I loaded the Mysticism panel.

When the event was over, Richard took the opportunity to suggest again that he wanted to see the genuine articles in the storeroom.

Curator Weatherby stroked his beard.

"I knew you were thinking about this."

"I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"It's not a problem at all." The curator gathered his long beard in front of his chest.

"I have to go down with you. The collection is official, and we have to follow the rules."

Richard felt a weight lifted from his heart.

The two arrived at the storeroom, where they found snake-shaped bronze artifacts, sacrificial knives, drums made of human skin, and several polished skull artifacts...

He didn't dare get too close, but instead guided his inspiration along the flowing ether toward the nearest glass case.

Practice makes perfect, and with the added benefit of [Contemplation] this time, he was already quite skilled.

Available points: 1.83...1.84...

The numbers moved slightly, but much more slowly.

There was no trace of the torn-off fragment of the master artist stirring in the warehouse.

The seal was so tight that the slightest leak at the turning point was so fine that it was almost impossible to catch.

Available points: 1.85...1.86...

It will probably take quite a while to absorb all of this.

To avoid arousing the curator's suspicion, he needed to find something to talk about.

"Curator." Richard squatted down in front of a snake-shaped bronze vessel, looking at the coiled patterns on it.

"The human sacrifices on the subcontinent and the other side of the sea... I've read about them in books, but I don't understand them very well."

Curator Weatherby, who was examining the human skin drum with his hands behind his back, perked up upon hearing this.

An old scholar who becomes a museum director is always a bit fond of lecturing.

What do you want to know?

"How many people will they actually kill?"

Richard's inspiration followed the bronze vessel, leaving behind a thin layer of ether.

"I read an old record that said in the year a certain temple was completed, the number of sacrifices alone was..."

"Tens of thousands of people were killed." Curator Weatherby nodded.

"When there were many prisoners of war, hundreds of them could be dissected from a single altar in a day."

The blood on the steps flowed like a river, congealing into a shell at the bottom.

The musty, fishy smell of spices in the warehouse now smelled almost nauseating.

"Listen up, Richard."

The wars there are quite different from those in the countries of our western continent.

When our empire goes to war, it wants land, money, and cities.

Sometimes they fight just to capture people alive.

"Capture living people to feed the gods."

Richard felt a chill run down his spine.

"What about the islands at sea?"

"Those islands at sea are another story," Curator Weatherby changed the subject.

"The jungles there are deep and the miasma is heavy. There are many tribes, and dozens of tribes can fight each other all the time on one island."

"They believe in their ancestors, mountain gods, and things from the sea."

"There are some extremely ferocious tribes over there that eat people."

"Cannibalism?"

"Cannibalism." Curator Weatherby frowned.

"I didn't eat because I was so hungry."

"They believed that there was a spirit hidden in the brain, so they cracked open the skull, dug out the brain, and ate it raw."

He ate and ate until he developed a strange illness. He would tremble all over and be unable to stand, and he would laugh incessantly. In the end, he died while laughing.

They didn't know it was from cannibalism; they thought it was a curse from an enemy.

So they went back to war, back to capturing people, back to eating…

"Richard," Curator Weatherby said, noticing his complexion, "you don't look well."

"...I'm fine." Richard paused for a moment. "It's just that I feel...we shouldn't have done this."

The old man sighed.

"It shouldn't be like this. I've spent my whole life studying, reading about the Black Earth River, Persia, and various maritime states."

But reading these records makes me feel uncomfortable.

He looked up at the light on the warehouse ceiling.

"Think about it, a person can farm, spin yarn, work in mines, and carry sacks."

They are our most important workforce.

Factories, railways, and shipbuilding all rely on thousands upon thousands of such hands to support them.

The old man shook his head.

"Over there... such labor force, just filling in the invisible gaps."

"Nothing can be brought back after burning; the land still needs to be cultivated, and the yarn still needs to be spun."

"It's no different from throwing a chest of gold pounds into a furnace to burn for fun."

Richard stood in front of the glass case, listening to the curator's words, but his mind was elsewhere.

The sky in Bristol is gray all year round.

Most of the adults in that city suffer from asthma.

His own lungs were also grown up in that coal smoke.

Miners who spend their entire lives working underground accumulate a layer of indelible blackness in their lungs by the time they reach their thirties or forties.

He wasn't dead, but his breath grew shorter every year.

The young man who was queuing up for the job earlier was so thin that his shoulder bones were protruding.

Most of the names at the bottom of the Black Ditch belong to the lowest class of people in this city.

On the Spice Islands, they led people to a stone trough and fed them with a knife to an unseen god.

The Empire is cramming people into mines, factories, and military trains, feeding them to something else unseen.

After being worn down by that machine for decades, his lungs were filled with black soot, and he couldn't even catch his breath...

It's just a matter of one dying quickly and the other dying slowly.

He suppressed the strange look on his face.

"Then... with human sacrifice being so prevalent, wouldn't that weak spot be a prime target?"

"Very fat." Curator Weatherby raised an eyebrow.

"With hundreds or even thousands of years' worth of blood poured down, how could it not be fertile?"

"And their mystical side..."

"Not bad either," Curator Weatherby stroked his beard.

"Among the Eastern Continent and the various maritime states, the top figures are in no way inferior to our Empire."

The warehouse fell silent for a moment.

Richard's inspiration was still wandering: the green-glazed figurine, the carved sacrificial knife, those few human-skin drums...

Available points: 2.01...2.04...

It's past 2 o'clock.

Richard breathed a sigh of relief the moment the numbers climbed past the two o'clock mark.

But he remained expressionless and continued to ask questions along the line of conversation.

"Director, after listening to what you've said, there's something I don't understand."

"Um?"

"You said the weak points on the Eastern Continent are so plentiful, and the Mystic Side isn't weak either."

Richard looked at the curator.

"But when the Imperial fleet sailed over there, those areas became territories of the Empire and several powerful nations of the Western Continent."

"If their mystical side is so strong, how come they can't even defend their own country's borders?"

Curator Weatherby paused for a moment as he stroked his beard.

"Well, that's a problem..."

He opened his mouth, then gathered his white beard to his chest.

"Your mind works really fast."

"curator?"

"It's a long story," the old man waved his hand.

"The reason they couldn't defend the country's borders lies precisely in their own strength..."

He was only halfway through his sentence when he reached out and lightly pressed down on the drum.

"Never mind, let's not talk about this today."

"Think about it slowly. Once you've stayed in the capital for a while and read more books, you'll naturally understand."

Richard did not ask any further questions.

The ether that had seeped out of the warehouse became fainter and fainter the more it was skimmed off.

Available points: 2.07...2.09...

The numbers stopped at 2.09.

The strange object began to recede, and the remaining seepage ceased.

Richard did the math in his head.

Without any expert fragments interfering this time, he worked for almost half an hour and only managed to collect less than 0.3.

But in the end, the points were pushed over by two.

One should not be too greedy; know when to stop.

Richard hesitated for a moment, then took out the Saint-Bronze Paperweight and the Small Bronze Balance Scales from his bag.

As is customary, he wanted to repeat his old trick of using silence.

But since the curator, who frequently deals with antiques, is here, it's best to ask first.

"Director, I have something else I'd like to ask you."

Curator Weatherby's gaze fell on the two bronze artifacts, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Things from the Black Soil River."

"Where did Thoth's bird and Maat's scales come from?"

"It was part of a case in Briston," Richard said, only half of what he said.

"There were some unclean things pickled on it, and I want to make it harmless, but I can't find a way."

Curator Weatherby took the sacred paperweight, held it in his palm and weighed it in his hand, then leaned closer to examine the inscription on the base of the bronze stand.

"Hmm... the foundation is still relatively clean. It's been tampered with, but not severely."

Curator Weatherby placed the paperweight back in Richard's hands: "That makes things easier."

"When you purify it, don't try to use any techniques to directly confront the resentment on its body."

"A head-on clash?"

"The more you suppress resentment, the more it seeps in."

Curator Weatherby shook his head: "You'll have to try something else."

He stopped and pointed to the sacred bird.

"Think about it, what was this bird originally used for?"

Richard replied, "Thoth's bird keeps the books for the nine gods; whatever is written in the books is what the dead feel in their hearts."

"That's right."

The curator pointed out:

"It is born to 'keep accurate records'; all you have to do is bring its original job back to it."

Richard had a vague idea of ​​what was going on.

"You mean... make it 're-enter the book'?"

The old man gestured with his lip toward the small bronze balance scale.

"The same principle applies to this scale; the two strange objects are used together."

"If you use it to weigh things, the strange object will remember what it was originally meant to do."

"Thank you for your guidance, Curator."

Curator Weatherby walked toward the warehouse door with his hands behind his back.

"This old man has an itchy tongue; he'll talk endlessly to anyone who's willing to listen."