I loaded the Mysticism panel.

After the morning classes ended, the corridor was crowded with students heading towards the cafeteria.

Richard stuffed his textbook into his bag and got up from his seat in the third row by the window.

He moved slowly and deliberately, waiting until most of the people had left before walking out of the classroom.

As soon as I stepped out of the building and into the corridor, Dr. Fletcher, the principal, was walking towards me from the other end.

The principal rarely spoke to students in the corridors, but today he stopped in front of Richard.

Richard.

"Headmaster."

Fletcher's gaze fell on Richard, deliberately maintaining eye contact:

"Your recent performance has been reported by all your teachers."

As he said this, he pulled a document out of his file bag.

"We all agree that you are now ready to learn flexibly."

Richard paused for a moment, then asked, "Flexible learning?"

"It means we don't have to sit in the classroom for every class anymore."

"If you feel you have mastered the content of a lesson, you can tell the teacher in advance and go to the library to study."

He took a pen out of his pocket and signed his initials at the end of the document.

"I will mark your attendance record as 'Special Self-Study', which will not affect your grade."

After he finished speaking, he handed over the document.

Richard took it and glanced at it. The paper was stamped with the principal's office seal, and the red ink was not yet completely dry.

"Thank you, Principal."

Fletcher nodded and turned to continue walking down the corridor.

Richard stood in the hallway, folded the documents, and stuffed them into the zippered pocket inside his backpack.

The privilege of flexible learning is not unprecedented in Greenwood's history.

However, it is usually only given to top students in preparatory classes who are preparing for university entrance exams in their final year.

Those who have thoroughly mastered the course content and only need to focus on cramming before the exam.

Richard received this treatment even before he started preparatory classes.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and walked towards the restaurant.

At the end of the corridor, Warren poked half his head out, holding half a chicken leg in his hand.

"Hey, what are you dawdling in the hallway for? Your steak's getting cold."

"They're here."

"Was that the principal just now? What did he want to talk to you about?"

"He said two sentences to me."

Warren paused for a moment while chewing the chicken leg:

"...You didn't get praised again, did you?"

"almost."

"You've been getting praised way too much lately."

Warren sighed and tossed the chicken bone into the trash can by the hallway.

"If this continues, it'll make Mason and me feel like we're clinging to someone's coattails."

………………

Cheltenham Women's College, second floor of the library.

In the small reading room at the end of the corridor, Catherine sat at the table for a long time.

Four books were spread out on the table.

The topmost book is a notebook left by my father before his death.

The three books below are old volumes that she asked her uncle to find in the family collection.

A non-public copy of "Directory of Northern Families and Guilds";

A book titled "A Study of the Bloodline of the Moon Hunters in the Gaelic Heights";

A copy of "Black Ritual Notes" with its cover already torn off.

The last book, "The Black Ritual Notebook," has a white paper label on the cover with the uncle's handwriting: "Remember to return it as soon as possible after reading it."

Black does not always represent evil; it can also represent something hidden behind the scenes, unknown to others.

Catherine copied a few pages of notes from the book "The Black Ritual Notebook," then tore the paper to shreds and threw it into the fireplace after deciphering it.

A hand-drawn relationship diagram lay scattered on the corner of the table.

That was something she had painstakingly built up over the past few weeks, stroke by stroke.

She was doing the same thing as that Briston boy.

Inventory of assets, compilation of shareable intelligence, and speculation on the true identities of members of the Divine Genealogy Salon.

But her direction was slightly different from someone else's.

Most of the connections left by my father were severed after his death.

The remaining old partners are scattered in Edinburgh, Newcastle, York... I don't know them at all, so I can't get any useful information out of them.

Most of her maternal relatives, who were living in remote, secluded places, had lost contact with her, except for one who would still send her a postcard every Christmas.

There were also those old stories that her uncle was reluctant to talk about... She paid for her uncle to drink, which induced him to reveal a lot, but given that they were said under the influence of alcohol, their veracity was questionable.

These days, she has thoroughly investigated all the channels she has access to.

The pen tip paused several times in the "Shareable Information" section.

Cheltenham graduates often become the wives of wealthy businessmen, diplomats, or local councilors.

In this kind of circle, there aren't many things that can actually be used as bargaining chips.

The information I obtained, which cost me a lot of money, was all about which young lady got engaged or which lady was currently supporting which charitable foundation.

If you put these things on the round table in the Theological Salon, they wouldn't even be ranked last.

She was very clear about one thing: the Divine Salon was a godsend opportunity for her.

An orphaned female hunter from a fallen family might not even reach a minor level of expertise even if she followed the normal path for another twenty years.

The tradition of hunting the moon has always been a niche branch within the Empire, and after the purge of Gael Highlands, more than half of the core figures of the entire tradition were lost.

My eldest uncle was only a minor expert; the other elders hadn't even scratched the surface of being a minor expert.

There's no one left to rely on if you go further down this family line.

She listened to the entire discussion at the round table that time and finally concluded that this was the shortest path for her to reach a higher position.

It's not the only one, it's the most recent one.

If she follows the traditional academic system step by step, it will take her at least fifteen years, and she will still be stuck at the threshold of minor proficiency.

If she were to recommend herself through a local guild, it would take her at least twenty years, and she would have to face the hostility of the remaining enemies of her family.

There are many hunter families in Gale Highlands who have a blood feud with their family, and they are all still alive and well.

If she were to attend the Theological Salon, what she needed to do was to avoid making mistakes at each gathering and hold out until she could obtain her first real resource.

Catherine closed the book beside her, picked up her pen, and wrote three names on the last page of her notebook.

The first one: Hermes.

She added a line afterward: "It might be that Cicero Cup runner-up from Greenwood."

The pen paused for a moment.

She remembered what the other person said during the speech.

"The boundary of civilization is the moment you stop asking questions."

That passage was derived from a set of very quiet images.

Rooms, walls, water pipes, pipelines, underground rivers... push them down layer by layer.

Each floor tells a very common home-related story, and beneath each floor lies a nail that could rip the foundation off the entire house.

She was sitting there and didn't realize she hadn't moved an inch until the speech ended.

The other party's approach is to wrap a very sharp judgment in a Cicero quote, and then wrap that Cicero quote in a passage that sounds like it's about architecture.

That composure and the witty remarks hidden in his words were almost identical to those of Hermes at the round table.

Catherine added a note under the line for "Hermes": "Don't ask."

Second name: Ares.

Below this line, she wrote: "Northern Hunters, possibly from the Northumberland area."

The supply chain for the three-ring enchanted bullets points to an internal channel within the Northern Legion.

She wasn't entirely sure about this one, but she could hear a hint of a northern accent in the other person's voice.

The copper mask suppressed most of the resonance, but the sibilance had a flatness reminiscent of the Gaelic Highlands.

At least two of my father's former partners had this dental sound.

They may not be acquaintances, but they are definitely people from the same geographical area.

The third name: Dionysus.