I loaded the Mysticism panel.

November 30th, Victoria Station, Beijing.

The platform was crowded with people in gray-green military uniforms, rifles propped up next to their travel bags, and helmets buckled on their luggage.

A military train has just departed; the next one will take nearly forty minutes.

Richard and several classmates were assigned to take a regular passenger bus on the southern route.

Half of the train was requisitioned for the military, and the remaining carriages were crammed with civilian passengers and the students who had been conscripted.

The armrests on all the seats in the carriage were removed in order to squeeze in two more rows.

Richard squeezed sideways into a window seat and held his canvas bag on his lap.

Montagu sat opposite him.

The blond youth folded his coat neatly, leaned against the car window, and closed his eyes.

His face was thinner than it had been a few weeks ago, his jawline was more defined, and the shadows around his eyes were particularly deep in the dim light of the carriage.

Catherine and Fisher sat in the back row.

Catherine leaned against the side of the aisle, flipping through the rubbings she carried with her and taking notes.

Fisher was dozing off, his head slowly tilting towards the window.

It kept bouncing back after almost hitting something, over and over again.

The train started moving, and the rooftops of the capital city receded past the train windows.

It takes about two and a half hours to drive from Beijing to Foxton.

When the train passed Maidstone, several young men in military uniforms got off.

One of them was quite young, and looked to be not much older than Richard.

His hand trembled slightly as he took the rifle off the luggage rack.

The train started moving again.

The view outside the window changed from town to hills, then to farmland, and finally to the sea at the edge of the farmland.

Richard closed the book and looked out the window at the fields near the coastline.

The harvest was complete, leaving only knee-high stubble, which was being blown about by the wind.

In the distance, a peasant woman leads a miniature horse along the edge of a field, followed by two children.

He suddenly remembered something.

That night at the Theological Salon, Demeter said that the grains in the fields had been growing faster and faster in the past two years, but were also becoming increasingly weak.

For several years, no crops could grow on the Flanders land that had been flooded with seawater.

The people left, the water was poured in, and the land went from being inhabited to being deserted.

What grows on land where no one is?

Richard stuffed the book back into his canvas bag.

The train let out a long whistle and slowed down.

"We've arrived." Montagu opened his eyes.

The outline of the port came into view outside the window.

People were everywhere—men, women, the elderly, and children. Some of them had clearly grabbed something and thrown it on themselves in a hurry before running out.

Several children squatted by the dock railing, drawing pictures of houses on the stone slabs with their fingers.

The little boy drew the house and erased it, then drew it again. On the third draw, he finally drew a wisp of smoke on the roof.

Volunteers wearing white aprons moved through the crowd, with Red Cross armbands wrapped around their arms.

The church members also arrived, and the black-robed priest, along with several nuns, distributed hot soup between the tents.

Someone is calling out numbers:

"Register at the tents on the left, numbers 437 to 492!"

In the open space in front of the port authority building, a rectangular area was drawn with white lime; that was the meeting point.

Richard hadn't even entered yet when he instinctively estimated that there were at least several dozen people present.

They ranged in age from eighteen or nineteen to twenty-five or twenty-six, wore all sorts of clothes, and came from all over the country with a variety of accents.

Richard switched the canvas bag to the other shoulder and glanced around the crowd.

He saw a somewhat familiar face, but the figure made it difficult for him to identify it.

"...Edmund?"

The man turned his head around.

Edmund Wycliffe, St. Peter's Seminary.

Last winter break, we were on the same team in Whitcomb. My opponent was tall and slender, almost tall enough to hide behind a telephone pole.

Now… Richard’s gaze swept over him.

My cheeks have become rounder, my chin has gained a lot of fat, and even the backs of my hands are thicker than before.

"Williams!"

The young priest's smile was as gentle as last year's, but two suspicious dimples had appeared on his face when he smiled.

"have not seen you for a long time."

"What are you doing...?"

"Stop talking." Edmund pulled his coat down further.

"The seminary coursework is too heavy, the pressure is too great, and you can't smoke or drink."

His voice carried a self-deprecating calmness.

"And the almond tarts and Basque cakes made by the nuns were absolutely delicious."

Historically, nuns have been making pastries in secluded monasteries for centuries.

It is said that canelés, egg tarts, and macarons were all invented in monasteries.

Richard swallowed silently.

Returning to the main point, he used his hidden spiritual vision to lightly scan his old friend's status.

Edmund's etheric cycle stability has improved significantly, and the silver cross on his chest is radiating a halo of light.

The halo is not strong, but its advantage lies in its extreme cleanliness.

Edmund truly prayed earnestly and believed earnestly, never slacking off for a single day out of the 365 days of the year.

That cross must have been transformed, at least once.

"You're in good shape." Richard withdrew his spiritual vision.

"What do you mean you're in good shape?" Edmund rubbed his face.

"Every day after I kneel in the chapel and finish my evening prayers, I come out and smell the aroma of butter wafting from the end of the corridor..."

His gaze drifted into the distance.

"Once I abstained from sweets for five whole days, and when I woke up on the sixth morning, I found half an almond tart under my pillow."

"Who put it there?"

"I still don't know. There are more than sixty people in the religious order. I asked them one by one, and they all said it wasn't them."

Richard was about to speak when he was interrupted by a voice coming from behind him.

"Richard!"

He had a loud voice with a slight Highland accent.

A gap was pushed open in the crowd, and Maggie McPhee emerged from it.

Her red hair had grown considerably longer than last year, and it was tied into a thick braid that swung down her back.

Her cheeks were flushed red from the sea breeze, and it was clear that she had been standing outside the harbor for quite some time.

Maggie was followed by Theodore.

The young man from the horse farm is much stronger than last year, and he's lost that impetuous energy he had last year.

"You guys were also transferred here?" Richard greeted the two of them one by one.

"The Highlands Guild sent more than a dozen people, and Theo and I were in one team."

Maggie glanced at the white and gray circle.

"How many members of the St. Peter's Order came?"

"Two." Edmund held up two fingers.

"Why does your religious order produce so few?"

"The matrons said the kitchen can't be left unattended." Edmund's answer made Maggie pause for two seconds.

Theodore peeked half his head out from behind Edmund and stared at him for a long time.

"Wycliffe...are you...?"

"You've gained weight." Edmund raised his hands as if to himself: "I know, you don't need to say anything."

"I was going to say I was in high spirits," Theodore said, swallowing back the truth that was on the tip of his tongue.

The four people stood in one place within the white and gray circle.

Last year in Whitcomb, they were all newcomers; the four of them were like children learning to walk by following the adults around.

A year later, they each signed their names and went their separate ways.

But when they stand together, they look no different from last year.

Maggie is still the same Maggie, straightforward and outspoken, never hiding anything.

"My family's traditional techniques have also improved."

She showed it off briefly; a very thin layer of green floated on her skin and then sank back down.

"Before signing, it could only fool dull-witted evil creatures like the Bewitching Lamp and the Swamp Corpse, but now it can withstand the detection of most lower-level evil creatures."

The area was also a bit larger, barely enough to cover three people.

"The bloodline of your ancestor, that expert." Richard withdrew his spiritual vision. "Continued?"

Maggie shook her head, a strand of red hair slipping down from behind her ear.

"It's not about continuing; only by achieving a basic level of proficiency can one truly qualify to move up."

Theodore also let Richard touch his bronze compass.

The compass was a life-saving artifact given to him by his guide, and it was indeed different from last year after it was officially signed.

"How's your mentor?" Richard asked.

"His health is okay, but his temper is getting worse and worse."

"A while ago, I wrote the wrong ending to an inscription, and he wrote three whole pages of a letter scolding me, covering both sides of the page."

Edmund listened from the side, touching the bulging pockets at his waist.

"I brought food, which the nannies prepared for me."

"What kind of food?" Hearing his previous description, everyone present was already craving it.

The young priest took a tin box out of his pocket and opened it.

"Basque cake".

Four small, golden-yellow cakes were neatly arranged in a tin box, emitting a milky aroma.

He handed the tin box to Richard.

"Have a piece, you probably won't be able to get this good stuff once we get to the camp."

Richard picked up a piece from the box; he hadn't eaten sweets in a long time since the cafeteria regulations were implemented.

With one bite, the butter and sugar crumbled between your teeth.

The sweetness spread from the tip of the tongue to the back teeth, and warmed the stomach down the throat.

The nun's skills were truly exceptional.

"How is it?" Edmund looked at him with ill intent.

"Now I know why you've gotten fat." Richard swallowed the last bite.

"Being fed like that, no one could withstand it."

Maggie snatched the tin box from his hand, picked up a piece herself, took a bite, and squinted her eyes.

Theodore also ate a piece.

"...This old woman's cooking skills are really good."

Richard had just returned the tin box to Edmund when Catherine squeezed through the crowd, clutching the little notebook she always carried with her.

She came to call Richard to the assembly point.

Upon seeing the girl across from her who also had red hair, she suddenly stopped in her tracks.