"Starved to death."
Nemesis mouthed the words, and her Balance Scale tilted even more sharply.
"A Grand Mastery... the kind of person who would guard a thousand-year-old sacrificial scar."
"Mm," Richard nodded.
The others at the table said nothing.
"The land he guarded... he drained all its nutrients himself."
Richard shared what little he could from what he had heard.
"Over several decades, thousands of lives were sacrificed to it, but the scar didn’t grow fat. Instead, it grew thinner and thinner.
He was too old. Changing to a new territory would be like tearing himself apart and trying to piece himself back together—an impossible task.
By staying put and holding on, he could live a little longer than if he left. That’s all there was to it."
"So he didn’t move because he *couldn’t*."
Dionysus set down his two-handled cup.
"As for the two people currently fighting over his ’well’," Richard continued.
"they’re not just fighting for the land. They’re fighting for the ready-made framework beneath it."
Richard leaned back in his chair and steadied his Breathing.
Demeter’s Terracotta Mask had been lowered the entire time.
But beneath the mask, her eyebrows had twitched several times.
When she first entered this Divine Hall, she had seen the others at the table as a brood of chicks huddled around a mother hen.
But now, at least one of those chicks was spouting information that even she might not be able to casually mention.
From the head of the table, Hecate’s golden mask remained turned toward Richard.
After he finished, her three-phased voice layered together.
"Let me add something to what Hermes has said."
Her Mother’s voice began, gentle but with a suppressed undercurrent.
"Of the two on Hemes Island, the winner was the one who weaves ropes.
He excels at scheming and had his eyes on this wellspring long ago.
Right now, that person is in the process of taking control of it."
"But the takeover isn’t going smoothly," her crone’s voice added, low and raspy.
"A fertile field, nurtured for a thousand years and just recently vacated, is never so easily claimed.
The victor must take the thousand years of whispers from beneath the earth and twist them, strand by strand, into his own rope."
"That is all for the intelligence report."
Hecate retracted her three-phased voice, and the torch and key solidified above her head once more.
She didn’t immediately announce the end of the meeting.
Her golden mask swept over the faces of the seven people at the table, one by one.
When it reached the drooping sheaf of wheat on the seventh chair, it paused for half a breath.
When it reached the deathly gray of Aries’s severed shoulder, it paused again for half a breath.
"Tonight, I have an official matter to announce."
Everyone at the table sat up straight.
"You all recall I said that once all seven chairs were filled, the gathering would enter its second phase."
Hecate’s maiden voice was clear and bright.
"Tonight, with Demeter’s arrival, all seven chairs are filled for the first time."
"Starting from our next gathering," Hecate said, word by word.
"I will craft a mask for each of the six of you."
The table fell silent.
"You have all seen mine."
Hecate raised a hand, her fingertip tapping the edge of her golden mask.
The maiden and crone halves wobbled slightly beneath her touch.
"A great deal of my Strength comes from it."
"I chose your respective names when I distributed the tokens."
"Once the mask is made, its wearer can borrow a stream of Strength connected to that name."
"How much you can borrow depends on your own Tier and your foundation."
Her Mother’s voice continued, adding to the explanation.
"The mask cannot grant you abilities out of thin air.
It is a conduit. It draws a wisp of the perception that has settled upon that name over a thousand years and channels it into you.
The deeper your own well is dug, the more water can be drawn in."
Hearing this, everyone present began to imagine the parts of themselves that aligned with their divine names.
"Let’s be practical," Hecate said, as if seeing through the calculations turning in their minds.
"After you put on the masks, your individual rates of advancement will be faster than they are now.
How much faster will vary from person to person.
Those of a lower Tier will get a taste of its benefits; those of a higher Tier will feel its true weight."
Dionysus picked up his two-handled cup again.
"Chief, this mask... how much effort will it take for you to make one?"
"The effort isn’t in the making," Hecate answered swiftly.
"It’s in the tuning. Each one must be tuned according to its wearer’s foundation.
If the tuning is off, the conduit will be misaligned, and what flows in will be more than just Strength."
"Once all six of you have crossed the threshold of Minor Mastery..."
"...the gathering can enter its third phase."
No one at the table spoke.
"The next gathering is in mid-June," Hecate concluded.
"You are all familiar with the method of departure."
"Close your eyes and count to seven."
Richard closed his eyes.
’One, two, three.’
’The outlines of the seven masks receded, layer by layer, in his mind.’
’Four, five.’
’A conduit that channels a wisp of what has settled over a millennium to you.’
’The more you draw, the thicker and longer the Shadow you cast on the other side of the Curtain, right?’
’Six.’
He thought of the Sphinx Lamp, of the still-faint Shadow at his feet.
’Borrowed power must always be repaid.’
’Seven.’
The Star Sea dispersed.
The Divine Hall was empty.
The suspended Star Sea faded almost completely, leaving only the circle of marble around the head seat solidified.
Two women sat across the Round Table from each other, their masks one of gold, one of terracotta.
Demeter’s farmer’s hands shifted restlessly on her knees.
Hecate spoke first. This time, she didn’t use her three-phased, layered tone.
She used only her Mother’s voice—gentle and familiar.
"What did you think of tonight?"
Demeter knew what she was asking.
"It was fine."
She suppressed a mountain of complaints behind that single word.
’Fine, my ass. A table of chicks gathered around you, the old mother hen... If my old sisters heard that, they’d laugh their heads off.’
"Is that all?"
Hecate found this amusing.
"You sat here all night, and all you have is ’it was fine’?"
"It really was fine," Demeter said, rubbing her calloused hands on her knees.
"Then tell me, what was so fine about it?"
Demeter groaned inwardly beneath her mask.
Her mind raced.
’Of everyone at this table, who could she possibly praise...’
’Aries? Praise him for losing his arm with such dignity?’
’Dionysus? Praise him for his spectacular advancement?’
’Prometheus’s flame barely spoke a few words all night, and Nemesis’s Balance Scale just kept tilting back and forth...’
’Right, that leaves only Hermes.’
"That... Hermes," Demeter began. "He was the most impressive one tonight."
"Mm."
"Look at him. When he was dismantling your Seal, he couldn’t do it himself and sought help from a senior.
He didn’t hide it; he mentioned it openly.
But when he spoke of it, he protected that senior’s name, not letting a single word slip."
Demeter found her rhythm as she spoke.
"And his praise for your Seal—it was pleasant to hear, but anyone in the know could tell who was truly the more skilled one.
The kid’s got high emotional intelligence. For someone so young, his sense of propriety is..."
"Demeter."
"...and that line, ’Appraisals are priced accordingly,’ was brilliant too. It made him seem valuable without closing any doors..."
"Demeter," Hecate’s voice grew heavier.
Demeter stopped.
"If you keep praising him like that, I’m going to suspect you have a crush on him."
Demeter flushed with embarrassment under her mask.
"Well, I... you asked me what was so fine about it."
"That’s enough," Hecate’s maiden voice held a hint of a smile. "Let’s talk business."
Demeter placed her hands properly on her knees.
"About the masks, I told the table it would be some time," Hecate said.
"Mm."
"Actually, I could make them right now if I wanted to."
Demeter was a little confused.
"Postponing it was just an excuse."
Hecate pulled the pool of black water back to the center of the table.
The phantoms of the people who had just been at the table were reflected in the black water.
Her fingertip landed on the phantom of Aries.
"Him. I want to replace him."
Hearing this, Demeter felt a little uncomfortable.
She was a gentle person by nature, and her first reaction to hearing someone would be replaced was always to speak up for them.
"Hecate..." she began to protest.
"His arm is gone, and he’s going through a hard time. To replace him now, isn’t that..."
"It’s precisely because of his arm that I want to replace him."
Hecate’s fingertip tapped on Aries’s phantom.
"Didn’t you see? That circle of deathly gray around his severed shoulder is a side effect from the Moon Nail · Reflection Technique used to save his life.
The stump has nowhere to vent, and the Ether is turning into heat.
He can’t suppress it on his own, and even with Hermes’s remote guidance, he’s only managed to suppress half of it."
"It’s just an injury. With rest..."
"Demeter, this isn’t a charity."
Hecate cut her off.
"A Hunter has lost his dominant arm, and the stump is still deteriorating inch by inch.
At his level, rest alone won’t be enough for him to recover."
"He knows it himself," Hecate said, now using only her crone’s voice.
"Look at what he laid on the table tonight—all just scraps left over from the last trip to the Ashen Zone.
He couldn’t produce a single new thing. That seedling has withered."
Demeter said no more.
"At my table, there are six chairs besides my own."
Hecate continued, tapping.
"I must plan for every single one.
A withered seedling is occupying a chair. When the masks are made, he won’t be able to borrow that stream of Strength, and he won’t be able to advance.
One person falling behind will drag down the progress of the entire table."
"You’ve... already found someone?" Demeter caught the implication.
"Yes," Hecate answered crisply.
"A Minor Mastery Hunter. I’ve had contact with him a few times. His foundation is solid, and he’s sharp.
I plan to have him wear the ’Hercules’ mask."
Hercules!
Demeter was knowledgeable; she knew exactly what that name represented.
Divine names had their own hierarchy.
To put it bluntly, a divine name is a vessel, an Anchor forged and tempered from layers of perception that have settled and compressed over a millennium.
The longer it settles, the more people who recognize it, the more substantial the vessel becomes.
When someone connects to borrow its power, the wisp they draw out is that much more potent.
Demeter’s own sheaf of wheat was considered upper-middle tier.
As the Mother of Grain and Earth, she presided over prosperity and decline, life and death. Her vessel was substantial enough.
But her domain was too broad. Her Strength was scattered across fields, harvests, motherhood, and the seasons. What she could draw out was a wisp, but it could not be focused into a sharp point.
There were only a few that truly ranked in the top tier.
Demeter silently counted them in her mind.
Athena was one.
Wisdom, war, crafts, and the protection of city-states—several concepts twisted into one, yet twisted with extreme clarity.
It was a name with a meaning so special it was nearly unique. Anyone with ambition coveted the name Athena.
Then there were Apollo, Artemis, and a few others. Light, prophecy, the hunt—their roots ran deep, their intent purely focused.
Hercules, without a doubt, was also in this top tier.
Demeter even felt that when it came to "borrowing power," Hercules was a bit more accessible than Athena.
Athena, after all, was a god.
Born a god, she stood on Mount Olympus from the moment of her birth.
That wisdom and martial prowess were difficult for a mortal to receive and wield well.
But Hercules was different.
He was originally a man, a Demigod, the illegitimate son of the God-King.
Of all Demigods, he was the most tireless and the most powerful.
Born in Thebes, he was hated by the Celestial Empress from the moment he left the womb and strangled two venomous snakes in his cradle.
His glorious achievements were all earned, one by one, through his own hard struggles.
He was poisoned by the centaur’s blood, his flesh rotting inch by inch.
The pain drove him to build his own pyre on Ota Mountain and set it alight.
The fire burned away his mortal shell, and he finally ascended to godhood.
This was "Hercules"—ultimate strength, ultimate endurance.
The vessel was heavy with substance, its intent purely focused.
To pair such a name with an elite Hunter who had a solid foundation...
Demeter sighed under her mask.
Borrowing power from a divine persona had always been a matter of "compatibility."
"You’re... using a top-tier name to fish for a top-tier person."
Demeter understood her meaning.

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