I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Unexpected changes still occurred.

A shadow filled with resentment in the water dodged Sarah's gun.

It pounced on an old hunter standing on the outermost edge of the defensive line.

The old hunter was a retired man who came at the sound of the bell. He was old and his hands and feet were a beat slower.

The shadow wrapped around his ankle and pulled him into the water.

"Old Lei!"

A hunter nearby lunged at him and grabbed his hand.

late.

The black water surged up and swallowed the old hunter whole.

A few bubbles rose to the surface of the water, but not even a body was left.

The hunter who rushed to save him froze on the water's edge.

Richard recognized both of them.

They came together and were still arguing when they entered the branch office.

One complains about the other's poor marksmanship, and the other complains about the other's gossipy nature.

The hunter who wasn't dragged away knelt by the water, his eyes so red they looked like they could bleed.

He pulled a pencil from his pocket and picked up the scattered blank pages from the pile of paper.

He added his companion's name to the very end of the roster.

I write very slowly, my hands are shaking.

But he wrote the name out completely, stroke by stroke.

"Old Lei," he said to the accountant.

"Samuel Reynolds, the hunter, forty-eight years old."

He paused for a long time before saying the second half of the sentence.

"...He owes me three shillings, which he lost in the last card game and hasn't paid back yet."

The accountant heard it, and so did the old pastor.

The next song is by Samuel Reynolds.

Those who fall on the front line become new names added to this requiem.

Water overflowed from my feet; it was dirty, black, and fishy.

But that river of light flowing against the current grew brighter and brighter.

The work chant went on for who knows how long.

One by one, the shadows standing underwater disappeared.

The men who had been carrying loads of food returned home one by one, following the river of song.

The water in the Black Ditch has become much less flavorful.

But one of them hasn't left yet.

Under Richard's spiritual vision, the shadow that had been nailed down for over a decade remained still at the deepest point of the water.

Lizzie, she is the turning point of this entire anchor network.

Other shadows are knots on the web, and she is the nail that gathers all the knots together.

If she doesn't loosen her grip, this net won't collapse properly.

Someone needs to take her there alone.

"Mr. Hutton," Richard said, "I'll take Lizzie's turn."

Mr. Hutton glanced at him.

The old man's voice was so hoarse that he couldn't speak a complete sentence; he simply nodded at Richard.

On the other side of the embankment, the old pastor stopped chanting.

He took a few breaths and looked back at the line.

"Who else?" The old pastor's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal.

"The last one." Mrs. McNeil propped herself up and stood up.

She said to the old pastor:

"It's a girl, so we have to send her off with the song 'Farewell Wine,' which is the tune her man loves to hum."

Before the tavern closes for the day, the regulars sing this tune at the top of their lungs to say goodbye to each other.

The old pastor started the tune.

He didn't start loudly; he first hummed, then slowly hummed out the words.

"Fill my glass, my friend, this is my last round of drinking."

"I've written all my debts behind the door; I'll pay them off with the first copper coin in my next life."

Among the men on the embankment, an old porter was the first to come up.

He strained his voice, drawing out the phrase "the account is recorded behind the door."

The singing didn't sound like crying; it sounded like calling a brother who lived several streets away to come home for dinner.

The second voice came in, followed by the third.

These people stood there for most of the night, clutching their hats, listening to lullabies and hearing shouts.

They never expected they would be singing drinking songs tonight.

But they were familiar with this tune.

They sang this tune on the wooden benches of the tavern to each of their brothers who walked ahead of them.

As they sang, they took off their hats and pressed them to their chests.

Richard pulled the penny from his waistband.

The copper surface was warm; this penny had been held in someone's hand for who knows how many years, until it was covered with the oil and grime of their hands.

Richard never understood why old Big had left him that penny.

Now he understands.

On the other side of the embankment, the second verse began.

"The bridges I've crossed, the ferry crossings I've passed, the soles of my boots have been covered in dust from several docks."

Tonight, I'll take off my hat and hang it up; I'll only be able to sleep soundly with my head resting on the river.

Richard walked towards the water's edge.

The water has become shallower.

After the work chants had been sung for a while, most of the shadows standing in the dark ditch had thinned out.

The remaining one sank to the deepest part of the water.

Richard squatted down on the muddy ground beside the sluice gate.

The mud by the water was shiny black, and Richard placed his penny on that patch of mud.

The bronze face is facing upwards, and the queen's profile is turned towards the sky.

The edge of the penny was half-buried in the mud, with the other half still reflecting the faint light of the night.

On the other side of the embankment, the third section continues.

"I still recognize the names of all the brothers who have toasted with me."

The road outside the tavern forks in two; you go south, I go north.

Richard spoke up.

"Lizzie".

Old Big did not leave the penny to him.

Old Big knew that on this day, Richard would deliver the penny to where it was meant to be.

"Lizzie, he came."

The shadow that had been submerged for over a decade moved slightly.

The shadow on the water relaxed a little more.

He didn't see you off.

"Later, he spent his whole life sending other people home one by one."

He examined the bodies of the poor, recorded their names, and wrote down the things they thought about before they died.

There were no waves on the water.

But the river of light gradually brightened on the water's surface, turning into a color different from anywhere else.

"He held onto that penny for over a decade."

"His palms were burning hot when he held it."

"Lizzie".

Richard read her name.

The shadow at the deepest part of the water began to rise.

She floated very slowly, pulling the nail out of the water inch by inch, a process that took more than a decade.

Lizzie's shadow rose from the water and landed on the shore.

The hunters standing on the shore held their guns, but none of them fired.

Lizzie's shadow bent over.

She picked up the penny from the muddy ground.

She touched the patina on the bronze surface; it was a man's hand.

A pair of hands she still remembered, the hands that had touched her teacup when she was young.

She held the penny and bowed her head toward Richard.

She was expressing her gratitude.

Richard's gaze fell on the section of Lizzie's raised left wrist.

That charcoal drawing of a smiling face is still there.

It's crooked and doesn't look very realistic.

A very faint light shone on the water's surface, spreading outwards from her.

As it spread into the River of Light, the River of Light widened by an inch.

The song on the other side of the embankment has come to an end.

"Lift them up, friends."

Raise your glasses, this last sip of wine, no one is allowed to leave any.

After we finish this drink, let's meet again next time...

Richard stood by the water.

There were no more pennies on the water, so it went back with Lizzie.

The river of light flowing backwards, paved out by the song, is now so wide that it seems to stretch to the horizon.

It spreads from Heigou to the entire northern district.

The deceased followed the river of song upstream.

Walk towards the shore, towards the door of the house, towards the bridge where Mom is standing.

Two rivers meet at one point on the water.

The black river, carrying silt and nails, sinks downwards.

The river of songs carries memories and the journey home, flowing upstream.

Tonight, they are returned one by one from the river of song.

In the song, Mr. Reeve stands on the other side of the shore.

That kind face was still there, but it was barely hanging on.

The shadows all around began to tremble.

The River of Songs flows upstream, having already led many of the dead ashore in accordance with its melody.

But the anchor net hasn't collapsed yet, and the person behind it is still at the bottom.

Mr. Reeve raised his hand.

In Richard's "Contemplation," he saw a line drawn out from the palm of that hand.

The line didn't go towards any specific person, but spread out over the entire northern district.

Wherever it spread, a shadow would be caught by the silver threads, its feet entangled.

Half of the dead who had come up the River of Song were pulled back down by this force.

"It's locked." Mrs. McNeil sat in the center of the formation, blood still on her lips.

"By locking one line, you can pull another one down."

"This is its last resort."

It wants to drag all the shadows of tonight's "responding voices" into the black water for a complete replacement.

Even if half succeed, the other half will no longer be the same person.

The body is still there, but the contents have been replaced.

"It locks up fame." Mr. Hutton stood half a step behind Richard.

The old man's face was ashen and bloodless.

"The name lock relies on the mysterious root of its essence."

Richard closed his eyes.

In the museum's storeroom, at the very moment that plume of smoke reached for his shadow.

Using the still waters spread out by [contemplation], I glanced at the root of the name.

Shadow, Substitute, Name.

Standing in the shadow, born without light.

To devour another's name and steal another's form.

They should be asleep, but they refuse to go to sleep.

Richard opened his eyes.

"You read it," he said to Mr. Hutton. "I'll give you the load-bearing beam; you forge it."

Mr. Hutton didn't speak, he just nodded.

The old man closed his eyes.

Richard lowered his voice and reported the details of each joint of the load-bearing beam.

Mr. Hutton would listen to a sentence and then dissect and refine it in his mind.

A draft of the verdict was being constructed in Mr. Hutton's mind.

He looked up and glanced at both sides of the overturned black ditch.

Reverend Hawkins was still singing, his voice hoarse, but the farewell toast was still being sung.

"Ready," said Mr. Hutton.

"You start with a sentence."

The old man took a deep breath.

He spoke, and this time the verdict was still delivered in the most plain and simple Albion language.

"You are not John Reeve."

It was a very soft sentence, but everyone in the entire northern district heard it at once.

"John Reeve, he was emptied out during that serious illness twelve years ago."

"All that's left is a face."

"You picked it up and put it on."

"Bearing the name of a dead man, you have woven a web in this city for twelve years."

On the other side of the shore, Mr. Reeve's face twitched.

Mr. Hutton didn't stop.

"You can only establish your own form by the shadow of the living."

"You can only hone your skills by hiding in a place without light."

"With each name you swallow, you grow thicker; with each face you peel away, you grow an inch taller..."

Mr. Hutton couldn't catch his breath.

A "uh" sound came from his throat, as if someone had grabbed his trachea.

Immediately afterwards, blood seeped from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth.

Richard reached out and helped him up.

At that moment, he sensed it from the guide's body.

The old man's etheric circuit was burned through, and a section of the trunk from the root of his tongue to the tree of light at the seat of the sun was charred.

"catch……"

Mr. Hutton's lips moved slightly.

Richard finished the unfinished verdict by starting with the missing word.

He completed the sentence the guide hadn't finished reading, word for word:

"With each name you swallow, you grow thicker; with each face you peel away, you grow an inch taller..."

"...None of them are yours."

Richard's voice wasn't loud.

But this sentence carries a different weight when it lands.

Teachers and students recited the same judgment in unison, without a single gap between them.

"The name belongs to the dead."

"The face belongs to the dead."

"The last bit of thought that the living still hold for the dead at night... also belongs to the dead."

"What you borrowed, what you stole, what you've kept hidden under this black water for over a decade and refuse to return..."

"Tonight, we will recover the principal and interest together."

Richard looked towards the other side of the shore.

"Give John Reeve his face back to John Reeve."

"The name that thousands of people in the North District remember in their hearts, return it to the North District."

"On your face, on your body, everything borrowed or stolen..."

"Take it off!"

Mr. Reeve raised his hand.

He wanted to pull those silver threads even tighter.

But at that moment, a thought simultaneously surfaced in the minds of all the living people in the North District who had just finished singing the requiem.

That kind man who collects money from the dead and gives coffins to the poor, Mr. Reeve, whom everyone says is a good person and doesn't accept money...

He is not John Reeve.

He is something beneath this city, wearing a dead face.

The substitution technique is all about the business of "who do you think I am?"

In the entire North District, thousands of people's inner "Mr. Rif" died at the same time.

On the other side of the shore, Mr. Reeve's face began to fall.

A crack appeared on that kind face, starting from the corner of its eye.

Mr. Reeve raised his hand, trying to press the face down.

It can't be held down.

Wherever you press your hand, that piece will shatter.