I loaded the Mysticism panel.

By mid-December, Richard had three stacks of papers piled up on his desk.

The stack on the left is the manuscript of "Strange Tales Collection".

The stack in the middle contains the first drafts of essays for the next issue of "Northern Literature Review".

He wrote the beginning, then crossed it out, then rewrote it, and the crumpled pieces of paper piled up in the wastebasket into a crooked little white mountain.

On the right side, there was a flyer torn from the department office bulletin board.

The leaflet was issued by the Imperial Cultural Promotion Committee, and it used three whole paragraphs to say one thing: the Empire hopes that folk writers will write.

The theme of the essay contest is "Our Island".

The deadline for submissions is the end of January next year. Selected entries will receive a £50 prize, plus a gold-plated badge of honor from the Imperial Council for the Promotion of Culture.

And the qualification to "be publicly distributed nationwide after being recommended by the Imperial Publishing Administration".

Richard looked at the line of small print.

Fifty pounds isn't much; its real value lies in its "nationwide public release."

The scope of "Northern Literature Review" is limited, covering only a few industrial cities in the north and a small group of people in the capital, with a maximum of two or three thousand readers.

While "Strange Tales" was widely distributed through newsboys, it was categorized as "a penny-worth entertainment."

Squeezed into the same basket as astrology pamphlets, it wouldn't even catch the eye of a respectable person on the street.

The essays selected by the Imperial Culture Promotion Committee were published publicly through formal publishing channels.

Bookstores, libraries, school reading rooms, even military camps with their own book trunks... the places they could reach were ten times farther than the footsteps of newsboys.

Richard put down his pen and crossed his hands behind his head.

He knew in his heart that each of the three paths had its own readers.

"Strange Tales" is written for the underprivileged.

Miners, laundresses, dockworkers, textile factory night shift workers... these people neither read newspapers nor visit bookstores.

They would just casually flip through the brochures at the bar counter while drinking beer.

Or, if they are illiterate, they will have someone who can read explain it to them.

The story will stay in their minds and suddenly pop up in the quiet of the night.

The editor-in-chief of *Northern Literature Review* wrote for the middle layer, seeking "authenticity."

Engineers, factory foremen, middle school teachers, small shop owners... they are neither at the bottom nor at the top, but what they say at the dinner table can influence the opinions of those around them.

The essay was written for the layer above.

Gentlemen flipping through newspapers on leather sofas in clubs, and civilian officers in the Ministry of the Interior and the Army who have never been to the trenches.

"Our Island".

The Imperial Cultural Promotion Committee probably wanted people to sing praises of the nation to boost morale and extol the empire's indomitable spirit.

The image that popped into his mind when he thought of the word "island" was completely different from what the Promotion Committee wanted.

What is an island?

The island is surrounded by water on all sides, with only a small patch of dry ground beneath your feet.

The wind blows from every direction, penetrating to the very bone.

The winds have blown for hundreds of years, but the land beneath our feet is still there.

He picked up his pen and wrote a title on the blank page at the top of the stack of papers for the essay contest.

What are the islands like?

I wrote two words and then stopped.

The title is wrong; it's too straightforward.

He crossed out "what", thought for a moment, and then wrote three more words on it.

"Island Chronicles" is still incorrect.

Having no ideas for the moment, Richard folded the flyer and put it in his notebook, then went to do something else.

The framework for the fourth chapter of "Tales of the Strange" has been completed; it tells the story of the Highland shepherds.

He adapted it from an old story he had heard from Edith.

A sheep kept circling around the same cliff edge. An old shepherd went over and pulled the sheep away, only to find a pile of old bones at the bottom of the cliff.

When livestock repeatedly return to the same spot, don't pull it; first, try to figure out what it's looking at.

While his hands were still warm from the heat, he sent Charlotte another text message.

"Could you please inquire about the printing factory for me?"

Also, do you know about that essay contest?

I plan to throw in both, one penny at a time to show the people below, and the other into the pool above.

Do you think this is too greedy?

After writing the letter, I folded it, put it in an envelope, and mailed it tomorrow.

Charlotte's reply arrived three days later.

"Two pens, one in the left hand and one in the right hand."

The stick in his left hand was used to tell ghost stories to the miners, while the stick in his right hand was used to write poems about the islands for the gentlemen.

One pen earns a penny, the other fifty pounds.

If you really have that ability, you can make money from both sides.

However, to be fair, you are indeed too greedy, which is also a strength.

The editor-in-chief asked me to tell you that he has already contacted a printing press for you, located in the old town on the northern outskirts of Manchester.

The owner's surname is Duckworth. He prints parish newsletters and horse racing schedules at reasonable prices.

If you print at least 1,000 copies, the cost per copy will be three-quarters of a penny (paper, ink, binding, and shipping).

You sell a book for one penny and make a quarter penny on each book.

If all 1,000 copies are distributed, the net profit is about one pound.

One pound should be enough for you to eat at the canteen for two months, right?

As for the call for submissions, you know what to do.

Don't write the kind of things you wrote in *Northern Literary Review* in your essay. The essay contest judges aren't a charity committee; their methods aren't that gentle.

After reading the letter, Richard was more interested in the line "One pound is enough for you to eat in the canteen for two months."

With his current appetite, one pound is barely enough to feed him for a month.

If Grey knew his food expenses had increased so much, she probably wouldn't have thought of simply bringing two sandwiches on a date with him in the park.

Over the next week, he devoted far more effort to the essay contest than to the previous two things combined.

"Strange Tales Collection" is a collection of ghost stories that people from the lower classes can understand, and he has a wealth of material to draw upon.

He had already gone through the process of submitting his essays to the Northern Literature Review, so he knew what the editor-in-chief liked and disliked, and who would read them and who would hold a grudge after they were published.

But he had never touched a writing assignment before.

By the third night, he had finished writing the first draft of the essay.

Finding that one has unknowingly written an accusation is like spitting into the judges' coffee cups.

"The essay contest judges are not a poverty relief committee."

Charlotte's reminder echoed in his ears.

He sat down again, held the pen in his hand, and thought for a long time.

He certainly wanted the fifty-pound prize, but he wanted the Imperial Publishing House recommendation even more.

But he had no intention of singing praises against his conscience.

That means finding a very narrow path between "making it comfortable for those in power to read" and "writing something truly meaningful."

He only managed to finish writing it just before this theological salon gathering.

He took all three letters to the mailbox not far from the dormitory building.

One letter was for Charlotte, one for the Imperial Cultural Promotion Committee, and one for the printing press in Manchester.

Three letters were stuffed into the verdigris-covered mailbox opening, sliding in one after another until they disappeared into its dark depths.

A pigeon was perched on top of the mailbox.

The pigeons were grayish-brown, their heads tilted as they looked at him, as if asking why he hadn't left yet.

"Let's go, let's go." Richard waved to the pigeons.

The pigeon cooed once, but didn't move.

………………

The night of December 16th.

When Richard opened his eyes again, the starry sky had already receded.

The main seat is taller... no, the height hasn't changed, but Hecate's presence has.

The seam between the upper half of the golden mask, which depicts a young girl's face, and the lower half, which depicts an old woman's face, is much clearer than before.

Richard settled into his seat, while his shadow waited on the shallows behind the curtain.

Hecate looked around.

"There's only one thing to do today: the second phase of the mask."

No one at the table spoke.

Hecate placed her hands on the table.

"You've been wearing masks until now, and you know best what those masks have given you during this time."

"My words have become more eloquent, my senses more acute, and I'm doing my job better... These are all subtle, gradual improvements."

"There's one thing that most of you have already noticed."

"The more you use the mask, the more uncomfortable it is to take it off."

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

He definitely had that feeling.

When Shadow trained behind the curtain wearing a mask, the outline of his shadow would fade each time he took it off.

It takes about ten minutes for the feeling to subside after Shadow takes off his mask.

Hecate tapped the table with her fingertip.

"This means that a resonance has begun to appear between you and the mask."

Dionysus was the first to break the silence: "What is the standard for resonance?"

"Wear it for a long enough time and use it frequently enough."

"Most importantly, what is done with the mask must align with the meaning of the name of God itself."

Hecate emphasized this last point:

"If you take the Hermes mask to mine, you'll never resonate with it even after ten thousand years."

"Even if you meditate with a Dionysus mask until your bones turn to dust, you still won't be able to resonate with it."

"The mask recognizes things. If what you do aligns with what God governs, resonance will naturally occur."

Richard's mind raced.

He made the shadow wear a mask and do things that were all related to Hermes's job.

Let the shadows move back and forth on both sides of the curtain, and use the mask to enhance the techniques of silencing and opening the seal, which cross the boundaries between the inside and outside of the seal.

I don't know if using it this way counts.

Hecate continued.

"When the resonance reaches a certain level, you can borrow weapons, skills, or tools from mythology; this is called 'Radiant Reflection'."

"In mythology, Hermes had his caduceus and flying sandals."

Hercules had his giant club and poisoned arrows, and lion skin.

Nemesis has her whip and her scales.