I loaded the Mysticism panel.

That morning, Richard walked back into the windowless classroom, where the inscriptions on the walls still kept the etheric field completely suppressed.

On the door frame, which was inlaid with silver thread, someone had written a line of very small characters in chalk:

Deadline: October 28th.

The editing team's work is nearing completion.

Hollis sat at the head of the long table, with a thick stack of already-made seal patterns in front of him.

"This is the last batch." He placed his palm on the stack of papers.

"Complete all verifications by the end of the month, bind them into booklets, and send them to the front lines."

The students returned to their seats.

When Richard opened his copy, he found that he only had less than twenty pages of drawings left to be verified.

The situation was similar on Montague's side, where the blond youth was meticulously marking the deviation of a certain sealing node with a pencil.

Fisher devoted all his energy to that catalog index, which was arranged alphabetically and chronologically, with such meticulous detail that it sent chills down one's spine.

The classroom was quiet, with only the rustling of paper turning and the occasional soft sound of a pencil hitting the desk.

Sunlight streamed in from the other end of the corridor as Richard finished proofreading the last page.

He rubbed his wrist and looked around the room.

The notice board was covered with various notices and request forms, some of which had been removed and filed, leaving several empty spaces where nail marks remained.

New demand orders are still coming in from the front lines, but the editing team is almost done with their work.

Starting at the end of September, these students were pulled into this windowless classroom and spent their days dismantling, copying, proofreading, and returning the sealed patterns.

It's so boring it makes your teeth itch.

But it was precisely in this tedium that Richard's [Critical Thinking] progressed inch by inch to level 3, and his [Knowledge] also reached 95% of level 3.

He stretched, and his joints cracked several times.

Montagu, standing to the side, didn't even look up, finishing up his own portion.

Fisher was hunched over the index, checking the page numbers, his lips moving silently, probably counting.

Catherine sat in the far corner of the classroom, with a stack of checked rubbings in front of her.

She sat upright just as she had on her first day of school, and the little notebook in her hand never left her side.

Richard looked at the people in the classroom and suddenly remembered some things from the past.

The classrooms in Greenwood were bathed in the slanting afternoon light, and students were engrossed in their work.

Warren would be munching on bread nearby, Hugh would be drawing chicken legs against the wall, and Grey would quietly place a tin box on his desk and then disappear.

Those days are getting further and further away from him.

The classrooms nowadays have no windows, so you can't see the sky.

"That's a wrap." Hollis stood up and stretched.

"Continue tomorrow, and get this batch done before the end of the month."

Richard put the pencil back in the pencil holder, feeling a little relieved.

The next Theological Salon is on the 16th, which is the night after tomorrow.

The students left in twos and threes.

Upon arriving at the cafeteria, Richard carried his tray to the window and, as usual, ordered two steaks and a bowl of soup.

He sat down by the window, cut the first steak into four pieces, and ate them one by one in the quickest way possible.

Outside the window, a few more sycamore leaves have fallen.

One thing after another has come to fruition in the past few days.

The rankings of the debate were posted on the busy bulletin board, and for the first time, his name surpassed Montagu's.

The editorial team's work has finally come to an end;

In addition, he had been carefully testing the temperament of the newly grown "Recorder's Pen" for the past few days.

With everything coming to an end, he finally felt a rare sense of relief.

This relaxation reminded him of a small incident from before.

Richard walked out of the cafeteria and made a phone call to the Royal Academy.

"Oh?" Phillips exclaimed on the other end of the line.

"Richard, it's quite unusual for you to offer me a drink."

"Consider it making up for what we owed last time," Richard said.

"You decide the location; I've never been near the Royal Academy."

"But you were the one who came to me the last few times, so this time it's my turn to make the trip."

"No," Phillips answered quickly, without the slightest hesitation.

Why?

"At the Royal Academy, drinking involves discussing the vintage and estate beforehand, like attending a funeral."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a lowered voice: "And I don't want to run into Oliver."

Phillips mentioned the name, his tone tinged with a hint of irritation.

"Isn't it me who has a grudge against him? Why are you upset with him again?"

"Something bad has happened, but don't tell Montagu."

Phillips' voice returned to its usual nonchalant tone.

"And there's an old badger tavern at your Imperial University that's supposedly been open for sixty years. I've heard about it for a long time and always wanted to try it out."

Richard couldn't persuade him otherwise, so he simply went along with the other party's wishes and changed the meeting place back to Imperial University.

The next afternoon, just after the inscription class ended, Richard was packing his things when Catherine came over.

She still can't speak these days.

Everyone always carries a small notebook with them when they go out. They write down what they want to say on paper first, and then show it to others. The students are all used to it.

She wrote a line in the notebook and turned it over to show Richard.

"Professor McFee's birthday is coming up soon. Do you know where I can buy some suitable alcohol?"

Have you asked anyone else?

Catherine turned to another page and wrote:

"I asked Fisher, and he talked to me about whisky for twenty minutes, but not a single useful word came out."

Richard almost burst out laughing.

That's just like Fisher's style. If you asked him to proofread ancient manuscripts, he could pick out every single mistake.

If you ask him to recommend a bottle of whiskey, he'll probably just start by explaining the etymology of whiskey.

Catherine's pen fell to the ground again:

"I asked Montague again, and he named several estates. The cheapest bottle was half a year's allowance for me."

Richard wasn't surprised.

Montagu always aimed for the best, never caring about how much money others had.

"So you thought of me?"

Catherine nodded, then added:

"You and Phillips are both quite..."

She paused, seemingly considering which word to use, before finally choosing one: "pragmatic."

Richard thought for a moment and told her about his plans for the evening.

"What a coincidence, I'm going to have a drink with him tonight at the Old Badger Tavern, two alleys to the east."

He knows more about wine than I do. If you don't mind the small size of the place, you can come along.

Catherine seemed to be weighing something, and finally finished writing a line.

"Then let's go together."

………………

Two alleys east of the college district, there is a small bar with a very narrow storefront.

A badger with poor drawing skills is leaning against the wooden sign, as if it has drunk too much and is only holding onto the wall to avoid falling over.

The tavern was much more spacious inside than it appeared from the outside.

Behind the bar, there was a whole wall of bottles, from whitish spirits to whiskey to monastery stout, you name it.

Several tables of people were already seated in the booths against the wall, mostly students and young lecturers from Beijing University.

This time, Phillips didn't drive the convertible that stalled three times on the way; he walked.

Constance was already seated in the corner.

She wasn't wearing that aristocratic dress today; instead, she wore a simple gray coat and her hair was just casually tied in a ponytail.

The hunter girl held a glass of water, with a book open in front of her.

Richard glanced at the book title as he walked over: "The Evolution of Modern Imperial Weapons".

Phillips sat down opposite him and shouted towards the bar.

"Boss, two glasses of your rye whiskey, double the amount."

"Phillips," Constance frowned, "you threw up all over the place after you drank last time."

"That's because we mixed gin in last time," Phillips chuckled. "Today we're only drinking barley, it'll be fine."

Just as the wine was served, another person entered through the door.

Red hair, mask off.

A plain-colored scarf was loosely wrapped around her neck, covering most of her chin.

Catherine stood at the door and glanced around the store, her gaze settling on the row of bottles behind the bar.

She walked to the bar and wrote something down with the owner.

The owner took several different bottles of whiskey from the shelf and lined them up.

Phillips tilted his head and glanced in that direction.

"Blackwood?"

Catherine turned around and saw the three of them sitting in the corner.

She walked over, carrying two unopened bottles of wine.

"You're buying alcohol?" Phillips asked, somewhat surprised.

Catherine took out a small notebook from her handbag, wrote a line, and turned it over to show Phillips.

"This is for Professor McFee; his birthday is coming up soon."

Phillips became interested and leaned forward.

"The professor is from the Highlands, so he must be drinking peat."

Catherine wrote another line.

"I'm not sure, I only know he drank a lot."

"Strong ones are easy to handle." Phillips took the two bottles from her and looked at the labels under the light.

"This bottle won't do." He put down the bottle in his left hand.

"The food in the lowlands tastes too sweet; the highlanders would think you're insulting them."

He then raised the bottle in his right hand and rubbed his thumb on the label.

"This bottle is okay, but it's not the best choice."

He stood up, walked to the bar, and mumbled something to the owner for a while.

The boss pulled out a bottle of wine that was so dark it looked almost black from the corner of the innermost shelf.

The label on the bottle had turned yellow, and it showed the outline of a small island shrouded in mist.

"Islay, twenty-five years." Phillips placed the bottle on the table.

"The peaty smell is strong enough, and the sea breeze has been infused into it. Even an old man from the highlands can tell it's the right stuff just by smelling it."

Catherine looked at the bottle of wine and wrote a line in her notebook.

Is it expensive?

"It's not cheap," Phillips quoted the price.

The owner prepared three small cups for everyone to try.

Catherine nodded after tasting it and took out her wallet from her handbag.

She could afford it, but it pained her to spend the money.

However, it's still much cheaper than what Montague recommended.

She handed the money to the shopkeeper and put the bottle of Islay into her handbag.