Within Fog Street's boundless grey-white sea of mist, a raven with glossy, pitch-black feathers was flapping its wings, flying through.
With Fog Street clinics now established in both Moldway and Foy Port, equivalent to being connected across boundaries, travel between the two places had become exceptionally convenient. Just a few dozen seconds of flight to return to Foy.
If Luyala was Fran's dream messenger, then Munin was her real-world one.
Lately, it stood by Vivian's side during the daytime, dutifully performing its Calling Bird duties.
And whenever night deepened and Vivian slept, it had to work for Fran during those hours, meeting people inconvenient for Luyala to see. It truly experienced the overtime intensity of working day and night without rest...
That Heyl Siren's Tear taken from the stone door wasn't taken for free; he had to work hard.
Fortunately, Munin was nocturnal, and daytime work wasn't too heavy; most free time was spent catching up on sleep and resting in Vivian's pocket. He wouldn't experience a lack of energy.
"Caw."
Passing through drifting mist curtains, Munin landed lightly on a wooden utility pole by Foy Port's harbor.
Soon, his gaze, through the dim yellow light inside the Abyssal Sea Tavern, locked onto the target of this trip. It was Bartley, who was drinking.
Although still downing "anglerfish" black ale one cup after another, Bartley was here on serious business this time.
Just like his last visit to the Abyssal Sea Tavern was to meet the intelligence broker Louisa... though that incident's development had been somewhat beyond expectations, ultimately escalating into a violent, fatal conflict. Just recovering from his injuries afterwards took a lot of time.
"Phew, the Abyssal Sea Tavern's black ale really does have the best taste. The stuff I've been drinking elsewhere these past few days can't even compare to horse piss."
"After what happened here last time, I thought I'd be put on the unwelcome blacklist. Didn't expect I could still drink here."
Bartley downed a full cup, sighed, then wiped the creamy foam from his lips.
"Mr. Bartley, you were the victim of that assassination attempt. The White Cup Cult has always denounced the absurd notion of 'victim-blaming.' How could we fault a loyal old customer for that?"
Sitting across the thornwood bar table was none other than Utus, professor from the White Cup's Oceanography Department.
Before him sat a glass of golden amber rum. Compared to beer, which is difficult to store in large quantities and has slightly lower alcohol content, this kind of distilled spirit is more suitable for long-term storage on ships for maritime professionals.
"Heh..." Bartley grinned slightly, giving a rough, low chuckle.
"If not for Louisa's assassination attempt, I wouldn't have known this shop I've been drinking at for years was run by you guys."
Hearing this, Utus shook his head, explaining the tavern's origins.
"If 'we' refers to the White Cup Cult, that's not entirely accurate. This tavern is Captain Nifel's personal property, used to subsidize the Leviathan's daily expenses. It actually has no relation with the cult."
"I see."
Bartley nodded, indicating understanding. Then steered the conversation to the main topic.
"Since you chose this time to meet me, you must have some commission needs. But recently, I'm going to the fallen city 'Morien' to avoid the Stellar Abyss Society guys who've suddenly gone crazy for some reason, and to investigate the Nightmare Guest's whereabouts."
"Probably won't have leisure for side jobs."
Hearing him, Utus didn't show disappointment. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, showing a hard-to-define smile.
"That's quite a coincidence. Our commission happens to be related to that. The Captain wants to investigate the sacrificial ritual within the fallen city... I will also accompany you on this trip."
"Also, transportation can be left to us. Morien Port's freezing period has ended. Even with aberrations present, the Leviathan can make a brief stop."
"Oh?"
Bartley opened his eyes with interest, thought for a moment, then readily agreed.
"In that case, I won't refuse. Without affecting my own mission content, I'll assist you within my capabilities."
Getting to Morien was precisely what had been troubling him lately.
Since the calamity, the fallen city's railway lines had been completely paralyzed and destroyed. Crossing the wilderness alone was possible, but too time-consuming, and he couldn't carry much supply provisions.
If the White Cup folks could solve that problem, he was quite happy to catch a ride.
"In that case, we depart today..."
As he spoke, Utus suddenly saw something appear on Bartley's shoulder. It was a pitch-black Calling Bird, looking calm and natural, occasionally sticking its beak under its wing to preen its feathers.
"Mr. Bartley, is Agent Vivian nearby?"
He asked curiously.
"She hasn't contacted me lately."
After saying this, Bartley also followed Utus's gaze and saw Munin the raven perched on his shoulder.
Calling Birds possess partial spiritual traits, allowing them to appear silently and with great concealment in certain places, almost like ghosts.
"A Calling Bird?"
He saw a small rolled-up note tied to Munin's slender foot. Taking it, he read it.
[The Moon's Favored 'Rosalia' and the Night-Moth acolyte Tiyel are going to the fallen city 'Morien' in the coming days. If possible, please accompany them, Mr. Bartley. They are currently at the Foy Daily newspaper office. — Fran Herschel.]
Due to limited space, the content was quite brief.
"So that's how it is..."
After reading the letter, Bartley showed a hint of understanding. Finally, he asked Utus on the other side of the table for his opinion.
"Mr. Utus, I'm afraid I'll have to bring two more people on this trip. A Moon's Favored, and the other... probably from the Night-Moth side, but likely not from the Veiled Assembly."
"No problem. You can freely arrange the additional personnel. As long as you can ensure they are sufficiently trustworthy."
Utus certainly wouldn't refuse additional help.
However, he was also slightly puzzled about their identities. Generally, Secrets-Hunter supervisors prefer to work alone, only acting in groups during purge orders. Bringing members from other cults for searches... is even more rare.
Moreover, a Moon's Favored and a Night-Moth acolyte. One sect's predecessor is vampires, the other mostly consists of deceitful liars—both types are not very well-liked by hunters.
Seeing Utus had no objection, Bartley also finished his last cup of "anglerfish" black ale, then got up to leave the tavern.
"Good. Then, as you said, we depart tomorrow."
If the letter sender were someone else, he might have needed to reconsider. But since it's Dr. Fran's request... he could only accept for now.
After all, the chainsword "Ripper Shark" she gifted was truly too valuable; he needs to find a way to repay this favor.
...
Night, Foy Daily newspaper office.
To avoid becoming office gossip, Inchworm and Rosalia chose to leave work at separate times, only meeting up again after leaving the newspaper office.
After all, those who choose journalism as a career mostly have strong curiosity. Not to mention those guys chasing gossip all day—any contact between the opposite sexes nearby seems to awaken their professional instincts...
Just as the two reached a dark alley on the street, wanting to discuss the trip to Morien further... they suddenly noticed a burly, robust figure gradually approaching their direction.
"Caw!"
Munin, leading the way, let out a call.
Bartley also rubbed his roughly trimmed beard, sizing up the two before him.
"Lady with black hair, eye color seems disguised. Are you the Moon's Favored mentioned in Dr. Fran's letter?"
Then, he turned his gaze to Inchworm beside her.
"Young pale-faced guy with silver glasses, looking like you're full of cunning. Oh... you're that Night-Moth acolyte?"
Seeing the newcomer, Rosalia couldn't help but purse her lips.
Although Moon's Favored are no longer targets for Secrets-Hunters as in the past, seeing a pressure-filled hunter approach still made her somewhat apprehensive.
Is he the hunter supervisor Tiyel mentioned, who could provide help?
The coiled muscles not completely concealed by his thick leather coat, the tearing scars on his face from claws and fangs, and the hem obviously concealing weapons...
It has to be said, Burial Court hunters easily bring a sense of security, or fear.
Just as she hadn't figured out how to speak, Inchworm, relying on the Night-Moth acolyte's outstanding linguistic talent, responded first.
"I'll take that as a compliment. I can tentatively consider 'full of cunning' a form of recognition."
"Pleased to meet you, Supervisor Bartley."
Hearing this, Bartley just snorted lightly, then added a warning reminder.
"Glib-tongued kid."
"Just call me Bartley. I really hate being called 'supervisor.' Don't let me hear that title a second time. Of course, that's just me; other hunters don't have this taboo."
Out of investigative journalist's professional instinct, Rosalia felt some curiosity.
She weighed her words, then asked further.
"Um, Mr. Bartley... why is that? Isn't the supervisor rank a form of acknowledgment of a hunter's ability?"
"That's true. Your statement is not wrong."
Bartley paused, then explained.
"When I was young, I worked in Loredon... In some places there, 'supervisors' were no different from bureaucrats, even worse. Rather than purging aberrations, they were more enthusiastic about worldly money and power."
"Just as I thought, after the Northern Nation's turmoil, most people at the Blade-Hanging Training Ground where I worked became despicable apostates under corruption. Turning from 'hunters' into Loredon nobles' hounds and lackeys, or becoming robbers, kidnappers, even slavers."
"Pathetic."
As he said this, a fierce coldness appeared in his gaze.
"Truly regrettable. I left Loredon in too much of a hurry, and didn't control my emotions well. Accidentally stepped on and crushed the head of the former training ground supervisor I had chopped off... couldn't keep it as a collection..."
Generally, Bartley doesn't deliberately mention this unpleasant past to others.
But recently, he got a beloved, handy weapon and is in a rather good mood, so he doesn't mind spending some words to enlighten others.
"I'm sorry for making you mention this."
The Northern Nation's turmoil has always been an unforgettable scar for Secrets-Hunters. Rosalia had also heard of it. She lowered her gaze slightly, expressing apology.
"An insignificant old matter."
Bartley waved his hand, clearly not caring.
"Sooner or later, we'll kill off all the apostates who have fallen into the mire. And those so-called masterminds in Loredon... they will also use their own heads to repay the blood shed by my comrades."
Letting out a depressed breath from his chest, he began asking if the two were prepared for the trip.
"By the way, have you arranged a way to get to Morien?"
Regarding this, Inchworm indeed already had leads.
"Fairly large numbers of Evil Spawn wander the fallen city; the surrounding area is too dangerous. Ordinary transport companies simply don't dare take the job. Even through the black market's transport channels, it inevitably takes some time... and their prices are usually extremely exaggerated."
"However, using some small tricks, I found a few reasonably priced vendors. We could depart within a week."
"No need for that trouble."
If it were a few days ago, Bartley might have been interested. But now he has Utus's promise, naturally no need to spend energy on this.
"The White Cup Cult's 'Leviathan' will take us to Morien. You just need to prepare what to bring tonight; we depart tomorrow. Additionally, an Oceanography Department professor will accompany us to Morien Port."
"Though I haven't seen him in action, I can feel he's a genuine tough guy."
A White Cup Oceanography Department professor?
Before he could regret his efforts of the past few days going down the drain, Inchworm's gaze sharpened, his thoughts floating.
A Secrets-Hunter, a Moon's Favored, and himself from the Veiled Assembly... and now even adding a White Cup Error-Purger. All four members come from vastly different backgrounds, with different stances, from various cults.
It's as if there's a hand hidden behind the stage curtain, pulling invisible strings to gather everyone in the same act.
For this hard-to-perceive guidance and manipulation, most people either don't realize it or feel resistance. But Inchworm only feels a surge of sincere joy, almost relishing it.
The Red Cup's dancers only began dabbling in the art of dance, far more ancient than language, during the Lost Age, and only to seek painful pleasure by shedding their skin... From a Night-Moth follower's perspective, they simply don't understand its essence's profound meaning.
True dance only sways the body for the beating of the heart and soul, only shifts the gaze for the eager anticipation of molting and transformation.
To be able to step onto the real "stage" orchestrated by Heemit, even as a puppet controlled by invisible strings, even just playing an insignificant supporting role, for Inchworm... is an supreme honor.
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