I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 191 Concealed Spiritual Vision

At night, he organized the three sets of improvement results.

Three manuscripts were laid out side by side on the table.

The first draft of "Shadow Armor: A Tentative Discussion on Variations" is complete.

For the second document, he took a piece of cardboard of the same thickness and wrote "Stone Armor Covering: Batch Delivery Method".

On the third cardboard cover, he wrote "Moon Nail: Multiple Warming-ups and Derivative Attacks".

He wrote the inner pages of every manuscript in an academic format.

Abstract, research background, methodology, experimental records, conclusions, and future research directions.

Richard sat at the table, looking at the stack of things, feeling somewhat surreal.

The "secondary processing" of knowledge is the true value of critical thinking.

【博闻】solves the problem of "raw materials", allowing him to store enough material in his mind.

[Critical Thinking] solves the problem of "processing", allowing him to see the load-bearing structure from these materials that even the original author might not have noticed.

Even if someone else obtains these three papers, they may not be able to fully reproduce the ideas within them.

The process of critical thinking itself cannot be recorded.

In his paper, he could only write out the "conclusions" and "experimental records".

The reasoning behind the conclusion—"why this is the conclusion"—is left for the reader to fill in.

I wonder if I could get something for these improved models at a party.

Now that critical thinking is involved, the snowball effect is slowly building.

As long as he has enough original textual material, he can improve and process it to produce additional value.

Then, through continuous exchange, knowledge and wealth flow freely...

………………

At 2 p.m. on Tuesday, Richard stood at the main entrance of the branch office on time.

He made a point of wearing his most presentable suit jacket and polishing his leather shoes twice.

As Mrs. McNeil had specifically instructed in her phone call the previous night, the guild had to maintain a respectable facade when accepting money for services.

Mrs. McNeil emerged from the revolving door of the branch office and her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Not bad, he's a handsome young man."

She patted Richard on the shoulder and raised her chin: "Get in the car."

A familiar van was driven out; the driver was the old man at the front desk, the one who read horse racing magazines.

There was a faint scent of cedarwood in the car, a common incense used by spiritual mediums.

"Today we went to the Holbrook Textile Mill."

Once the car had bumped out of the main street, Mrs. McNeil finally spoke: "The house with the most chimneys in that area of ​​the western suburbs."

"Um."

"The factory owner's surname is Holbrook. He took over the business 20 years ago, and expanded the night shift workshop last year after orders came in."

She touched the wooden box in her hand.

"This happened after the night shift was expanded. The female night shift workers collectively said that someone was counting behind the carding machines. Two foremen resigned in a row, and the orders will be delayed."

"Did he consult a medium himself?" Richard asked.

"We invited two groups, plus one group of parish pastors."

Mrs. McNeil had a hint of sarcasm on her face, but Richard couldn't tell whether she was mocking the two groups or Holbrooke.

"The pastor's methods are useless. The first two groups of mediums were all from small-time folk guilds. They went to take a look and came back with a couple of words."

She raised her eyelids and glanced at Richard.

"It's alright, everything's stable."

Richard understood; this was the standard rhetoric of those half-baked people in the local guilds.

If you can't read it, just say it's okay, so you don't lose face.

"Holbrook has a fairly large business, so he does have some common sense about the mystical side."

"He didn't believe it completely, so he passed it on to me through old Big's channels."

Mrs. McNeil thought for a moment and then added:

"Actually, if it really is some kind of dangerous evil entity, the branch office will automatically take elimination measures."

"But this time the target is a neutral spirit. If we use too ruthless methods to disperse it, it may leave behind resentment that is difficult to remove."

Richard nodded. He was also puzzled. Although there weren't any experts in the field in Briston, there were still some practitioners who should be able to handle such a common ghost story.

It seems that this matter is not dangerous, but rather troublesome.

"How much did you report?"

"The consultation fee is five pounds, and the treatment fee will be calculated separately depending on the situation."

Richard silently calculated in his mind that five pounds was enough for him to buy even the most ordinary oddity.

This number sounds like a lot to outsiders, but considering that the other party is a medium with a minor level of expertise, the price is actually not high.

Mrs. McNeil saw through his plan and added casually:

"I was just passing by; I had to participate in the spring seal maintenance in Bristol, and this just happened to be the case."

Teachers also have rules: they are not allowed to charge high prices for private jobs they take on while on fieldwork.

Why?

"If we're already taking away business from local businesses, then charging higher prices will only make us more hated."

Richard nodded in understanding.

Mrs. McNeil changed the subject: "Today you'll be working with me and you'll get a pound."

Whether you get a pound or not depends on your performance this afternoon.

The stone-paved road outside the window recedes backward, one section at a time, and the density of chimneys visibly increases.

After a while, she spoke again: "I said before that your spiritual vision has a good range and accuracy, but you don't cover up at all when you attack."

Richard pursed his lips; he had heard this from many people before.

"When you look at someone, the act of 'looking' itself distorts the etheric flow."

She reached out and made a vague gesture in the air of the carriage:

"An expert would immediately know someone is watching them, just like they've been pushed, from that glance you gave them."

"On this trip today, I'll teach you a technique called 'Hidden Vision'."

"Hidden spiritual vision?"

"The basic skills inside and out," Mrs. McNeil explained in detail.

"The principle is simple: stop staring directly at people."

"...How can we see if we don't keep an eye on them?" Richard blurted out.

"Just borrow something to look at; it's the same as looking at your back in a mirror."

After a moment of silence in the car, Richard began to think quietly.

"When you used clairvoyance before, you would push the ether out of the Sun constellation, circle around the target, and then read it back."

Even the slightest push or pull is still a sound.

"Hidden vision, change your approach; there's already ether flowing in the environment."

The wind, the sunlight, the dust seeping from the cracks in the walls, the air currents stirred up by people walking—each of these contains a tiny amount of ether.

She pointed out the car window.

"Don't push the ether out; go with what's already flowing."

Let your inspiration flow like a thread on the water, draped over the current, drifting with the waves.

Richard glanced out the car window following her gesture.

"How exactly do we do it?"

"Don't focus on any specific thing. Let your gaze wander, like you've just woken up and haven't opened your eyes yet."

Richard did as instructed.

The details inside the car that he could usually pinpoint with his eyes closed were now blurred in his vision.

Mrs. McNeill's voice sounded as if it were through a veil:

"Don't try to hold anything in place; just let the air in the carriage flow on its own."

She intentionally used her ethereal field to regulate Richard's inspirational tendrils, allowing them to flow naturally with the environment.

Richard followed the etheric field, not focusing on anything specific.

But he could feel something breathing inside the small wooden box on Mrs. McNeil's lap.

He immediately looked away.

"...the box on your lap."

Mrs. McNeil looked a little surprised.

"Did you read it?"

"I read a bit of it."

"What exactly?"

"...Something is sleeping inside."

She twirled the small wooden box halfway around on her lap, neither confirming nor denying it.

Time flies when you're practicing.

The carriage stopped at the entrance of the Holbrook textile factory.

Two men wearing top hats were standing at the factory gate.

The middle-aged, slightly overweight man with two upturned mustaches was Holbrook himself.

The other one, thinner and slightly hunched over, was the manager.

"Mrs. McNeill," Holbrooke said, lifting the brim of his hat slightly, "I've been waiting for you."

"Mr. Holbrooke," the medium nodded in response.

"And who is this?" Holbrooke's gaze shifted to Richard.

Those eyes lingered for a moment on the buttons of his suit jacket, the collar, and his leather shoes.

"My assistant."

"age……"

"He is more reliable than children his age."

Holbrook didn't ask any further questions and gestured for them to proceed.

On the way to the workshop, Mrs. McNeil casually inquired about the history of this land over the past thirty years.

Holbrook initially gave a perfunctory answer, but when he got to the part about "this area used to be an empty lot," he hesitated.

What was this open space before?

"An old warehouse." Holbrooke's voice deepened. "It was demolished by my father's generation."

Why demolish it?

Holbrook hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Back in my father's generation, the factory still used child labor."

He first clarified this statement, and then used it to support himself.

"It wasn't a violation of the law at the time, but the child had an accident in the warehouse."

"How did it come out?"

"He went to take a nap in the cotton pile."

Holbrooke wiped the sweat from his brow:

"When the workers changed shifts, they didn't see him inside. They continued adding cotton to the top of the pile according to the procedure. It wasn't until the next day's roll call that they discovered he was missing."

"My father's generation demolished the warehouse."

Holbrook continued speaking to himself:

"It had been vacant for over twenty years. Last year, I utilized this land to build a night shift workshop. Before that..."

He quickly added, "According to the rules, the parish priest consecrated it."

"Which pastor was the one who ordained the priest?"

"Reverend Hawkins of the Parish of St. Andrews".

Mrs. McNeil's face remained expressionless; she simply hummed in response.

Richard knew what that "hmm" meant.

The parish ordination system is almost useless against real evil, and Reverend Hawkins himself probably knows this.

But this process is a way for the factory owner to give an explanation, so that he can say to outsiders, "I have consulted a priest," and internally he can feel at ease.

Mrs. McNeil stopped at the entrance of the night shift workshop.

"My assistant and I will go in and take a look first. Mr. Holbrooke, please wait a moment."

"...Don't you need me to go in with you?"

"The client doesn't need to be present when we inspect the site. I'll explain everything to you in detail afterward."

Holbrooke frowned, but he didn't argue; he simply nodded.

"Then... please go ahead."

The day shift is still running in the workshop.

One after another, the carding machines lined up along both sides of the workshop, and the noise from dozens of machines was so dense it was like a torrential downpour.

Mrs. McNeil stopped in the middle of the workshop and glanced at the carding machine at the far end.

"Is this the one?"

"It's this one." The manager's voice came from behind her.

Holbrooke couldn't resist and followed him to the door.

Mrs. McNeil stopped talking and gave Richard a slight nod.

Richard knew what this meant, and he began to let his inspiration tendrils drift freely with the airflow.

Under spiritual vision, there was a slight blockage in the etheric flow at the base of the wall behind the innermost carding machine.

Richard looked away, turned and took two steps toward Mrs. McNeil:

"There's a clump of stagnant stuff against the wall behind the innermost carding machine."

"……density?"

"Based on the test notes you showed me before, this mass shouldn't meet the standard for an evil entity."

"shape?"

"I can't read it clearly."

"Hmm." Mrs. McNeil nodded. "You're just starting out with Concealed Vision, so you can't read much yet. You'll practice slowly as you go."

"Then I'll do it now."

The medium squatted down in front of the wall and took out the tarot cards.

I only took twenty-two Grand Arcana cards.

"Come here, watch this move carefully today."

Richard approached.

She taught him as she shuffled the cards:

"You can wash however you like while you practice. Your questions, your heart, you decide for yourself."

But if you're doing something for someone else, you have to read it for them.

She flipped the cards three times in the order of right hand → left hand → right hand.

"The key to reshuffling is to distinguish between 'what I want to ask myself' and 'what I'm asking on behalf of someone else' during this process."

If you can't tell the difference, all the cards you read will be about yourself.

After shuffling the cards one last time, she placed the stack on the cement floor in front of her and reached out to draw one.

Turn the cards over.

The Hanged Man (Reversed)

Richard's chest tightened slightly.

"...people stuck at both ends, wanting to get down but unable to."

Mrs. McNeil was talking to the card on the floor.

She reached out and pressed her hand on the card.

"A child, huddled in a pile of cotton, was not heard by anyone shouting."

No one answered him, so he just stayed there, counting the numbers he had counted during his last moments.

She drew a second one.

[The Moon Reversed]

"An illusion, an illusion within an illusion."

"...What do you mean?" Richard couldn't help but ask.

She didn't answer immediately, but drew the third card.

[The Star - Upright]

"The reversed Hanged Man represents his state of being stuck."

She reached out and pointed to three cards in turn: "The reversed Moon is the reason he's stuck; he thinks he's still alive."

Richard's breath caught in his throat.

"...Did he not know he was dead?"

He knew he was in the dark, he knew he couldn't move, and he couldn't get out.

But he refused to accept that he was dead, so he found himself something to do.

"Count."

Mrs. McNeil's fingertip hovered over the card "The Moon":

"After counting to one hundred, he only remembered that he 'hadn't counted to one yet,' so he started counting again."

"...Counted for thirty years?"

She held down the third card.

"The upright star represents the exit."

"exit?"

"He built himself a cage."

"He built the cage himself, and he has the key. Once he confesses, the key will be released."

"Admit what?"

"Admit that he has finished counting."

She put the three cards away and shuffled them back into the deck.

"What we're doing today is giving him this one sentence."