I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The curator knew better than anyone that all the strange items in the warehouse were unclaimed.

They were taken from temples and graves in the Black Soil River Basin, and have been handled by countless hands over the past thousand years;

Once behind the curtain, whoever's ether can reach in can borrow a wisp of their power.

However, the phrase "anyone can borrow" implies a hierarchy.

This wisp of smoke was torn off from that Black Soil River expert.

The items in this warehouse were originally old objects from the temple and cemetery in its ancestral home.

Regardless of how close or distant they were to each other, they were more "obedient" to the fragments than to anyone else present.

So when it turned on you, all the strange objects in the room fell to its side.

That reflected courtroom is its hall; that gaping monster is its monster.

The curator, a scholar with profound knowledge of the subject, couldn't possibly outmaneuver him by force.

He needs to draw upon a greater force.

The curator closed his eyes, and his white beard moved without wind.

He uttered the name of another lineage:

"Sitting upright at midday where there is no shadow, one with the same origin as light."

As those words were uttered, a faint sliver of gold shone through the night sky above the warehouse's dome.

"Those who once separated day and night with a single glance."

As the gold line widened, the darkness and alternating ether within the entire hall were suppressed by this line of gold.

"His eyes have burned out, his flesh and blood have turned to ashes, but his light will forever shine upon the world."

As the last sentence fell, Richard's shadow suddenly sank.

All the shadows in the warehouse fell towards that line of gold.

Richard's heart skipped a beat; this was a master of the Sun's tradition.

The curator was calling out that person's honorable name.

That being, far beyond our reach, had previously instructed us to have a "support for order" prepared in advance for tonight's lesson.

Just this one strand is enough.

Light is order, the boundary between day and night, and the unbiased compass on both sides of the scale.

The moment this wisp of order entered the hall, all the strange objects in the room had their authority suppressed.

They no longer recognized just the plume of smoke; they recognized "order," and the scales and records in the curator's hands.

"Gentlemen," the curator's voice echoed through the yellow sand.

"How do the people of the Black Soil River basin send the dead across that hurdle?"

"Weigh the heart," Richard, who was standing closest, replied.

Curator Weatherby stood beside the scales, steadily supporting this expanse of yellow sand.

"It wants to change your real names, and it wants you to accept the new names it gives you."

"What we need to do is the opposite."

"Let's do it for it this once."

Montagu's side wasn't idle either.

After the smoke turned, it was stirred and began to loosen and deform.

Montagu stood at the front of the battle, his charcoal pencil never stopping.

They repainted and resealed that deformed shell, layer by layer.

"It's going to deform."

Montagu said in a deep voice, his charcoal pencil flying across the paper: "It wants to change its 'form' and break free from this shell."

"You suppress its form," the curator said. "If you can't change its form, it can't escape this formation."

"clear."

Montagu's charcoal pencil never stopped moving across the rubbing paper.

Wherever its shape changes, he draws and presses it down.

His skill in reading the orderly seal became, at this moment, a hand that firmly held down the "shape" of that wisp of smoke.

Edith crouched in front of the formation.

"Curator, its innermost root is in the pine. It wants to 'forget' that it is a fragment and become something else."

"Hold it down by the roots," the curator said. "You read it to it word by word, and it won't forget."

"Yes."

Edith read it aloud with her head down.

As she recited each sentence, the innermost layer of that wisp of smoke was firmly anchored.

The one who truly understood, accurately assessed, and sent it away was the white-bearded old man in the center of the formation.

These students were there to help the curator by freeing up his hands.

The curator is the sword that's about to fall.

Taking advantage of this commotion, Richard finally reached the end of the [Perception] quest that had been stuck for a long time.

[Perception lv.2, progress 100%.]

The conditions for advancement were met that very night in the western suburbs.

The points are enough.

Richard had a sudden thought and put a little in.

[Perception level 2 → 3.]

[Perception & Contemplation: When still, the scope and precision of inspiration increase simultaneously, and it is less susceptible to reverse detection.]

The change came silently.

Richard didn't move, but he suddenly felt as if he had sunk from a pool of muddy water to the calmest part at the bottom.

The noise on the water remained unchanged.

The pulsation of that plume of smoke, the buzzing of the strange objects filling the room, the low murmur of the silver threads at Mr. Pritchard's fingertips... all of it could be heard and seen clearly, even more clearly than before.

But these noises could no longer disturb him.

He remained still, and inspiration spread silently like a thin layer of ice spreading across still water, reaching further and illuminating more details.

And that thin layer of ice is reflected in the light.

Other things tried to follow his inspiration back to him, but all they found was a still pond, unable to reflect the person crouching beneath.

Richard felt more confident.

On the other hand, from the moment the curtains were turned over and the room descended into chaos, that plume of smoke had actually been searching for someone.

It could easily outmaneuver the dozen or so trainees, but there was one figure that remained standing still, whom it could never touch.

It could sense that the boy was still there, and the energy he had been using to read it hadn't dissipated.

But when the fragments were brought closer, the place was like a bottomless pool of still water, and nothing could be seen crouching underneath.

It wouldn't give up, circling around that still water.

When it "looked" over, it didn't see the boy.

He was an old man who had died long ago, and whose face was now indistinct.

The eagle mistook its eye for something else.

It then tried to follow the wisp of "ignited" fire on the boy's body.

The flame, however, was dim, as faint as if viewed through a layer of old frosted glass.

The silver ring suppressed the lighthouse's light to the very bottom.

It cannot be seen, recognized, or smelled.

The plume of smoke swirled around Richard for a long time, until finally, he couldn't even tell where he was standing.

It had no choice but to settle for second best.

It let go of the original body that it couldn't lock up no matter what, and set its sights on the ethereal shadow beneath the original body's feet.

These past few days, Richard's shadow has been relentlessly scheming behind the curtain, day and night.

Even with the "healing" treatment, she was so exhausted that she was dizzy and disoriented, making her the closest and easiest target in the room.

The fragments should stand up along this shadow, as Richard's shadow.

Then, following the line connecting the shadow and the real body, they went inside and replaced the person they couldn't find anywhere.

Richard stood under the stone pillar, seeing this whole thing clearly.

He almost burst out laughing.

They searched for me for ages but couldn't find me, so they ended up trying to take my shadow?

Just what he wanted.

With a whoosh.

The plume of smoke had just risen halfway up along with the shadow.

With a single thought from Richard, the shadow sank down and moved back into the material world.

It wanted to "stand up as Richard's shadow," but when it turned around, the spot where the shadow should have been was already empty.

It missed.

That shard remained frozen in place.

It tried to squeeze through the narrow passage, but halfway through, the shadow at the other end disappeared, and the passage ended.

It stood there, unable to move forward or backward.

It's like a child reaching for a pastry on the table, only to have it secretly taken away by an adult.

Richard's feet were spotless, without a single shadow.

It can't replace it, it's hard to recognize, there's not even a place to put your feet down.

Just as the debris missed its target, and his narrow passage was not yet completely severed...

Richard read something.

The moment it reached out to touch him was the moment it was most "open".

Using the still water spread out by "Quiet Observation," Richard followed that line and glanced at the root of its name.

He touched upon the nascent form of that name.

That wasn't a string of words; it was a jumble of "what is it?"

Standing in the shadow, born without light, devouring the names and stealing the forms of others, it should be sleeping but refuses to.

Richard had a plan in mind.

This wisp of smoke is a fragment torn from that expert's body.

It has its own name... but this name is not the name of the master's true form.

The true name of that being is another matter.

It's something that the curator just called out with the same honorific name as the "Sun Master".

If even half a sentence is uttered in this stirred-up warehouse, it will attract the attention of that expert.

If we really start reading it, the scene that we've managed to suppress will quickly spiral out of control again.

All Richard read was the name of this fragment.

Used to explain "what this wisp of shadow is".

The three keywords—shadow, substitute, and name—flashed in his inspiration.

Richard mentally reassured himself about the structure.

As he read this, he noticed something else curled up below: an eye without pupils or pupils.

That night in the western suburbs, it was not in the pit that we should answer; it was the eye that was lifted from behind the head.

The canal map shows thirteen locations where corpses were recorded;

They promise people "power" and "escape from their current suffering," then slowly hollow out their borrowed resources, ultimately stealing their true identities—this is the "Echoing Society"...

The person standing behind him is the Black Soil River expert who was crushed to death by two local experts while walking on a narrow path.

Richard's palms were sweating profusely.

This intelligence report is incredibly important.

But he couldn't divulge a single word of this intelligence.

He didn't dare touch the eye, but cut off the fragment labeled "load-bearing beam".

"Director." His voice was very low.

"Its name, this fragment of its name... its true name, I followed it to reach the line of my shadow and glimpsed the load-bearing beam."

In the center of the formation, Curator Weatherby was struggling to pronounce his real name when he heard this and was taken aback.

What he was reading was the name of this fragment.

The weighing of the heart in the Black Soil River Basin is about weighing the "account" of the deceased, trying to clarify what this shadow was and what it owed.

The name of the original being must not be touched; the curator knows this better than anyone.

But this layer of fragmented name was something he had to bear alone.

This young man not only possessed the unique skill of shifting shadows, but he could also reverse the situation and read out the load-bearing beam from the line from which the shadow reached.

They also know their limits, only taking the names of the fragments and never touching the original.

The old man did not ask, "How did you read that?"

"...Report." The curator said in a deep voice, pressing his left hand back onto the rubbing.

"Tell me the part you glimpsed, and I'll take over."

Richard stood beneath the stone pillar and recounted the details of the load-bearing beam in that fragment, word by word.

The curator caught it.

Richard used his spiritual vision to see an extra line flashing with a dark gray light on the rubbing.

That line was the prototype of the judgment.

"Form, shell, root, name... all four are complete." The curator stroked his white beard down to his chest.

He looked up at the courtroom.

"Satisfactory, let's begin."

He began to read the judgment, using the ancient language of the Black Soil River basin.

This time, standing in this courtroom, he used the power of the scepter to draw upon the power of the person who kept the ledger.

The curator read out the first sentence.

"ink djehuty."

(I am borrowing the name of Thute.)

"sesh maat en pesedjet."

(The Nine Gods' Book of Truth.)

Upon hearing those words, Thoth, the god of hoof at the highest point, picked up his pen.

Richard stood at the foot of the stone pillar and could see it clearly.

The curator took over Thoth's position as "the bookkeeper."

In the eyes of the people of the Black Earth River Basin, the matter of satisfaction has always been decided by Thoth's account.

What's written in the account book reflects the heart of the deceased.

The curator read out the second sentence.

"sekher-i ib-ek er mekhat."

(I place your heart on the scales.)

In that courtroom, the jackal-headed god placed the "heart" of that wisp of smoke on one side of the scales.

On the other side, the feather on the head of the goddess of truth rested quietly.

"iw-i rekh ren-ek."

(I know your name.)

The curator hung the main hook of that judgment at the very beginning.

"sheut pu."

(You are the shadow.)

The plume of smoke flickered.

"mes em kekui."

(Born in darkness.)

This sentence is correct; Montagu reads the shell as meaning "the part that is not exposed to light."

"iry kheper em ky. wenem ren, ashesh tut."

(One who takes the form of another. One who devours the true name and steals the appearance.)

This sentence is the correct pause that Catherine read out.

Its essence is to spend its entire life doing the work of others, replacing them in their place.

"Sheut en mut pu. aq er imenet, sedjer."

(You are the shadow of the dead. You should rest in peace in the underworld.)

This sentence is correct; it's the root that Edith read.

It was originally a fragment of a shadow, meant to walk in the underworld in place of its original form, meant to rest in peace.

With each sentence read by the curator, a light would illuminate in one of the courtrooms.

The plume of smoke was weighed down with each word, and its "heart" weighed heavier and heavier on the scales.

"It's trying to escape!" Mr. Pritchard shouted.

The plume of smoke rushed toward the rows of still-buzzing strange objects.

It needs to spread out through the relay of that strange object.

"Stop them!" The curator didn't even turn his head, continuing his pronouncement.

Pritchard's nine silver lines tightened and encircled it again.

The curator has already read out the sentence that suits him.

"Maat er ges. ib-ek er ges."

(Truth is on one end. Your heart is on the other.)

"djehuty her sesh."

(Thoth, keeping the ledger.)

In that courtroom, the scales slowly began to tip.

The "heart" of that plume of smoke sank to one side.

The feather of the goddess of truth remained completely still.

The curator read out the final verdict.

「ib-ek dens er shut nt maat.」

(Your heart is heavier than the feather of Maat.)

"nen aq-ek er sekhet hetep."

(You cannot cross over; you will not reach the peaceful wilderness.)

In that courtroom, the scales tipped completely to one side.

Beneath the scales, the half-crocodile, half-lion monster, Amit, had already opened its massive jaws.

The curator read out the last sentence.

"tem-ek, sheut."

(You, have ended your shadow.)

In the courtroom, the last vestiges of smoke began to dissipate.

Its "heart" could not pass that judgment;

Its "account" was recorded as an unpayable debt.

It was swallowed by that monster and completely disintegrated.

This is what the people of the Black Soil River Basin believe to be their "second death".

This was a program that two local experts had arranged long ago.

Once scholars have thoroughly understood and accurately assessed it, it will naturally dissipate.

The fragments were originally intended to be destroyed at the end of this lesson.

The curator approved it, and the plume of smoke began to dissipate into the deepest part.

And at the very moment it collapsed:

Richard's panel activated silently.

The dissipating smoke was the lingering embers of the mystery of that master of the narrow path.

The panel floated up.

Structured etheric nuclei detected... Analyzing...

[Nucleocondensation property: Seed.]

[Seed Source: Master's Secret Remnants.]

【Features and Tags: Name, Mirror, Substitute.】

【Whether to extract? 】

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

He chose "Yes".

He intercepted that wisp of mysterious ember and let it sink into the panel.

Seeds have been extracted.