Chapter 25: Walls, Nails, and Stone Dust

Enid did not take Roland back to the apothecary, but to her own… was it a residence?

The carriage broke through the fog, carrying the two of them, and came to a slow stop on a street in the West District.

In front of a three-story building.

The walls were gray, lacking the decorative touches seen on other homes. There were no flowers or plants outside either—the house stood bare and monotonous, like a wooden stake planted in a garden.

Enid unlocked the door and invited Roland inside.

The interior did not change Roland’s impression of the house: simple, patternless soft rugs; a mirror on the cupboard, devoid of any ornamentation, yet covered by a black cloth; wardrobes and trunks stacked together, forming a seamless, wide-edged rectangle. A portable oil lamp sat on the table, and tea sets were arranged around a teapot, resting on a clean, plain cloth.

The room was angular, clean, and tidy.

It simply lacked the slightest trace of life. Even his uncle’s house, on the second floor, had plenty of cheap trinkets displayed for show.

“Actually, you didn’t have to give her that heteromorph remain, Roland.”

Enid took off her coat, ushered Roland inside, and sat him down in a chair. As she listened to him recount the events of the night, she brought over a tray. On it were several neatly sliced apple pieces, crushed nuts, and two slices of expensive-looking bread.

“Eat. You haven’t eaten all night.”

Enid pushed the plate toward him.

“I’m not very hungry, Enid. I was worried she would cause trouble, so…”

He was still referring to the ceramic shard labeled "Guardian."

“A smart move. But you may not understand the Inquisition, or us. That is understandable.”

Enid said, “Heteromorphs are very rare creatures. They are born from human fantasy… or other reasons not yet fully understood—let’s just say, they are no more common than a three-legged dog.”

*“Nor more common than a four-legged man.”*

—Thank you, I can hear you.

“Last night was harrowing, wasn’t it?”

Mentioning the monster made Roland’s heart flutter with lingering fear. He touched his ear: “It was so close…”

“I don’t know whether to call you lucky or unlucky,” Enid said, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knees. “That was a living corpse, Roland. A creature summoned only by ritualists of the Ring of Eternal Silence… there has been a bit of trouble among them recently. You should go out less at night.”

Before Roland could ponder the term "Ring of Eternal Silence," Enid asked again: “Mester, did he save you?”

Roland shook his head.

“Then it was the opposite.”

Silence followed.

The woman understood. She didn’t press for the detailed process like the previous interrogator, perhaps knowing full well what kind of place the Inspectorate was.

Her brown eyes stared at Roland for a long moment.

“I know how they operate. It seems you have no choice but to join us this time. Come to the Inquisition. Although a probationary executor’s weekly salary is only one pound, at least it can protect you, let you use soap, and save you from eating meat of unknown origin—”

“More importantly, it keeps those vultures from bothering you.”

*“She actually used the word ‘only’.”*

—Indeed.

One pound—how many times more was that than the weekly wage his uncle paid him?

Roland counted on his fingers.

*“For a child, your uncle paid a fair price, Roland.”*

—But I am not a child. I am a man; for all I know, I may have been an adult for a long time.

“Before you join the Circle, I will place you temporarily in the Inspectorate. First, get familiar with this city and the procedures for handling cases.”

Roland expressed his sincere gratitude: “You have helped me too much.”

“Those with talent are worth it.”

Enid popped a small piece of apple into her mouth. “Given your luck, perhaps I should tell you what you ought to know.”

Namely: Ritualists. The Mysterious. The Great Path.

“First, do you believe that a soul exists?”

Roland nodded.

“Give me your hand.”

Enid conjured a box of nails from nowhere, stood up, and pulled Roland toward the nearest wall. She casually pressed the nails into the wall one by one, leaving only a short tail exposed. Then, she had Roland touch them.

*“Touch the wall.”*

—I’m not touching anything else.

Roland’s eyelid twitched, forcing himself to ignore the text in his vision.

“It is… a wall, and nails, madam.”

“Very good.”

Enid tapped the wall with a ‘thump-thump,’ letting Roland hear the sound. “Assume this wall is the human soul.”

She drew a comparison: “And the nails…”

“Are where we ‘hang’ our power.”

She took a coat and hooked it onto the tail of a nail.

“Soul: Wall.”

“Coat: Power.”

Enid said, “A ritualist is a wall covered in nails. We hang different powers on it—clothes, paintings, oil lamps—these different powers create different ritualists…”

“Do you have any questions?”

She pressed the nails into the wall one by one, arranging them into a pattern she liked, and asked casually.

Roland pointed at a nail with his finger: “The wall is no longer whole, madam.”

Enid looked at him with great surprise.

“You are truly sharp.”

“Correct. Those are Mortal Scars—the price paid for power, Roland.”

Mortal Scars. The price.

Enid pinched the tail of a nail with two fingers, pulled it out, and let Roland touch the hole left behind.

“The wall is incomplete because it lacks brick dust.”

“The dust of the soul—that is the price for hanging power.”

Enid watched the contemplative young man with pleasure and asked, somewhat testingly: “We hang power by nailing the soul, and the stone dust of the soul is the price. So, can you tell me what the nails are?”

Roland thought for a moment.

The nails…

“Is it the Church?”

Enid smiled: “Not far off.”

She said they were the "Path." The Great Path.

“Different paths, different doctrines, lead to different ‘scars’.”

“There is a saying in the Mysterious realm: Do not look at what you are willing to accept, look at what you are able to pay; it is not you who chooses the path, but the path that chooses you.”

She led Roland back to the table.

“Do you understand now?”

Honestly, he was completely confused.

“Madam, what price did you pay?” Roland asked cautiously.

Enid… this young and beautiful woman who had taken such special care of him—what price had she paid?

“Me?”

“As I said before,” she brushed off her hands, took Roland’s wrist, and drew a large circle on the table: “Of the three doctrines of the Father of All Things, the Great Path I stepped onto comes from Judgment.”

“It is called ‘Holy Flame’.”

“‘Holy Flame’ under the doctrine of Judgment.”

Holy… Flame Path?

He remembered those flames, sharp and pointed like thorns. A power that was breathtaking, even terrifying.

“Ritualists who step onto this path…”

“Will pay with mercy as the price.”

After Enid finished speaking, she saw Roland’s surprise and repeated it with affirmation: “Yes, that’s right. It is ‘mercy’—mercy toward all things.”

“The higher we climb, the closer we move toward the Judgment Flame held by the gods.”

“We are the executors of the Gracious One, His loyal warriors.”

She rested her chin on one hand, looking at Roland as she spoke, as if discussing some trivial matter.

“Facing an enemy, an executor does not need meaningless mercy—what do you want to say?”

Roland was puzzled: “But you, to me…”

Enid folded her arms, leaned her upper body onto the table, and tilted toward him: “Your talent and wisdom have earned you this opportunity, Roland Collins.”

“Ritualists of the ‘Holy Flame Path’ simply do not possess meaningless mercy.”

“That does not mean we are a group of cold-blooded monsters.”

This time, the pale text did not cover the woman’s face, but instead drifted slightly lower.

*“I’ll bet on Roland Collins’ pretty face.”*

*“This evil-minded bat is lying.”*

—Bet on your own.

However.

If it were just like this…

Joining the Inquisition did not seem so bad.

This was Enid’s second invitation. Judging by the behavior of his uncle and the two detectives from earlier, one could see the status of an executor.

He did not believe his meager bit of so-called talent and wisdom was enough for this executor to extend a friendly hand again and again.

If she hadn’t been there today, he would have been locked up for at least thirty days.

Having seen a living corpse, Roland also yearned for the power to protect himself.

He needed to seize the opportunity, and he had to be sensible.

“It is my honor, madam.”

Roland extended his hand.

The woman had a strange look on her face, but she still shook his hand.

“Who taught you etiquette?”

*“Compared to a handshake.”*

*“A kiss would improve friendliness much more.”*

“Then, madam,” Roland asked, ignoring the text in his eyes, “how should I… nail…”

“You are not at that step yet.”