I loaded the Mysticism panel.

In the first week of March, the snow melted away, leaving only a few stubborn icicles under the eaves.

Mr. Hutton is back.

Richard first noticed it on the history class schedule.

The column for "Hutton," which had been empty for more than half a month, was rewritten by the academic affairs office, and the ink was newer than the surrounding lines.

This time, he was gone for so long that even Dr. Fletcher, the principal, vaguely mentioned in the announcement after morning prayers that "Mr. Hutton is temporarily away on official business."

Now that things are done, the class schedule needs to be made up.

During break, he was called to the third floor by a note.

When the school bell rang, he practically stepped onto the stairs just as it rang.

The office door was ajar. Richard raised his hand to knock, but his hand froze in mid-air.

A section of ether was quietly pulled out from the very center of the house and collapsed into a certain place.

Richard pushed open the door and went in.

Mr. Hutton stood by the window, shorter than usual, with his hands folded in front of him.

In the center of the room, on the old armchair, sat another, even older, man.

The old man was severely hunched over, and a cane leaned against the armrest of the chair, its tip worn black.

He was wearing a very old-fashioned black wool suit.

Richard recognized the style; an old portrait of it used to hang on the wall of the North District Office of the Classical Society.

The old chairman in the painting was wearing this outfit sixty years ago, with that kind of stand-up collar cut, which even the most conservative tailors won't accept now.

Mr. Hutton bowed slightly to the old man.

"Professor, this is the student I mentioned to you, Richard Williams."

The old man did not go to see Richard.

He looked down at the sloshing tea in his cup and slowly said something to Hutton.

"Little Hutton."

"Yes."

"You've brewed this tea too strong."

"I'll get you a lighter one right away."

"Wait a minute," the old man called out to Hutton, "How many years have you kept this tea?"

Mr. Hutton couldn't figure out what the other party meant.

"This can of tea is from last year's spring harvest; it's been stored for less than a year."

"That's right," the old man said slowly.

"I've lived to this age, but tea leaves are a hundred years younger than me."

No matter how strong it is when brewed, it can never be as strong as my bones.

Mr. Hutton tried to understand what he meant.

"Professor, would you like some plain water?"

"I mean..." The old man handed over the teacup.

"I'm already this old, just give me something hot to drink."

Keep the tea for yourself, and leave it for those who will have decades to brew it in the future.

Mr. Hutton stood frozen in place, holding the chipped teacup.

Richard stood at the door, unsure whether to go in or leave.

"I'll get you a fresh glass of warm water right away, Professor," Mr. Hutton said finally.

"Hmm." The old man then raised his gaze and turned to Richard.

Those murky eyes lingered on him for less than half a second.

It lasted less than half a second.

Richard felt completely exposed, utterly naked, with nowhere to hide.

"The fire was newly lit."

He turned to Mr. Hutton and commented:

"It's still very small, but it's burned quite cleanly... cleaner than your old stove."

When you lit it back then, smoke billowed out of half the room first.

Mr. Hutton was a little embarrassed and went to refill his empty teacup.

The old man drank the freshly changed warm water and raised his hand slightly.

"Young man, sit down. I can tell you're tired of standing."

Richard sat down obediently.

"Richard," Mr. Hutton formally introduced, "this is Professor Silas Mortimer, a great scholar."

"...is my mentor's mentor."

Richard's breath hitched slightly.

He quickly did the math in his head.

Mr. Hutton is nearly sixty years old, and his mentor, whom he once mentioned, has passed away many years ago.

So, Mr. Hutton's mentor's mentor...

"When I was as young as you..." Professor Mortimer glanced at him and continued on his own.

"It took four days by postal carriage to get from Bristol to the capital; the railway tracks were laid inch by inch later."

"When I first boarded a train, I was already a professional."

Sitting inside the carriage, I felt like this metal shell was moving so fast that I'd be thrown out of my skin.

The old professor took a sip of warm water.

"It turned out that half of my worries were correct."

"...Was your soul thrown out?"

"No." Professor Mortimer shook his head with amusement.

"My soul wasn't thrown out, but I lost a tooth."

Ever since that tooth of mine fell out, I've had a lifelong grudge against the railway.

"I've had all my teeth filled one by one as I've lived this long. But that one tooth, I've always left it empty."

The old man opened his mouth and pointed to a dark, black tooth root on the lower left side.

"Look, it's been empty until now."

Richard was at a loss for words and could only silently calculate in his mind.

The first steam railway in Albion opened in the early 1820s.

He remembered this year clearly: when Mr. Hutton was teaching the "rationalization process of mysticism" in his history class, he used industry and railways as the backdrop for an entire lesson.

In other words, the year Professor Mortimer branded himself, the country didn't have a single railroad track.

A person who has lived from the days when mail was still transported by horse-drawn carriages in this land.

The old man didn't exude that obvious "strength".

He sat there, and the ether collapsed toward him, while the surface of the water remained still.

When Richard left the office, Mr. Hutton spoke with him alone for a while.

"How did it feel when the professor looked at you today?"

"...It felt like someone had turned me inside out."

"Yes," Mr. Hutton nodded. "In his eyes, everything can be an article."

"He can look at you and dissect your entire being, from skin to bone, into words that can be read, altered, and erased."

"The professor came to Briston this time because he was transferred from the capital to clean up this mess."

"He wants to clean up the website and shut down the sites."

………………

The cleanup operation was scheduled for the next day, and the location was in the courtyard of the branch office.

A wooden table was placed in the middle of the courtyard.

On the table was a basin of water and a spread-out map of Bristol.

The map was huge, marking the city's streets, canals, and bridges. Several areas were circled in red ink, and only people in their line of work could understand it.

Professor Mortimer was helped by his student to sit down in the high-backed chair that had been brought out in front of the wooden table.

He ordered a cup of tea first.

This time, Mr. Hutton learned his lesson and brewed it very lightly, with only two tea leaves floating in a cup of lukewarm water.

The old man took a sip from the cup before slowly reaching for the basin of water.

Richard stood at the innermost circle of the courtyard and quietly spread out the [Hidden Vision] spell.

This was done with the professor's permission; that's the significance of observing it.

The professor touched the water basin with his fingertip, and a ripple spread across the surface.

A technique Richard had never seen before unfolded from that basin of clear water.

It spreads silently throughout the city, following the wooden tables, floor tiles, and the walls of the branch offices.

Richard quickly analyzed what the professor had done in his mind.

Those who have been transformed by the "Echoes" and implanted with "external interfaces" are all connected to the same place on the other side of the curtain.

The professor did not send anyone to hunt down the dozens of people who were hiding in Briston.

He stood on this side of the curtain, like a fisherman pulling in his net, holding all the lines in his hand.

The net was closed in about ten minutes.

After the professor finished his first glass of warm water, Mr. Hutton gave him another one.

Only then did the old man begin to "correct" the marks.

Richard could only think of this word.

In his spiritual vision, the dozens of lines that were caught in the net appeared one by one, arranged in a very neat manner.

The professor stretched out his trembling hand and pointed his fingertip at the first line.

The line lit up briefly.

Professor Mortimer hummed in agreement, as if he had read a passable assignment.

Then, following the direction of that line, gently hook it from the root.

The wire broke.

Richard vaguely made out the outline of a person.

The silhouette stopped breathing silently after the line abruptly ended.

The professor's fingertip moved toward the second line.

"This one..." the old man said slowly, "It hasn't been there long, what a pity. If we had discovered it two months earlier, we could have turned it around."

With a flick of his finger, the second thread snapped.

Richard recalled Mr. Hutton's words from yesterday.

In his eyes, you are just an article.

If you read an article that contains errors, would you judge it?

You would just pick up a red pen and cross out the wrong word.

"Professor," Mr. Hutton suddenly spoke up.

Richard looked in the direction of the sound.

Professor Mortimer's technique has now captured a very thin, very faint line.

Following the line, Richard caught a glimpse of the man's silhouette.

She was very small and thin; she was a young girl.

His age... was about the same as "Little Ma" who shouldn't have been cheated that night, and not much older than Richard himself, maybe two years.

Mr. Hutton bent down even lower:

"This one... I see her thread is loose and short; she might have been scammed."

Her own guide was pleading for her.

Richard's heart leaped into his throat.

Professor Mortimer stared at the two tea leaves floating in the cup for a long while before slowly speaking.

"Little Hutton".

"Yes."

"Back when you were studying with me, I handled similar cases, do you remember?"

Mr. Hutton sighed.

"Of course I remember."

"Whether she lied or not," the old professor's voice was dry and hoarse, "is a matter between her and the person who lied to her."

His fingertips touched that thin, pale thread.

"What I'm reading is never her as a person."

"What I read was the line of words on her body."

"Once a word is written, it cannot be changed back."

With a flick of the finger, the thin thread snapped.

In a place on the western outskirts of the city, the petite girl silently collapsed.

In the courtyard, it was so quiet that you could hear the sound of water dripping from the eaves after the snow melted.

The professor picked up the cup of tea and took another sip.

Mr. Hutton straightened up; he genuinely felt a pang of regret.