I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 162 We Must Rise Up!

When everyone came out of the cellar, it was already completely dark outside.

The stars were bright, and the wind blew down from the highlands, carrying the smell of peat and sheep dung.

The carriage was parked outside the mill, and the old coachman, wrapped in a blanket, was dozing on the carriage shaft.

Hearing footsteps, the old man woke up and jumped off the cart.

He was clearly pleased to see eight people filing out of the cellar, none of them missing an arm or a leg.

But the old man didn't ask anything; he just helped get the wounded onto the carriage.

On the way back to the hostel, no one spoke.

The carriage bumped along the desolate path, its axles creaking.

Richard leaned against the carriage wall, his eyes closed.

His spirit is now empty.

Ten units of ether reserves were exhausted during the ritual.

His current ether reserves are zero.

The Sun's Seat is still in motion, the Light Tree is still breathing, and all its leaves have closed up.

Breathing Healing is slowly repairing his body.

The dry, cracked pain in my throat is gradually subsiding, and the bloodstains on my fingers have begun to scab over.

But the fatigue was uncontrollable; weariness seeped from the very marrow of my bones.

Theodore was already asleep in the carriage.

The boy's head was resting on Maggie's shoulder, his mouth slightly open, emitting soft snores.

Maggie didn't have time to push him away.

She was almost asleep herself; her eyelids were drooping.

Edmund sat at the other end of the carriage, his hands folded on his knees, his lips still moving silently.

He was still praying.

Or rather, he was using prayer to calm himself down.

Captain Field leaned against the carriage door, his injured leg stretched out straight.

Sarah sat next to him, her shotgun resting against her leg.

Mr. Hutton and Mrs. McNeill sat at the very back.

Neither of them spoke.

Mrs. McNeil's expression was also not good. The summoning and maintenance of the seven host spirits was a continuous drain on the caster.

From the beginning to the end of the ceremony, she single-handedly carried the "skeleton" of the entire sealing field.

After the skeleton was removed, she herself went limp.

The carriage stopped in front of the inn, where the owner was already waiting.

He carried a kerosene lamp in his hand, its light swaying in the wind.

"They're all back?"

"They're all back, all alive." Mrs. McNeil was the first to get out of the car.

"Where are the wounded?"

"One is seriously injured, one is slightly injured, and the rest are exhausted."

The boss nodded and turned to walk inside.

"The hot water is ready, and the ginger tea is prepared as well."

"I will add an extra blanket to the room for the wounded."

The fireplace in the hostel lobby was burning brightly.

The flames danced on the firewood, bathing the entire hall in a warm yellow light.

Eight people walked in one after another and each found a chair to sit down.

The proprietress brought out a large copper kettle from the kitchen, with white steam rising from its spout.

"Ginger tea." She placed the copper kettle in the center of the long table.

"Have a warm drink first."

Richard took the cup and took a sip.

The spiciness of the ginger burned from my throat all the way to my stomach, and the heat in my stomach rose up to my chest.

He finished the whole glass and then poured himself another.

Mrs. McNeil stood up when she was halfway through her second drink.

She placed the cup on the table and looked around at everyone present.

"Our mission has been successfully completed."

She glanced at Captain Field and Sarah.

"Everyone, take a good rest tomorrow."

"Madam, may I ask you a question?" Theodore shrank into the corner, raising one hand timidly.

"Ask away," Mrs. McNeil said, raising an eyebrow.

"The matter of the Whitcomb Seal has been passed around for so long because neither the Church nor the Royal Family is willing to get involved."

Theodore was quite indignant.

"Why did you have to tackle this tough challenge this time, Madam?"

"Yeah, where do guilds get the money for this kind of work?" Maggie chimed in.

"Are we supposed to make the guild pay out of their own pockets to do charity? We reinforce the seal near my house every year, and I've never seen anyone come to help us."

"I knew you guys would ask this sooner or later."

Mrs. McNeill raised her hand, and the proprietress came over with a tin pot, filling each of the four newcomers with more than half a cup.

"Let me explain the accounts to you."

The medium placed his hands on his knees.

"The seal on Whitcomb should be reinforced every autumn according to proper custom."

The expenses were paid by the Royal Family through the parish, at approximately £220 each time.

"Two hundred and twenty pounds?" Theodore whistled. "That's enough to buy several houses."

"That's enough to hire a senior practitioner to train four apprentices for two weeks," Mrs. McNeil corrected him.

"It sounds like a lot, but in reality, every single penny has a destination."

The ceremony materials, silver, labor for re-engraving the inscriptions, temporary hiring of local guides, and after completion, a purification mass must be performed by the religious authorities…

After completing the entire process, the remaining money wasn't even enough to buy the local elderly pastor a new robe.

"But in the past twelve years, the number of times this money has actually been disbursed is..."

She extended her right hand and held up three fingers.

"three times."

There was a moment of silence around the table.

"Where did the remaining nine go?" Maggie frowned.

"The church says the royal family withheld it, the royal family says the church embezzled it."

Mrs. McNeil's tone revealed no emotion:

"The two sides have been suing each other amidst piles of documents in the capital for over a decade, while no one in Whitcom has taken any action."

"So the local parish is just going to leave it like this?" Edmund's voice tightened unconsciously.

"The local parish applies for subsidies every year according to the procedures, and the old pastor personally wrote eleven petitions."

The lady picked up the ginger tea and blew on it to cool it down.

"The morning after he finished writing the last letter, he fell from the church tower."

Edmund's hand holding the teacup trembled slightly.

"...Fell down?"

"The official conclusion is that it was an accident."

Mr. Hutton shook his head slightly beside him, without saying anything more.

Edmund lowered his head, looking at the silver cross in his palm.

"This incident is recorded in our religious order's archives. The records state that the cause was advanced age, dizziness, and carelessness."

"Archives need to look good, and so do living people," Mrs. McNeill said. "Dead people don't need to look good."

The table fell silent for a while.

Mr. Hutton then moved his chair toward the table.

He took a folded piece of thin paper from his coat pocket and spread it out on the table.

The paper contained a hand-drawn sketch of the Gaelic Heights, which was depicted as a crouching beast with a dozen or so small red dots scattered across it.

Several very thin dotted lines connect these points, forming a loose network.

"The seals in this highland area were originally established by the same group of former Roman priests."

Mr. Hutton's fingertip landed in the very center of the grid.

"They designed the entire highlands as a large ritual system."

"Each sealing node cannot operate in isolation; it must support other surrounding nodes."

The old man's fingertips slid outwards along the dotted line, brushing past several red dots in turn.

"These dozen or so surrounding nodes will lose their support due to Whitcom's seal and will gradually decay."

"One by one?" Maggie leaned closer.

"According to my calculations, it will take twenty to thirty years."

Mr. Hutton folded the paper back and put it in his pocket.

"That sounds like it'll take a long time," Theodore muttered.

"Not long." Mr. Hutton didn't look at him.

"Twenty years later, Maggie is in her thirties."

The old man turned and glanced at the red-haired girl: "She might have her own children by then."

Maggie picked up the teacup and then put it down again.

“Her children would ask her…” Mr. Hutton continued, “Mom, why can’t the children go out at night in our Highlands?”

"Why are there so many lines drawn outside the sheepfold?"

"Why does Grandpa burn a bundle of grass on the mountaintop every year?"

There was complete silence around the table.

Captain Field stroked his stubble.

Sarah had removed her hands from the shotgun parts and placed them on her knees.

"So this mission..." Mrs. McNeill brought the conversation back on track:

"The guilds take on the work that the royal family and the church should do but no one is willing to do. The money they earn is divided according to the hours worked, and each person will not have more left than usual."

"Then why accept it?" Theodore asked.

Mrs. McNeil smiled, but there was a hint of bitterness in her smile.

"Little fellow, for hundreds of years, folk guilds have made money by purifying noble residences, blessing merchant ships, and communicating with widows to inquire about their wills."

"These jobs support most of the guild members."

"but."

She gently placed the cup on the table.

"This wasn't written in the first article of the guild's charter when it was established."

"What does it say?" Edmund looked up.

Mr. Hutton answered for her.

"When kings become complacent, sages fall silent, and the people are left helpless, we must rise up!"

He didn't show much emotion when he read these words, probably because he wasn't a member of any folk guild.

But this proverb is indeed a good sentence.

Edmund murmured, "This sentence was also quoted in our seminary textbooks."

"When the church quotes this sentence, it will also follow with a sentence criticizing the overstepping of the bounds by folk guilds."

Mrs. McNeil continued, with a hint of sarcasm.

"But our guild quotes this line to remind ourselves why we exist in the first place."

"The same sentence quoted on both sides."

She picked up the ginger tea, drank the last sip, and put the empty cup down.

"The two sides have completely different meanings."

The table remained quiet for a while.

Mrs. McNeil waved her hand: "Alright, everyone go back and rest. You're all tired today."

………………

When Richard arrived at the second-floor corridor, he passed by several other rooms.

Theodore was snoring loudly from his room; you could hear it even through the door.

There was a rustling sound of clothes rubbing together in Maggie's room; I wondered what they were doing.

Candlelight shone from Edmund's room; he was probably still writing his observation report.

Richard used his key to open his room door.

A panel appears above the field of view.

The [Perception] Lv.1 identifier has been quietly changed to Lv.2.

He was completely unaware of the upgrade.

The high-density use of spiritual vision during the ritual, the etheric information carried by the eight voices, and the gaze left by the mother before falling into the well were all silently absorbed by [Perception] as experience.

Richard looked at it for a while, then turned the wick up one notch.

With slightly brighter light, the shadows of the wood grain on the wall became more distinct.

He didn't rush to get out of bed; instead, he spread his right hand on the sheet.

At level 1, he could see the unevenness of the wood grain, the creases on the spine of the book, and the particle size of the silver ink residue between his fingers.

The direction of Lv.1 is from blurry to clear.

The direction of Lv.2's advancement is not at the edge, but inside.

He could see the inverted tree of light in the Sun's Seat more clearly this time than ever before.

The tree roots are embedded in the center of the chest cavity, with fine blood vessels branching out to extend to the limbs.

Going deeper, he saw the dark area at the base of the tree of light.

The dark area is small, only about the width of a fingernail, and its color is much darker than the surrounding area.

Richard probed the area with his mind and finally understood what this dark area was.

During the ritual, the [Shadow Armor] consumed too much ether reserves too quickly, leaving a slight blockage in the reverse passage.

If you can sense it, you can use healing to slowly treat it, and it should be healed in a day or two.

[Perception] Lv.2, made his mirror brighter.

The outside is more accurate, while the inside is a new direction.

Richard looked at his palm; the silver ink and bloodstains were mixed together and embedded in the grooves of his fingerprints.

He scrubbed hard with soap in the sink, but the stubborn marks between his fingers were still clearly visible.

Unable to wash it off, Richard could only dry his hands on a towel and lie down on the bed.

In a blur, he saw his mother brushing honey in the kitchen, Evelyn running on the platform in her new coat, and his father holding the newspaper high, actually dozing off.

Thinking about these things, he gradually fell asleep.

Dreams have no boundaries.

When we are awake, perception is an inward-looking mirror.

While I was asleep, the other side of the mirror started reflecting things too.

Richard first saw the fog.

The fog went up to his ankles, then up to his knees and waist, and stopped just below his chest.

The area above the shoulders is still above the fog, while the area below the shoulders is covered by the fog.

There was no wind, no sound, only the fog moving throughout the entire area.

Twelve stones stood in the mist, each of these roughly hewn long stones being two heads taller than an adult man.

The stones form a circle, with a slightly sunken area of ​​soil in the center.

Li sensed that this place seemed somewhat familiar.

A group of people emerged from the depths of the fog.

At the front were several priests draped in animal skins, with round copper plates hanging from their waists, the plates bearing simple designs.

Their faces were painted with white paint, which was smeared from their foreheads down to their chins.

In the middle is a woman being supported by two burly men.

The woman was very young, looking to be only in her early twenties, and she was holding an infant wrapped in animal skin.

The baby isn't fussing; he must be asleep already?

Richard couldn't hear any sounds in his dream.

The woman didn't struggle; she walked into the depression on her own.

A group of people followed behind the procession: old people, men, women, and children.

Everyone had a gray paint on their face, smeared from their brow bone to their cheekbone.

The entire tribe has come.

The group stopped at the edge of the stone circle.

The priest, draped in animal skins, turned around and spoke loudly to the people of the tribe.

Richard didn't know what the other person was saying, but he could tell that the priest's expression was very excited, with his hands raised towards the sky.

He was praying.

The woman was released by the two strong men, and she walked to the edge of the depression on her own.

The baby in her arms still didn't cry.

Richard then realized that the baby's face was bluish-purple.

The child is long dead.

Something must have happened in the tribe: plague, harsh winter, famine... Primitive societies are very vulnerable to risks, and Richard had already guessed what they were planning to do.

The woman gently took the baby out of her arms and placed it in the hollow.

She knelt down and placed her hands on the baby's body, her lips moving as she spoke to the child.

The mother is comforting a dead child, telling him not to be afraid.

A man wearing an animal skin walked over and took out a stone knife from his waist.

The stone knife blade was bluish-black and had been sharpened to a very fine point.

The woman did not look up; her hands remained pressed against the baby.

She waited in her spot.

The knife fell, but Richard didn't see any blood in his dream.

The fog covered everything.

But he could sense the thing that had been listening all along beneath the mountains, and he became slightly more alert.

It was just listening before, but now it's starting to receive;

It received the tune that the mother and her child hummed to the child at the last moment;

It absorbed the hunger, cold, and the silent deaths of children throughout the entire winter in the tribe, taking everything into itself.

One by one, the people of the tribe walked to the edge of the depression.

Everyone took something from their bosom, pockets, or waist pouch and put it into the recess.

What Richard can see:

A smooth stone, a cleanly peeled bone, a tightly woven rope, a wild fruit, a pinch of carefully preserved salt...

Salt—his inspiration was sparked in his dream.

The one who sows salt, the one who sprinkles salt, the salt in the shadows...

After the tribespeople finished putting down their things, they retreated one by one.

The last person to back away was a little girl.

She was about six or seven years old, with two thick braids and barefoot. She looked a lot like the woman who was sacrificed.

The little girl placed a doll made of thatch in the depression.

The baby's face had two small black dots drawn on it, along with a curved line.

This doll probably wasn't meant to be used for a curse; its smile is quite cute.

The little girl put the doll down and reached out to touch the dead woman's face.

The fog closed in, and Richard's consciousness gradually returned to normal within his dream.

He thought that this might be the earliest form of that "mother".

The fog dissipated again, and time flew by.

Richard didn't know how much time had passed.

Perhaps decades, perhaps centuries, the twelve standing stones have changed.

Several of them had fallen, their broken ends covered in moss, and the dents had deepened.

Every year, people are put in; it's no longer just dead children and mothers.

Prisoners of war, criminals, volunteers, plague victims... she took them all in.

She is getting bigger and bigger.

She was underground, and she also learned to take something from her children—shadows.