I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 157 The Spirit Abode

Richard looked up at the sky as he came out.

The stars were exceptionally bright in the sky, seemingly confirming last night's divination.

At 7:30, everyone went down into the cellar.

Seven white candles had been lit in the cellar.

The stone coffin in the center of the circle appeared particularly solemn under the light of seven candles.

"Everyone to your positions," Mrs. McNeil said.

The eight people stood in their designated positions.

In the center is a stone coffin, and on top of the coffin is a stone bearing the true name.

The seven St. Michael candles are arranged in a circle and were re-carved from the nearest parish.

Mrs. McNeill stood in the first position—due north.

Mr. Hutton stood in the second position—due south.

This is the oldest form of counterpoint: North is the statement, South is the response; North speaks, South follows.

Richard, Maggie, Theodore, and Edmund stand at four diagonal corners as auxiliary anchor points.

Two hunters are on the outer edge.

Captain Field stood at the entrance to the cellar, facing the sarcophagus.

Sarah stood in the innermost corner of the cellar, her double-barreled shotgun already assembled and held diagonally across her chest.

Behind the curtain, they will be the ones who actually do the work.

7:47 AM, the transitional moment between day and night.

According to the sealing rules, this point in time is the crucial window where the sealing efficiency is highest, and also the window where the veil is thinnest.

The flames of the seven candles in the cellar simultaneously tilted slightly to the north by half an inch at that instant.

The flames were pointing in Mrs. McNeil's direction.

This means the sealing field has acknowledged the caster of tonight's spell.

Mrs. McNeil took a leather box out of her coat.

The box was opened, and inside lay all seven of her spiritual artifacts, neatly arranged:

A silver ring, a jade brooch, an ebony comb, a moonstone pendant, a pair of coral earrings, a silver chain pocket watch engraved with fine lettering, and a worn-out bone bracelet.

She calmly put each item on in turn.

When she wore the silver ring, a very faint gray mist rose from the tip of her index finger, and a distant wolf howl could be heard from within the mist.

"First place, Obama."

The jade brooch was fastened to her collarbone, causing a slight bend in the air around her shoulder.

"Second place, Varda."

As the ebony comb was inserted into her hair, everyone in the room briefly recalled a small incident.

Richard vaguely remembered that five minutes ago, Mr. Hutton nodded in his direction and responded.

But this did not actually happen.

The next second, everyone forgot again.

"Third, Milk."

The moonstone pendant began to glow spontaneously, emitting a very soft, milky-white light emanating from the chest area.

"Fourth, Isla."

A pair of coral earrings each emitted a high note that no one could hear.

"Fifth place, Sion."

The second hand of the silver chain pocket watch went about half a circle longer than usual before returning to its starting position.

"Sixth place, Sel."

Finally, there's the bone bracelet.

The moment the bone bracelet was put on, Richard could feel a very, very old woman peeking out from inside the bracelet and taking a look.

Like a grandmother who has long since passed away, looking up from the picture frame on the other side of the fireplace at her grandchildren who have come home.

"The seventh one..." Mrs. McNeil did not read the last name.

"You've arrived."

All seven objects lit up, and the seven spirits residing within them were also present.

Including Mrs. McNeil herself, there were eight people in total.

Richard took a deep breath in his seat.

The high-precision observation brought by [Perception] allowed him to vaguely see the other party's current weight on the etheric plane.

The steady light he was used to had transformed into a small, lit lighthouse.

This is the true unfolding of a minor master of psychic mediumship, transforming oneself into a ritual object.

Mr. Hutton was already ready on the other side.

Two stacks of rubbings were spread out on the table in front of him: one a charcoal copy of a Celtic fresco, and the other a preliminary comparison of a pre-Roman inscription.

The old man's left hand was on the rubbing, while his right hand was suspended in mid-air.

Richard could see that a small wisp of dark gray mist was condensed on the tip of the old man's right finger, containing segments of deciphered incantations.

This is how scholars calculate their work: every incantation must be able to bite the opponent.

The prerequisite is that the caster knows what the incantation is saying.

Each additional line deciphered adds another "sharp blade" to be unleashed.

"Are you ready?" Mrs. McNeil asked him.

"Ready," Mr. Hutton replied.

The old man's face was paler than during the day, but his lips were tightly pursed.

In tonight's ceremony, Mr. Hutton will be the caster of the spell for the south.

The density of incantations he has to handle is a workload that would require a seasoned practitioner to exert their full effort to manage.

He staked all the ether he had slowly accumulated over the past few months and weeks on this one night.

Richard glanced at Mr. Hutton.

Mr. Hutton didn't look at him.

The old man had completely shifted his attention from his role as a "teacher" to the two stacks of rubbings in front of him.

"Those who steal from under the bridge," Mr. Hutton read the first sentence.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word echoed clearly on the cellar's stone walls.

"The Walker in the Shadows".

"Salt should not be near her."

Those who do not go out before dusk.

The pronouns were read out one by one.

With each recitation, the flames of the seven candles in the cellar dimmed by an inch.

Soon, only tiny flames remained of the seven candles, but the flames did not go out.

Mr. Hutton paused for a second.

"The one who stole the young man's shadow..." he read the last line.

Richard's inspiration was stunned by the name.

In that instant, the entire etheric field of the cellar was "locked" by that one name.

Above the stone coffin in the center of the cellar, the True Name Stone began to glow.

Everyone in the cellar heard the beating of the "heart" in the center of the True Name Stone.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

"Lianxian Department".

Mrs. McNeil stood due north, raising her right hand, the silver ring on her right index finger pointing toward the Name Stone.

The gray mist on the silver ring sprayed from the fingertip, following the lingering echo of the name in the air, and rushed into the pulsating point of light in the center of the True Name Stone.

The light spot caught the gray fog.

Boom!

The flickering of the light spot slowed down a beat.

"The connection to the display is stable," Mr. Hutton confirmed.

Richard stood in the southeast corner and could feel that the True Name Stone, the thirty-four silver ribbons on the outer wall, and the four diagonal corners where the four newcomers stood all formed a complete net.

The main part is complete.

"Prepare to cross the bridge," Mrs. McNeil said.

She turned her head and glanced at the four newcomers.

"Edmund, Maggie, Theodore, Richard..."

"Follow me and Mr. Hutton."

She turned around to face the stone coffin.

With one step, her figure disappeared from the north side of the cellar.

The candle flames suddenly shot up, the flames of the seven St. Michael candles leaping to the height of a person, only to be extinguished at the same moment by an unseen hand.

The colors of the underground stone chamber have been stripped away.

The stone walls, the stone coffins, and the outlines of all the human bodies have faded into an over-washed old photograph.

Richard looked down at his right hand; his fingertips were becoming translucent, and he could see Maggie's face beneath the tendons.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now crossing the threshold."

Mr. Hutton’s voice came from all directions at the same time, and the voice itself was scattered and then gathered again in the etheric layer.

All of Richard's previous experiences of going near the shore now felt like wading through shallow water.

Active infiltration is a relatively safe approach.

You bend over, you stretch out your foot, you test the angle of the door, and you squeeze yourself in.

This time, the transition is completely reversed.

The door beneath the curtain opened on its own, scooping up all eight people from the stone chamber, carrying them over the threshold, and then setting them down.

He recalled his previous incursions into the peat bog and the highland shrine.

At that time, he thought he had already stepped through the curtain.

Now he knows that back then he had only stepped into the curtained foyer porch, without even taking off his shoes.

"The physical body is just a piece of paper."

Mr. Hutton's voice continued to pour in from all directions, and the old man maintained his explanation with minimal effort.

"In the material world, the floor is a conclusion that is maintained by wood, nails, foundation, and gravity."

"This conclusion is not reached here."

"Eight people, eight sheets of paper, Mrs. McNeil and I are holding them for you."

"Don't move around."

It would have flown away if the wind had blown, but the wind didn't.

The entire underground stone chamber, along with the eight stations, was sculpted by the two veterans into the same etheric layer, as if they were creating a sketch.

Richard then dared to raise his head.

For the first time, he truly saw the Whitcomb Mill behind the curtain.

Looking up, there is an infinitely extending "above".

The halls are nested one inside the other, stacking upwards to form a well that seems to have no end.

The nearest hall is directly above their hall.

Richard's inspiration was struck, and the mill from the day of the events of 1881 began to appear.

The shadows of twenty-three workers were nailed to the spot the moment they were eaten, all facing the same direction, each in a different posture.

Some people open their mouths halfway, but their tongues are still stuck behind their teeth;

Someone had their hand raised halfway up, still clutching a piece of uneaten hard bread in their palm;

Someone was looking out the window; he had just heard a sound, but hadn't had a chance to ask "Who is it?"

The colors of the entire factory were flattened, like an overexposed film.

On the next floor is the chapel where the sealing ceremony was held in 1340.

Seven monks formed a circle and held onto the light rope, while the bishop held up a cross taller than his own head.

The golden light rope was indeed glowing, hanging down from the top of the cross.

The monks' mouths opened and closed, but Richard couldn't hear a sound.

With the simplest of piety, they recited each word for two whole days and nights.

Two days later, four of them collapsed on the spot and never got up again.

Richard understood everything Mrs. McNeil had said about the "brutal" sealing at this moment.

The next layer is even blurrier.

In the morning mist of the mountains, people draped in animal skins sang around a newly erected stone pillar.

He could see the song rising from their mouths, taking shape, and climbing up the contours of the stone.

Looking further up, there are even older things.

"Retract the diffused spiritual vision!" Mr. Hutton helped him "pull" the diffused inspirational threads back.

"Thank you for your help," Richard said in a low voice.

"Your inspiration is higher than other newcomers, but you need to learn to restrain yourself."

The old man didn't turn around on his side.

"Remember, if you keep looking 'above' here, your understanding might be distorted."

You were able to pull it back because you have human traditions behind you.

Richard adjusted his breathing and, for the first time, truly felt the weight of tradition on his body.

Every book he read, every rubbing handed to him by Mr. Hutton;

Each piece of steganographic document brought back from the Imperial Capital University Library;

Every scholar who lived decades, centuries, or millennia before him...

It was the weight of their words and knowledge that allowed them to stand firm in this hall.

Maggie, standing next to him, took a step back, and Richard could see her shoulders trembling.

"...My great-grandmother is there."

A little further to the side of the main hall, there is a smaller, more compact hall.

It was a stone house in the Gaelic Heights, and inside sat an old woman with an unfinished piece of woolen cloth spread on her lap.

"I didn't look directly at her." Maggie turned her gaze back to her feet. "I just... sensed her."

"I felt fine, but then I realized something was wrong."

"I understand."

On the other side, Theodore stared blankly at his bronze compass.

The compass needle spun incessantly beneath the curtain, sometimes pointing left, sometimes right, without any stable direction.

My compass is broken.

"It's not broken," Mr. Hutton reminded him. "It can't find north here, because there is no north here."

"...Then what should I grab?"

"Catch me in the direction I'm speaking."

"Okay." Theodore gripped the compass even tighter.

Edmund is the most stable.

The young priest stood in his compartment, his left hand resting on the silver cross on his chest, and he murmured a passage of scripture.

His face was even paler than when he had just come down into the cellar, but his feet didn't move and his shoulders didn't tremble.

Richard glanced at it with his spiritual vision.

Edmund was supported by a faint halo of light.

The passage of scripture that generations of priests had repeatedly recited in that little chapel on Cornwall Road emerged through Edmund's body at this moment.

Edmund had far more people supporting him than he imagined.