I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 126 The Vanished Her? (Bonus Chapter 6 for Monthly Tickets)

Richard tied the cloth bag shut and put it into the side pocket of his backpack.

The schoolbag also contained textbooks and notebooks, making it quite heavy to carry.

Old Big started brewing tea: "It's still early today, let's brew another pot."

Richard's eyes lit up; every time Old Big brewed tea, it was a good opportunity for him to gather intelligence.

The tea Old Big brewed today was a little different; he added a few dried sage leaves to the black tea.

The flavor of sage masks the astringency of the black tea itself.

After brewing the second pot, he placed it in the center of the table, moved his chair back, and sank into the back of the chair to catch his breath.

Richard waited until he had drunk half a cup of tea before speaking.

"Old Big, that once-in-a-lifetime genius you mentioned last time..."

He casually asked, "What happened next?"

Old Big stopped drinking his tea.

It was different from the usual comical pause caused by someone choking on their food.

When he chokes, his eyes widen, his stomach shakes, and he becomes a comical figure.

This time is different.

His cup hung in mid-air, neither being put down nor brought to his lips.

Old Big's face scrunched up.

"Why are you suddenly asking this?"

"You mentioned it last week," Richard said, carefully observing his expression. "Then nothing more was said. I've been thinking about it occasionally these past few days."

"Pretend I didn't ask if I shouldn't have."

Old Big put the tin cup back on the table.

"It's not that I can't ask," he finally said. "I didn't tell you everything before."

"Um."

Old Big's gaze shifted from Richard's face to the surface of the black tea in his cup.

"That person... isn't dead."

Richard was a little surprised.

When he first heard old Bige stop mentioning "later," the default image in his mind was some kind of untimely death.

That version fit the fate of "those who show their talents too early" in all the stories he had read.

The candle burned too brightly, attracting the attention of distant eyes too soon, and the flame was extinguished in the strong wind.

This is the standard ending in the story.

Old Big waved his hand.

"She essentially betrayed her master and their relationship became very strained."

Richard noticed that the other person was using female pronouns.

Why?

Old Big shook his head.

"The teacher never mentions specific details."

"I asked her, and my senior sister asked her too, but she didn't answer."

"We can only piece it together."

He spun the tin cup halfway around on the table.

"The only thing she could fight for was that she wasn't willing to stop where Mrs. Mary was willing to stop."

"The teacher only mentioned it once at the dinner table."

Old Big's voice lowered even further:

"What she wants to do, I can't do, and I won't allow her to do within my sect."

"And that was the end of it."

"The teacher never sent anyone to look for it. Once, a senior student asked if we should go and look for it, but the teacher just waved her hand."

After finishing his story, Old Big finished his cold tea in one gulp.

Richard did not press the matter further.

"Old Big," he changed the subject, "this way of brewing sage, did you figure it out yourself, or is it a method passed down within your sect?"

"It was passed down by the teacher."

Old Big's shoulders relaxed a bit, clearly grateful that Richard hadn't pressed him for details.

"She said that sage can suppress the astringency in black tea, making it easier for the brain to return to normal after training."

"Will the brain be in a state of heightened sensitivity after training?"

"Yes." Old Big nodded.

"You've been practicing for so long, your nerves are still in a 'stretched out' state, and the scent of sage will bring them back."

"Besides, coroners smell the stench of dead people every day, their noses are practically pickled."

The wrinkles on Old Big's round face unfolded again: "There aren't many things that smell pleasant to me anymore."

"Is sage one of them?"

"Sage is one of them, and roasted chestnuts are another."

He tapped the table with his finger: "If you happen to pass by Grafton Street next time you come, bring me a bag."

"Can."

"I want the big bag of the kind that costs two pence."

"You're not being polite at all."

"What's our relationship?" Old Big waved his hand. "Why would I bother with that?"

Richard couldn't help but chuckle.

Old Big saw him off to the gate of the branch office; it had already started snowing outside.

"The weather is getting colder, be careful on your way home."

"Um."

"We need to keep practicing next week."

Old Big stomped his foot at the doorway, shaking the snow off the soles of his shoes:

"You've already grasped the basics of reading stone techniques; now you need to solidify your understanding."

"it is good."

Richard turned and walked toward the street corner.

After walking about twenty steps, he looked back.

Old Bige was still standing there under the gas lamp at the entrance of the branch office.

He didn't enter the room, nor did he look at Richard; his gaze seemed to be fixed in some unknown direction.

Richard turned back and quickened his pace.

………………

There weren't many people on the bus.

Richard found a seat by the window and sat down.

It was completely dark in Bristol by evening, and the streetlights receded past the car window one by one.

He turned up the collar of his coat.

The heating in the carriage was only warm near the driver's seat; the seats in the back were basically as cold as on the street.

He recalled the information he had just received.

Among Mrs. Mary's students was a genius whose inspiration came only once every few decades.

Twenty items were correctly distinguished in one go, with an additional ranking based on their relative strength.

This level of inspiration was described in no other material Richard had ever read.

Old Bige said "once in decades," which is the highest praise he could give.

She betrayed her master, but Lady Mary did not send anyone to pursue her.

"I can't do what she wants to do, and I won't allow her to do it within my sect."

The phrase "cannot do" reveals the gap in ability.

Even Lady Mary, a woman of great expertise, couldn't accomplish this...

The bus braked at the intersection to wait for pedestrians to cross the road.

Richard's body leaned forward due to inertia, and his gaze shifted from the window to his knees.

"She can't do it, and she's not allowed to do it." So why isn't she allowed to?

If it's just that you can't do it yourself, then let go.

"She is not allowed to do this within my school," implying that what the student wants to do will implicate the school.

If it's just a simple attempt to break through to a higher rank, success or failure is a personal matter, and the sect won't be implicated.

What would implicate the sect is another, even more dangerous matter.

The bus restarted.

Richard's fingertips stopped on his knee.

The portrait of Hecate filled the blank space in old Big's description.

The missing genius, even Lady Mary said that he could do things that she could not;

He abandoned his master's school and started his own new path.

Using the triad of goddesses as a codename, the young girl represents the past, the mother represents Lady Mary, and the old woman represents the position she will reach in the future...

All the clues combined point in the same direction.

The bus slowed down as it turned from Central Avenue onto Kuangzha Lane.

Richard wouldn't write this conclusion into his notebook.

Not writing it down isn't because it's unimportant; on the contrary, it's because it's too important.

If he were Hecate, he would not tolerate anyone pointing out her true identity either.

Some things are enough for you to figure out on your own.

The bus stopped at the entrance of the slag heap alley.

The driver opened the door, and a blast of cold air rushed into the carriage.

Richard pulled his coat collar up even higher and stood up from his seat.

A figure stood at the entrance of the slag heap, waving at him.

"elder brother!"

Evelyn ran over from the street corner.

The girl was wearing a wool hat, and her cheeks were red from the cold; she had obviously been waiting for him for a while.

Richard glanced at his sister's bright red nose: "You went out to play today too?"

My sister seems to have completely forgotten about the argument she had with her father a couple of days ago.

"Yes, I'll show you something."

Evelyn took an oil paper package out of her coat pocket.

"What is this?"

"Cinnamon rolls." Evelyn held up the parchment paper package in front of him, her eyes crinkling with laughter. "Made by Betty's cook."

"Didn't Mom tell you to try not to go to your classmates' houses to eat and drink for free?"

"No." Evelyn shook her head, then nodded:

"Okay, I did go, but it was at her mother's invitation. I didn't just go there on my own."

She peeked out from under her scarf and poked the oil paper package with her finger:

"Betty's family was having afternoon tea today, so I stopped by for a bit."

I had two cups of hot cocoa, and they made a lot of cinnamon rolls; I brought three back with me.

"Three?"

"Well, I ate one on the way." She was a little embarrassed: "It was cold walking, so I had to eat something sweet."

"Reasonable."

"We'll eat the other two when we get back."

"You've already exceeded your snack allowance for tonight. What are you going to do if you can't eat dinner?" Richard glanced at his sister.

"I'll definitely finish it." Evelyn raised her right hand, which was covered in a woolen glove. "I swear in the name of Tacitus."

"...Where did you learn this kind of oath?"

"In history class, we learned that Tacitus was a historian. If you swear an oath in the name of a historian, you cannot lie, because the historian will record it."

Richard was amused by his sister's twisted logic.

The brother and sister walked home together.

The snow was still falling, but the wind was light in the alley, and the snowflakes fell very slowly.

Evelyn walked to his left, her steps occasionally skipping, the little pom-pom on her wool hat bouncing along with her.

Back home, my mother's voice came from the kitchen: "You're back?"

"I'm back."

"Dinner will be ready soon."

Richard went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of hot tea.

There was no sage in the tea; sage doesn't taste like home cooking.

He thought that what the family needed was a different flavor.

Cinnamon, caramel, onions, breadcrumbs, plus the lingering smell of flour that always clung to my mother.