Could that be... the source substance? What should we do? I won't eat it, and you shouldn't eat it either," Vera said cautiously.

Ever since she contracted bulimia from indiscriminately digesting source matter, she no longer wanted to refine any source matter of unknown origin.

"Nobody wants to fail at refining. I need to find someone to buy it," Gordon thought for a moment.

Winslow, Peter, Charlotte... he needs to find someone he won't feel guilty about messing with.

The selection range immediately narrowed down.

After taking stock of her spoils, Vera stood up.

"Where to?"

"Clean yourself up," Vera said. "Then go to sleep, and when you wake up, train."

"Don't train, rest," Gordon corrected.

"You need to rest." Vera understood.

She stopped before closing the door and glanced back at the living room.

This place has food within easy reach, her own things, and Gordon.

Although No. 9 Knight Road is not big, it is increasingly feeling like home.

Gordon didn't notice Vera's gaze.

He cleaned the table, tidied up everything, and carefully stored away the most precious items, especially the colorful scales whose purpose he couldn't understand.

Finally, he found the carefully preserved new source material.

[The pristine new essence - "A new life yet to choose its shape." Before its first cry, it awaits its birth.]

We eagerly await the day of your birth...

Once the inscriptions on the stone rubbings are deciphered, it may be possible to recreate Harold's "Tidal Birth Ritual" and bestow true power upon this source material.

"Wait a little longer," Gordon said. "I've already found a way to bring you into the world."

Beneath the walnut-shell-like wrinkles, something seemed to be slowly wriggling.

This statement sounds very inappropriate in a normal family setting.

But at 9 Knights Road, today's work can only be considered to have progressed smoothly.

the other side.

When Vera came out again, her hair was still damp.

Her first instinct was to grab the sword, but then she remembered her left shoulder injury, Gordon's instructions, and her own small hopes for the future, and she let go of it.

She moved the chair to a spot where it wouldn't block the way, drew the curtains to block the view without letting in any light, and rearranged the books Gordon had been studying. Although she couldn't understand them, she could still arrange them from thick to thin.

Only after she finished doing all that did she notice the mud spots on the ground.

So they started researching brooms, pots, and meat.

anyway.

Find the kind of life worth living.

……

Gordon went to Wycliffe Street.

Arthur Grey's private witch-hunting agency is on this street, across from the Hunter Agency Hall, which Gordon is already very familiar with.

Gray is a professional hunter; his consultation fee is 20 gold pounds.

Gordon stood outside the door, his hands in his coat pockets, determined not to cross the threshold.

He respects the 20 gold pounds.

That's an average person's entire year's salary.

So Gordon stood at the door and raised his hand to knock on the glass.

"Come in," a lazy voice came from inside.

Seeing that no word worked, the door was opened only a crack.

Arthur Gray was wearing a gray and white shirt and holding a gun. When he saw it was Gordon, he put the gun back in its holster.

"I said come in," Gray said.

"No."

"Don't discuss commissions at the door."

"I'm not talking about commissions," Gordon said, feigning ignorance. "I just want to ask a few free questions."

"Ask quickly. After you're done, leave. Don't block out any potential big clients," Gray said.

"I'm reading a book," Gordon said. "If a source substance has poor properties, a dull gray color, weak activity, and looks like an expired, rotten oyster, it's usually not very valuable, right...?"

Then, with each sentence Gordon uttered, he described the source material as even more like garbage.

Gray's expression grew increasingly contemptuous.

Finally, he couldn't help but speak up to correct him.

"You can't judge a book by its cover," Gray said.

This is the sentence that Gordon and others corrected.

"Really? I thought the gray ones were just for throwing away. The gold, white, and red ones must be high-class," Gordon said innocently.

Gray's expression worsened.

Gordon could almost read a line on his face:

Another idiot who thinks source material is just a colored stone.

"Abnormal and contaminated source materials are indeed unsuitable for refining, but suitable for making weapons," Gray said. "For example, a few bullets, an explosive bottle, or a trap, if handled properly, can release extremely vicious abnormal reactions in a short period of time."

"But it's very small," Gordon said.

"It has nothing to do with size," Gray said. "A little bit of pollutant powder is enough to keep this strange disease with you for decades."

"But what if it's like a... particularly failed and incompetent thing?" Gordon said.

"Then you definitely can't just throw it away," Gray said. "That kind of corrupting and polluting nature can correspond to very vicious effects. People who really know their stuff won't be disgusted by it."

"That sounds like it's worth something," Gordon said.

"Of course it's valuable," Gray said. "It just depends on who uses it. Okay, go on, go find your professor."

Gordon took out the brown glass bottle he had hidden on his person.

A small gray shadow was wandering inside.

Gray's face twitched.

"You just said that truly knowledgeable people won't look down on others," Gordon smiled. "I particularly admire your professionalism."

"..."

“I’ve heard,” Gordon said slowly, “that failure doesn’t mean being useless.”

Gray remained silent.

"Bullets, explosive bottles, traps..."

Gray remained silent.

"A tiny amount of pollutant powder is enough to keep you sick for decades..."

Gray sighed.

"Where did it come from?"

"A particularly disastrous experiment," Gordon said. "It's said that the source material emerges under these extreme conditions."

"Not big enough. I'll buy it for 15 gold pounds." He was too lazy to say more.

"Okay, now that we have a floor price, I'll go check with the exchange," Gordon said.

"20 gold pounds."

"That's exactly your consultation fee!"

"Not just consultation, 20 gold pounds... plus one transaction," Gray said.

Gordon got serious.

"Make a move?" Gordon said.

"Not for public release. Limited to one time only. No attacks on royalty, no attacks on the church, no prison breaks, no participation in overseas wars, and no testing of fiancés for noble ladies," Gray said.

"Your restrictions sound like you've been ripped off before," Gordon said.

"Multiple times," Gray said.

A seasoned professional hunter always has a story to tell.

"The intensity of the attack?" Gordon asked. "Is it the kind that just hovers around the door for a while, or...?"

"It depends on whether the enemy dares to look me in the eye," Gray said.

Gordon pondered.

20 gold pounds in cash, plus a single attack from a Tier 3 professional hunter. Trading a weak source essence of a failed phase for that—a bargain, an absolute steal!

"Deal," Gordon said.

Gray turned around, grabbed a wad of cash, gave it to Gordon, bought his source material, and gave him a business card.

[Grey's business card. Like an expensive bullet, its trajectory unknown.]

"I lost out," Gordon said, putting away the money in a somber tone.

Gray glanced at him, clearly not believing a word he said.

He looked at the gray shadows swimming in the bottle and judged that it could at least be made into a set of contamination bombs, or a sufficiently disgusting trap.

Twenty gold pounds plus one sale is not cheap.

But buying something like this isn't a bad deal.

"Still seeing Vera Cartrett?" Gray remembered something else.

"right."

"Before she recklessly refined her source essence, she was an exceptionally clear-headed, calm, and intelligent person." Gray turned around, a hint of regret in his voice. "Now, probably no one can see that side of her anymore."

Gordon walked back, and the door closed behind him.

……

Gordon scoured the Old Fish Market, May Square, and Prism Avenue, selling off the exotic materials in batches.

It was already evening when I returned to No. 9 Knight Road.

He rehearsed several possibilities on the road, preparing himself for chaos.

For example, Vera removed the bandages in an attempt to prove that she did not need to rest.

For example, Vera pinned an infiltrator to the wall.

For example, when she disappeared, leaving only a note saying "I'll take on a commission and be back soon," Gordon was furious.

As soon as he pushed open the door, he smelled the aroma of stewed meat.

Vera stood by the fireplace, wearing a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

She used a wooden shovel as a sword to beat a pot of beef, onions, stout, pepper, and bay leaves.

He looked around again; the floor had been swept and there wasn't a speck of dust on the windows.

"Welcome back," Vera said without looking up.

Gordon stood at the door.

This statement is not offensive in any way, yet it has a devastating impact.

"Am I in the wrong place?" Gordon said. "This doesn't look like 9 Knight Road."