I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Oatmeal was retired from the Williams family's dinner table.

My mother made roasted lamb chops, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, served with mashed potatoes and pickled vegetables that our neighbor had given us.

Evelyn washed the glass jar at the Royal Hotel several times.

It contained her homemade milk pudding, which was placed in the very center of the dining table, looking quite impressive.

"Look," she said, turning the griffin emblem on the jar to show her mother.

"Wouldn't it look more elegant if I used my pudding as a serving dish?"

"Your pudding is of high quality," Margaret said, placing the thickest piece of lamb chop into her son's bowl.

In the few days since he returned, Richard has tidied up his luggage and emptied out his old clothes from the wardrobe.

He also helped his father repair the wooden fence in the backyard that kept getting stuck.

Rogers leaned against the door frame for a long time, then said, "The nail is crooked," and pulled it out and re-nailed it himself.

That day, Richard went out after finishing breakfast.

Briston remains shrouded in gray in the summer, with soot pressing down on the rooftops.

The sun hung behind the chimney forest, its whiteness devoid of warmth.

Cities have background noise.

The iron wheels of coal carts and the constant vibrations of spinning machines day and night, along with the rising and falling breaths of tens of thousands of people, all submerged beneath the streets, merged into an inaudible hum.

People who have lived there for a long time will not notice it, just as they will not notice their own heartbeat.

After the [Perception & Contemplation] was laid out, Richard could hear it.

The background noise has changed since I came home.

Half a degree lower, half a degree wet.

The planks in the backyard of the funeral parlor were piled up two layers higher than when he left home, and the smell of freshly planed pine wood overpowered the smell of coal smoke.

The corners of the sign on the pharmacy window that read "Iodine and hemostatic gauze temporarily out of stock" were curled up from the sun and hadn't been taken down yet.

Richard slowly walked back.

As I passed Mrs. Weil's house, she was hanging a gray cloth on the windowsill to dry.

"Mrs. Wells, how is Mr. Davidson doing lately?"

Mrs. Weil stopped pulling at the gray cloth.

"They left last month."

"...What number?"

"I don't remember exactly. Around the 20th? When his daughter arrived, you had already gone to the capital."

Mr. Davidson lived in the third-to-last house at the east end of Slag Lane; he was a retired textile worker.

He's in his early sixties and needs a cane to walk, but he comes out every afternoon to sit at the alley entrance and bask in the sun.

"Where's old George, the tailor over there?"

Mrs. Weil remained silent for a while.

"He left too, the month before last."

Richard stood at the entrance of the alley and listened to the pulse of the slag alley again.

Burns, Davidson, and George Sr.

They were all elderly people from the slag heap alley, poor people, people who would have been forgotten if they had left.

An elderly man coughing up blood, a retired textile worker, and a tailor.

During dinner, my mother was clearing away the bowls when she casually mentioned it.

"The funeral arrangements for Burns were handled by Mr. Reeve of the North Side Mutual Aid Society. He was a very kind man and didn't charge much money."

"Mutual aid society?"

"The poor people's association pays a penny every week; if something happens in their family, the association will provide a coffin and manpower."

Margaret stacked the bowls neatly: "So they don't fall into the hands of the parish and get a lime pit."

Richard nodded and wrote down the name Mr. Reeve.

There was a small bag of sage on his desk, bought in the capital, the paper string still untied.

Thinking that tomorrow is Sunday, I'll take this to the branch office.

Old Bige always adds sage to his black tea.

He planned to go to the branch office tomorrow to find Old Big to talk about things in the capital and also report his reading notes on the handwritten copy of "Divination and Vision".

But suddenly he felt a strange unease.

Before he left last time, old Big said something.

"A couple of days ago, I saw a black dog by the small river at the east end of the slag alley. It squatted there and stared at me for a long time... Even black dogs would find someone like me unlucky."

Black dogs are harbingers of bad luck.

Richard held the talisman in his hand, not throwing it, but he already had a vague idea of ​​what the result would be if he did.

Still water spread out beneath his feet, circling outwards into the distance.

He was waiting, waiting for news he didn't want to hear.

Late at night.

My sister's footsteps echoed from next door for a while, then quieted down, and the sounds from my parents' side also ceased.

The slag heap was shrouded in the smoky darkness of night.

Richard sat cross-legged on the bed, practicing his breathing techniques.

Inhale to create a long slope, exhale to create a short wave, hold your breath and get stuck in the gap between the waves.

My maternal grandfather said that during the first month, I would feel unwell all over, with bloated lungs, a tight throat, and night sweats.

The four aspects of the "body" aspect largely alleviated his discomfort.

All that's left is the awkwardness of changing the size of the clothes.

The bare tree behind the sternum swayed its leaves more gently than before as the waves rose and fell.

Tap, tap, tap on the windowpane.

Richard's breathing remained undisturbed, but his hand had already reached for the ebony revolver in the bedside table.

He peered out with his spiritual gaze, sliding it along the wood grain of the window frame.

There was someone standing outside the window.

The etheric fluctuations were deliberately left undisguised, hanging as a dark, gray mass outside the window.

A few old lights dangled around them, belonging to two or three of the seven spirit artifacts.

He put the ebony back in the cabinet and got up to open the window.

Mrs. McNeill wore a gray dress, the hem of which was off the ground.

Two very faint shadows lifted her through the window, and she landed without a sound.

She raised her hand and wiped the window, a thin curtain fell, and the sounds inside could not escape.

Richard looked at the other person's face.

His face was ashen, and his brow was furrowed.

The dried scent of gray stamens on her body was faint, masking another odor beneath it... the lime water from the autopsy room.

"Mrs. McNeil, what's wrong...?"

She didn't exchange pleasantries.

"Bige has passed away; officially, it's said to be cardiac arrest."

Richard stood at the window, holding a teapot in his hand, ready to go down and make tea for the guests.

He lowered his head and it took him several seconds to understand the sentence he had just heard.

Old Bige was performing magic, the copper penny slipping through his fingers.

He flipped through the pages three times and the words disappeared, only then did he hear them again from behind his ear.

"Even black dogs would find someone like me unlucky."

There was a small packet of sage on the desk, the paper string still attached.

The leaves of the tree behind the sternum all sank down.

Richard forced down the third beat, his throat tightening as he swallowed.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"The night before last, the doorman opened the door early in the morning and found him lying on the register."

Mrs. McNeil took something from her sleeve and placed it in his palm.

It was a copper penny, polished to a shine, and the Queen's profile was almost flat.

"Bige has packed all his things, and this one is placed separately under the note."

"Your name was written on the note."

Richard held the penny.

The copper was cold; it took a while for my palm to warm up.

The temperature came from his own body temperature, and of course he knew that.

But as my fingertips touched the smoothed-out indentation, I always suspected that the warmth came from somewhere else.

The room was very quiet.

The night breeze blew in through the window, causing the curtains to billow slightly.

Richard began using the methods taught by old Big.

"碰" means spring, and "固" means palm.

The inspiration strikes, then stops.

A wisp of residual ether remained on the copper surface.

Extremely faint, extremely pale, the oil lamp had burned down to its last drop of oil, with only a little scorched residual heat remaining on the wick.

In that last wisp of residue, there was neither fear nor pain.

It was an indescribable, quiet "letting go".

This guy put the last thing he was holding back where it belonged.

He sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes.

Richard's inspiration lingered on it for a long time.

"Why did he leave such traces before he left?"

"That's why I asked you to come along."

Mrs. McNeill leaned against the window, took a gray wax stick from her pocket, and twirled it between her fingers.

"There's an old rule in Mrs. Mary's school," she said. "When a fellow disciple dies, the other disciples collect the body."

The medium's tone gradually hardened.

"Those who got lost, lay down, or didn't come back... the teacher never went looking for them."

The teacher is so desperate that even searching the entire mainland wouldn't be enough to find them all.

All I can do is collect the bodies.

"Lift the people onto the platform, inspect them according to the rules, keep those who should be kept, and burn those who should be burned."

"Over the years, how many people has Bigelow performed this procedure for at that autopsy facility?"

She put the wax stick back into her pocket.

"It's his turn tonight."

Richard gripped the penny tightly.

The edge of the copper cut into my palm, and it hurt a little.

"Let's go."

He casually stuffed the small packet of sage into his pocket.

I didn't think much of it when I put it in my pocket, and only realized I had it when I went downstairs.

The slag alley was fast asleep. The two men walked north without saying a word.

In the latter half of the night, only gaslights remained on the streets of Briston.

The conscription notice was pasted at the entrance of the bridge, the smell of paste mixed with the stench of urine.

The news about Heimers Island is all over the place every day. City dwellers may not say it, but they're already hoarding salt and candles.

Upon arriving at the underground autopsy room of the North District Office, the smell of lime water wafted up from the stairwell.

Mrs. McNeil pushed open the iron gate, the hinges making a dry groan.

The lights in the autopsy room of the branch office are always on. It was like this when Old Big was around. He said, "The dead don't like the dark."

The stainless steel table was in the center of the room, and someone was lying on it.

He was wearing that dark brown tweed coat that he had worn for many years, with the top button fastened.

The leather shoes were polished, and the shoelaces were tied neatly.

Richard walked to the edge of the platform.

Old Big's face was quieter than when he was alive.

The right hand is placed on the chest, and the left hand hangs at the side.

Richard reached out and placed his hand on the other person's hand.

The skin felt completely cool and hardened.

The spiritual light seeped out from the fingertips and traveled down the back of the hand.

The subcutaneous tissue, blood vessels, fascia... the physical aspects of the back of the hand have stopped.

Going deeper, there's the ether microcirculation.

Richard's inspiration traveled along the main pathway on the inside of Old Bigg's forearm.

In a person who experiences cardiac arrest, the blood supply should "extinguish itself."

Old Big's path is not gradual.

Richard's inspiration stopped at the left side of his chest.

The etheric flow was cleanly and decisively cut off there.

This loop was cut off in the middle.

When the heart stops, the person dies.

Richard recognized this tactic.

He was also practicing the art of silence.

If we increase the intensity of the "interference" tenfold, and concentrate the force on that single point, the heart's main node...

The outward manifestation is cardiac arrest.

There were no external injuries, no struggles, and no signs of an etheric outburst.

The autopsy report stated that it was a heart attack.

Richard looked up; Mrs. McNeil was standing on the other side of the platform.

Let's see the wealth of people one by one.

"You read it," Mrs. McNeil said.

"Silence Technique"

Mrs. McNeil pulled an enamel plate from under the table.

A complete set of autopsy tools was already laid out on the plate; it was the same set that someone had been using all along.

"Does Team Leader Wentworth know?" Richard asked.

"Wentworth is away on a business trip." Mrs. McNeil took a scalpel from the instrument case.

"Regarding the situation on the Heimers Peninsula, the capital has already begun mobilizing personnel."

More than half of the staff in the branch offices have left, and the few remaining are all very busy.

She wiped the scalpel on her apron.

"Who has time to examine a regular coroner's heart condition during wartime?"

"So, his death is just going to end like this?"

Mrs. McNeil glanced at him.

"I didn't say forget it."

"It's just that official channels are blocked."

She held the scalpel upside down on the edge of the enamel plate.

"That's why I came to find you."

"There are some things that I may not be able to see completely on my own."

Richard withdrew his spiritual vision and placed his hands on the edge of the table.

The metal of the iron platform was cold.

"Let's begin."

Mrs. McNeil unbuttoned the man's shirt, one button at a time.

Richard saw it when the last button was undone.

There is a suture mark on the skin directly behind the sternum.

The edges of the suture have partially healed, with new flesh growing halfway up, but it's not completely closed yet.

This was sewn on by myself several days before I died.

"This stab..." His voice was tense, "Did he do it himself?"

Mrs. McNeil inserted the tweezers.

The sutures were medical-grade catgut, tied with surgical knots, and the technique was very professional.

Mrs. McNeil used tweezers to open the partially healed suture and then switched to a scalpel.

The blade moves down along the seam, cutting through the layer of subcutaneous tissue between the sternum and the skin.

A paper package was sewn onto the back of the sternum.

The edges of the oiled paper were sealed with wax, and the four corners were tied with silk thread to the periosteum of the two ribs, making it completely wrapped.

Mrs. McNeil used tweezers to cut the thread and took out the oil paper package.

She placed it on an enamel plate and used the tip of her knife to pry open the wax seal.

Unfold the oiled paper; inside is a sheet of paper.

At the time, Bige said, "I am the safest person in Briston."

Richard thought he meant, "No one would want to harm someone like me."

Now, looking at his exposed chest cavity, at the wound he himself had created...

Only then did he realize that he was talking about his own body.

In order to have the official record classify it as a "natural death," the murderer would not examine his body again.

And besides the murderer, who would perform open-chest surgery on someone who died of natural causes?

It was only my senior sister.

Mrs. McNeil stood by the stage for a while.

She reached out and gently brushed a strand of gray hair from the man's forehead back into place.

"What an idiot."