I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 192 Counting

Mrs. McNeil took out a gray wax stick and lit it with ether.

Richard lit the candle and scanned it with his hidden spiritual vision.

The wisp of mist at the base of the wall moved very slightly toward the wax stick, then retreated.

"They've been ignited by the wax," Mrs. McNeil said, glancing at the scene. "But they're too afraid to come out."

"Why wouldn't you dare?"

"He's been counting in the pitch black for so many years; this is the only proof he's alive. If he comes out..."

She didn't continue.

"Looks like we'll have to ask Milk for help."

Richard's gaze fell on the small wooden box beside her knee.

She crouched down outside the salt line and took the small wooden box out of her purse, the lid facing up.

"Milk is one of the seven sealed within Whitcomb, the moonstone pendant, who negotiates."

Richard certainly remembered.

"Used for house calls too?"

"It's especially useful for children." Mrs. McNeil untied the cloth strap and opened the box.

"Children won't listen to adults' reasoning, but they'll listen if the person speaking doesn't seem like an adult."

She took the pendant out, placed it in her palm, and whispered something.

Richard used his hidden spiritual vision to scan.

At that moment, a very faint shadow appeared inside the pendant.

This place is the material realm, where the spirit cannot be fully manifested.

"Milk, do me another favor."

The candle flame tilted slightly.

The spirit slowly overflowed from the pendant and drifted towards the base of the wall.

When they reached the base of the wall, the spirit crouched down.

Milk said to the base of the wall, "Do you want to stop for a moment?"

The wisp of mist at the base of the wall hesitated for a moment.

Mrs. McNeil asked very softly, "How many are we counting to?"

From the fog at the base of the wall, a barely audible sound emerged.

"...Forty-seven."

The voice belonged to a boy, about seven or eight years old.

"Then count to one hundred. Take your time counting, and we'll wait for you to finish."

The fog at the base of the wall quieted down for a moment and then began to count.

"...Forty-eight."

The machines in the workshop were still running, and the noise was almost drowned out.

"...Ninety-nine."

The candle flame stabilized.

"……one hundred."

The entire workshop fell silent.

"You've finished counting," Mrs. McNeil said softly.

The wisp of mist at the base of the wall remained still.

"You've slept for a very, very long time, and no one will come to wake you up to pile cotton anymore."

The fog shifted slightly.

"You can leave now."

Milk approached the cloud of mist and reached out his hand.

A faint outline slowly emerged from the fog.

The boy kept his head down, looking very shy.

Milk's unseen hand slowly touched the top of his head, and the boy looked up.

Richard didn't look at that face; he felt he shouldn't either.

Milk led the boy toward the candles.

The candle burned for a while and then went out on its own.

Mrs. McNeil put the pendant back into the small wooden box.

"Milk is a little tired today, I need to let him rest for a few days when we get back."

"This item is now complete."

Richard stood on the outside without moving.

"...What's the child's name?"

Mrs. McNeil looked up at him for a moment.

"Milk just heard him say that his name is Tommy."

"...Tommy."

"Um."

Richard did not speak again.

………………

Holbrook waited at the workshop entrance for more than half an hour.

He saw Mrs. McNeil come out and immediately took two steps to meet her.

"...How is it?"

"The matter is settled," Mrs. McNeil said.

"That's... the end?"

"Yes."

"...Should we create a seal?"

The man rubbed his hands together, somewhat reluctant to spend the money.

"The seal won't be needed for today's task."

"The seal is for beings that keep reappearing. This group has already left and won't be coming back."

"Also, this carding machine will be shut down for a day."

"Stop for a day? What about the orders..."

"Take a break for one day. We can resume day shifts tomorrow afternoon and night shifts the day after tomorrow."

"Children should not be allowed near this area of ​​the wall for the next three days."

"...Children?" Holbrooke paused for a moment. "There are no child laborers in my factory now."

"I didn't ask you about child labor," Mrs. McNeil said expressionlessly. "I said don't let any children near."

"The consultation fee is five pounds, and the treatment fee is three pounds based on today's workload."

Seeing that you cooperated well this afternoon, I'll give you a discount; the processing fee will be two pounds.

Holbrook visibly breathed a sigh of relief.

He counted out the money from his coat pocket and handed it over.

Mrs. McNeil took the banknotes, glanced at them, and put them in her coat pocket.

Goodbye.

Holbrooke escorted the two to the factory gate.

They drove in silence until the car stopped at the east end of the slag alley.

Richard got out of the car, folded the two pounds, and put them into his inner pocket.

Mrs. McNeil said in the car:

"The spring seal maintenance in Briston is coming soon, and that old area in the western suburbs will be redone this year."

Her expression was very serious:

"Your empirical text from the scholars can provide you with a wealth of material from the old local area in the western suburbs."

"You can ask Mr. Hutton later; it would be best if you could come and observe with him."

"……yes."

The car continued towards the branch office.

Richard stood at the east end of the slag alley, watching the car turn the corner.

Chimneys were puffing smoke in the distance, and the lights of the night shift were faintly lit at the other end of the industrial area.

………………

In Bristol at the end of January, the snow melted and fell again, then melted again.

At school, Mr. Hutton's office door would be left open for half an hour every day after school.

This half-hour class is not scheduled regularly; Richard will go if he's free, and skip it if he's not.

The two never said a word about the arrangement, but they maintained a good understanding with each other.

The two of them worked together to study the parchment and the bronze piece.

The section about the true name that goes deeper has been sealed in a silver halide box, and according to the rules, no one will touch it anymore.

Throughout the entire ceremony record, they dissected every part that did not involve real names.

Mr. Hutton's original words were, "That's enough."

Richard would always ask a few more questions about the rest.

The old man just shook his head.

Although Mr. Hutton could not guide Richard on empirical texts, things beyond empirical evidence, such as Gaelic, liturgical Latin, epigraphic foundations, and how scholars themselves encrypt their own texts, are all fundamental skills for scholars.

If you don't lay a solid foundation, no matter how far you go in the future, it will all be superficial.

The old gentleman didn't hide anything here.

After school that day, Richard went to the office as if he knew the way well.

Mr. Hutton sat behind his desk, on which three books were spread out.

A book titled "Elementary Gaelic Grammar".

A compilation of terms used in the worship services of the national religion.

A hardcover manuscript with an illegible title.

Richard later learned that it was a handwritten lecture on epigraphy by Mr. Hutton when he was young.

"What are we going to talk about today?" Richard asked, standing at the door.

"We're not going to talk about anything today." Mr. Hutton didn't even look up. "Turn to the table of contents of these three books and pick the one you least want to read."

"...The one you least want to read?"

Why?

"The column you least want to read is the column you most lack."

Richard spread the three books out in front of him.

The lecture notes on inscriptions are the thinnest, but the hardest to digest.

Even with the added benefit of "deductive reasoning," each stroke still needs to be mentally reviewed several times to understand why one stroke moves in a certain direction or why another stops there.

Richard pondered for a moment, then pushed the lecture notes on inscriptions towards the center.

Mr. Hutton glanced at him.

"...Why isn't it Gaelic?"

"Gaelic is difficult, but the rules are clear, and you can figure it out over time."

Richard answered very seriously: "Every stroke in the lecture notes on inscriptions is backed by hundreds of years of tradition. I myself can't see the intricacies."

The old gentleman hummed in agreement, picked up his teacup, and took a sip.

"Your answer... is slightly better than your previous one."

"...Did I not answer well before?"

You said, "All three books are difficult, so let's start with the simplest Gaelic language."

Richard was somewhat embarrassed.

"At least with today's answer, you're starting to realize what you're lacking."

Tutoring time flies by.

Because Richard's mind has become much sharper lately, he can easily understand things that he used to have to memorize by rote.

Even after he finished speaking, he still felt a little unsatisfied.

"We'll switch groups tomorrow." The old man looked at the young man in front of him, his white eyebrows twitching.

"...Which set should we switch to?"

"Let's switch to an even more difficult set."

"……yes."

Richard stood up and tidied up his books.

As he reached the door, he heard the old man behind him add another sentence.

"In addition, there is another volume at the end of that lecture book on inscription literature."

"You should also study the set of transitions I assigned you today, as well as the similar sets in the next volume."

"Understood."

Richard left the office.

After the door closed, Mr. Hutton leaned back in his chair, and he confirmed something in his mind.

This kid seems to have gotten a little smarter lately.

The true talent of scholars has never been "memorizing a lot".

By piecing together fragments from different eras, traditions, and perspectives, we can see the original, unseen load-bearing beam.

That load-bearing beam is something only a scholar could achieve.

When Mr. Hutton was young, he briefly touched the edge of that beam.

However, his foundation was depleted by his studies in three different fields, and he eventually lost the strength to go any further.

Now, for that sixteen-year-old boy, that ridge is gradually taking shape in his mind.