Three books remained on the library table.
The oil in the crystal lamp had burned down to less than a third of its original volume.
Raymond held a book written by a wandering poet from centuries past. It was filled with strange tales and local legends.
Ghosts, the poet claimed, were nothing more than concentrated resentment left behind by the dead—obsessive, twisted beings born of extreme emotions. But they could be warded off. Carry a pouch containing wormwood aged at least fifteen years, dew from spiceflowers, and dried mud from an empty lotus pond, and no ghost would dare approach.
The poet also had theories about wizards.
Wizards, he wrote, could forge special bodies for themselves and wield powers beyond comprehension. But becoming a full wizard was extraordinarily difficult—hence their rarity. Before reaching that level, there were distinctions: first-level, second-level, and third-level apprentices. And those born with wizard blood lived far longer than ordinary people.
The Torrie family library held over two hundred volumes. Most were practical—agriculture, animal husbandry, local legends. Family histories and biographies accounted for another thirty-plus.
Many of the books were repetitive or worthless. The poetry, in particular, seemed like bored nobles whining about nothing. Raymond skimmed it all and moved on. With the chip, he could store everything regardless of quality and sort it out later.
Only two subjects truly interested him: Hailimu's biography, and anything explaining wizards.
He closed the last book—a detailed account of courtly romances, complete with illustrations. The bedroom activities described were... inventive. Raymond's expression remained neutral, but he noted the variety.
He returned every book to its proper place and left the library.
The young steward sat slumped in his chair, fast asleep. Raymond realized with a start that he'd been inside for over ten hours. It was already early morning.
The steward woke at the sound of the door, wiping drool from his chin. He sprang up, stammering apologies until he saw Raymond wasn't angry.
As Raymond prepared to leave the castle, Havinsson's shy younger brother came rushing out. Sessche had apparently been waiting for him. Blushing, stammering, he asked if he could visit Raymond's castle in two days.
Raymond liked the awkward boy. He agreed.
But he didn't return to the castle immediately. Instead, he directed Mygaugh to take him back to the commercial district.
The shadow-thing in his basement—Raymond was now almost certain it was Hailimu Torrie. The golden-haired beauty who'd vanished at thirty-seven had apparently failed her wizard breakthrough and ended up as... something else. Something that still haunted the castle.
First stop: the pet market. He bought a dozen yellow-fanged rats, each the size of a fist.
Then he dismissed Mygaugh and the coachman and went alone to an apothecary.
Wormwood was common enough—used as a spice. Spiceflower dew was rarer but still available, favored by nobles for making perfumes. Dried lotus pond mud? Common as dirt, but no apothecary stocked it.
The shop owner, trembling at the sight of Raymond's third-level apprentice badge, personally attended to him. He promised to find the mud. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he offered some advice.
The mixture Raymond wanted was a folk remedy, the owner explained. Good for warding off evil, supposedly. But if Raymond truly needed protection, he should visit Kaiton's exorcist—the most effective one on the entire western coast.
Raymond frowned. The man had guessed his purpose. But after that night in the basement, he wasn't taking chances. He got directions and headed for the slums.
Kaiton's southeast corner was a different world.
Low, cramped shacks stretched in every direction. The air stank of rot and filth. Sewage ran openly in the streets. Raymond's stomach turned before he even entered.
But he'd faced walking trees and singing leaves and shadow-things. He could handle a poor neighborhood.
His white robes cleared a path. No one dared approach a wizard—even a young one. Fear of their kind ran deep.
He found someone to guide him to the exorcist's home: a dark gray house, crumbling, barely standing.
The exorcist herself was a shock.
A wizened old woman, skin stretched tight over bones, most of her teeth gone. This was the legendary exorcist of the western coast?
She took one look at Raymond's badge and collapsed to her knees, weeping, begging forgiveness.
Raymond cut through the panic and stated his purpose.
She calmed slowly, still trembling, and brought out everything she had.
Wooden dolls woven from dried grass. Bracelets strung with animal teeth. Dried, crusted rags stained with what she claimed was... well. Raymond didn't want to know.
The chip scanned it all. No radiation. No power. Nothing.
Under Raymond's cold stare, the old woman crumbled again and confessed: she was a fraud. A dying fraud. Her reputation came from curing a few frightened women years ago. Nothing more.
But she did have knowledge. Ghosts, she said, were real—but rare. They needed specific conditions to manifest. Usually, they required an object to anchor themselves to a place. Destroy the object, and the ghost would fade.
Raymond listened, then left.
So the books were wrong, he thought. Or incomplete.