Gerald’s tone softened slightly as he continued:
"The root of your problem today wasn’t actually the Fog Wall Technique."
"If you’d flashed an official ID and a sidearm at those two street thugs, chances are they would’ve scrammed on their own.
An Inspector has the authority to use lethal force against anyone with clear aggressive intent.
Punks who mess with an armed Inspector have a death wish."
The old man had already arranged everything:
"I’ve already had the butler pay your fine. Also, I’ll have Winterworth sort some things out for you, including an ID, a firearm license, and the relevant training."
"Consider it remedial education. You’ve missed far too many lessons."
The line went dead.
Richard placed the receiver back in its cradle.
The sweat on his palm had gone cold. It felt icy and sharp in the autumn wind.
Winterworth was leaning against the hood of a panel van, his stick-thin legs crossed.
As Richard stepped out of the phone booth, Winterworth pulled a cigarette from his uniform pocket and lit it.
"Did you take in everything Mr. Gerald said?"
"I did."
"Good." Winterworth flicked his ash. "Then I won’t repeat myself."
"The Branch Office has taken full control of the incident on Central Avenue today."
"The North District Patrol Station’s case file will be archived and sealed within three days. The official cause will be listed as ’mass transient epilepsy of unknown origin,’ possibly related to emissions from a nearby factory."
He spoke casually, having clearly handled many similar cases:
"A few of the affected citizens went to clinics, but nothing was seriously wrong with them.
The dizziness and nausea subsided within half an hour. The doctors prescribed some sedatives and sent them home."
"The pie vendor’s iron wok tipped over and splashed hot oil, scalding the back of one person’s hand, but not severely."
"Two children got scrapes, and the person who ran into the lamppost got a bump on their forehead."
Richard nodded. Of all the information, the fact that no one was seriously injured brought him the greatest sense of relief.
Having smoked half his cigarette, Winterworth retrieved a manila envelope from an inside pocket of his uniform jacket.
The envelope bore the crest of a gear crossed with thorns.
"These are the commission papers for a Trainee Inspector. You can fill in the details yourself."
Richard took the envelope and broke the wax seal with his thumb.
Inside was a folded sheet of heavy cardstock. The fields for name, birth year, and address were blank, waiting to be filled in.
The Nature of Commission field read: Trainee Inspector (Auxiliary).
The Commissioning Body field was printed with: Imperial Public Health Inspection Bureau · Brighton Branch Office.
At the bottom was the administrative stamp of the Headquarters, the ink still fresh.
"This is..."
"On the surface, you’re a trainee member of our health inspection team," Winterworth said, flicking his ash.
"In practice, this document serves two purposes."
He raised an index finger as thin as a twig:
"First, the incident today will be filed at the Branch Office.
It won’t go through the police system or the formal disciplinary process. It’ll be handled internally."
"To put it simply: a new trainee made a mistake, received an internal reprimand, and was told not to let it happen again."
Winterworth raised a second finger.
"Second, the status of Trainee Inspector comes with a key privilege: you can legally possess and use firearms."
Richard looked up from the document.
"All personnel on the Headquarters’ roster, including trainees and auxiliaries, hold a Class B weapons permit issued by the Ministry of Internal Affairs.
You can legally purchase, carry, and use registered light firearms."
"Furthermore, the training ranges at all our branch offices are open to rostered personnel."
Winterworth tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
"To be honest, even well-trained Hunters are heavily reliant on firearms at levels below Minor Mastery."
"The Path of Burning Blood can grant extraordinary strength and speed, but a thrown punch or a swung club is ultimately constrained by the physical limits of muscle and bone."
He tapped his temple with an index finger.
"Besides, a gun is controllable. You can aim for a specific spot. If you aim for the leg, you hit the leg. If you aim for the hand, you hit the hand.
You won’t have a situation where you aim for the shoulder but end up shattering a temple."
It was rare for Winterworth to be so talkative:
"Your problem today, when you get down to it, was a lack of a means to neutralize a threat—one that’s precise, controllable, and doesn’t expose your supernatural identity."
"A firearm fills that gap perfectly."
"And for someone on the Scholar path like you, firearms are even more important than they are for a Hunter."
Richard folded the document, placed it back in the envelope, and tucked it into his inside pocket.
"Mr. Winterworth, where is your shooting range?"
"In the basement of the Branch Office," Winterworth said.
"It’s the building behind the North District freight yard, the one with the ’Municipal Environmental Monitoring Station’ sign out front.
Just bring your Trainee Inspector papers. The guards recognize the official stamp, not the face."
"What about the fees for using the range, ammunition, and purchasing firearms?"
"Trainee Inspectors are an auxiliary position, so there’s no salary and no supply allotment.
Mr. Gerald has already arranged for the range fees and standard training ammunition to be covered by a departmental allowance."
"But if you want to buy a gun or take ammunition with you, you’ll have to pay market price.
Standard .38 caliber pistol rounds are about one shilling for twenty-four, while the military-grade .455 rounds are a bit more expensive."
"As for the gun itself, you can borrow a training piece when you practice.
It’s a standard-issue Webley revolver. A bit old, but it works.
If you want to buy your own, I’d suggest saving up. A Webley in decent condition will run you between two and three pounds."
"The range is open all day. Our own people only use it on weekdays.
On weekends, Old Big the coroner sometimes stops by.
The man’s a kind soul; he’ll probably chat you up if he sees a new face."
Richard asked tentatively, "By the way, how did you track me to my home so quickly?"
"The commotion on Central Avenue was enough to get the Branch Office’s attention."
Winterworth patted his cigarette case.
"As for how we pinpointed your address, well, every Branch Office in our line of work has people from the Secret Direction. That’s their job.
You’ll understand once you’ve had some dealings with them."
He pulled the car door open and slid inside.
"Alright, the range is open on weekends. You should come. Or don’t. Suit yourself."
The door shut.
The panel van hummed to life and slowly drove out of Waste Rock Lane.
Richard pulled his jacket tighter and started walking back toward Grafton Street.
His grandfather had dealt with the matter that had been weighing on his mind. At least, procedurally, there would be no further trouble.
The Trainee Inspector’s papers were tucked in his breast pocket, and the firearms permit they granted was a tangible form of security.
The next time he faced a similar situation, he wouldn’t need to risk close-quarters combat or reach for his Ashen Grass.

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