I loaded the Mysticism panel.

It was a standard report from the Imperial Capital Headquarters, with the heading "Seal of the Superior - Battle Damage Assessment - Emergency".

"The ruins of the monastery are more than just a stone frame."

Gerald turned to the second page of the report, which featured a hand-drawn side view.

"These are the survey notes left by the scholars who accompanied the Whitby Seal during its first systematic restoration in 1763."

Richard took it and continued reading.

"Deep inside the cave, one can hear extremely faint hissing sounds, like dozens of snakes flicking their tongues at the same time."

The stone wall is covered with scale-like scratches, and the main seal can be seen in the innermost chamber.

A snake-like creature with seven heads of varying sizes is coiled on a stone base, surrounded by three layers of silver thread.

The largest one has its eyes closed as if asleep, while the smallest one is still open. Their eyes are yellow, and their pupils are vertically slits like knife cuts.

The lamp went out twenty feet away and only reignited after it had moved back beyond the silver wire.

Richard put the paper back on the table.

"The Seven-Headed Serpent."

Gerrard tapped his finger on the table.

"The snake mother is not native to this area."

Richard raised an eyebrow.

"The weak points along the northern coast of the empire, from Northumberland to Yorkshire, are mostly remnants of the old Celtic or Anglo-Saxon periods."

Those things have been rooted to the earth for thousands of years, and the seal was made from materials found locally.

"Whitby was brought from Scandinavia by the Vikings in the eighth century."

Richard's "Erudition" automatically displayed relevant historical entries.

In the late 8th century, Vikings raided the east coast of Albion.

Whitby Abbey was destroyed in 867, and the nuns and monks were either killed or fled.

The Vikings built their stronghold on the ruins and stayed there for nearly two hundred years.

"The Vikings did more than just plunder gold and women," Gerald continued.

"Their priests carried things that they could not keep in their homeland in sealed containers all the way across the North Sea."

"Upon arriving in Whitby, we discovered a naturally occurring, extremely deep cave beneath the cliff, where the concentration of ether was far higher than the surrounding area."

"The priest opened the sealing device and let that thing live in the cave."

"They used runic inscriptions, and the materials were bone and iron."

"Saint Hilda was not the one who led the sealing, but the monastery she built before the arrival of the Vikings itself had the function of a sealing node."

"After the medieval monastery was rebuilt, the Benedictine monks added a Latin seal on top of it."

You've seen this kind of folding in Whitcomb; it's crude, it works, but it leaves big gaps.

"During the renovation in 1763, the outermost layer was repaired."

"There are three layers of seals in total, the oldest of which is almost 1,200 years old."

Li noticed that the sound was familiar; those who made the seals always believed in the wisdom of those who came after them.

The runic inscription means "to nail it in place with iron and bone";

The Latin word for church is "to suppress unclean things in the holy name";

In 1763, the standardized silver thread seal, which was promoted by the government at the time, was used.

The three systems each speak their own language, and when combined, they are merely used as a makeshift solution.

"That shot on the sixteenth," Gerrard returned to the main topic.

"A shell shattered the cover, and the inscription on the visible part showed a through-crack."

"It's not just Akatsuki." He turned to the third page of the report.

The third page is a battle damage assessment form, which is filled with densely packed test data.

"The shockwave from the shell traveled down the building structure, through the cellar complex, and loosened the three turning points of the second layer of church seal."

"The bottom layer of rune seal is still holding up for now, although it has been weakening for hundreds of years."

With the top two layers loosened, all the pressure fell on its head.

Richard's gaze fell on the bottom line of the evaluation form.

"Estimated time to complete failure: eight to twelve weeks."

"Eight to twelve weeks," he muttered the number to himself.

In other words, from December 16th to mid-February or early March of next year.

Without intervention, all three seals will become ineffective.

He turned to the next page of the folder.

"Within 48 hours of the shelling, the Imperial Capital Administration initiated an emergency assessment."

"They are going to carry out a complete exorcism."

"Once it's done, the subsequent maintenance costs will be zero, and we won't need to worry about the ammonites along the 14-mile coastline anymore."

"Not just Whitby."

"The remaining five locations will be processed one by one between January and March next year."

"If all six exorcisms are successfully completed."

Gerrard continued.

"A significant portion of the sealing and maintenance budget for the Northern Region can be freed up and redirected entirely to the front lines."

"The weak points on the front lines that have been breached by artillery fire are the most expensive holes to fill right now."

"Whitby is first in line." Gerald ran his fingernail along the edge of the report.

"The operation is scheduled for around January 10th, with the exact date depending on the actual test results of the seal's decay rate."

"You'll come with me as a scholar observing."

"What can I do there?" Richard frowned.

"I recognize him." Gerald's gaze was fixed on him.

"This operation wasn't large-scale, but the people who came are worth remembering."

"The Yorkshire branch office provided manpower and resources, the Manchester Regional Joint Operations Office sent a coordinator, and representatives from several old families in the north also came to the scene."

He pulled a thin sheet of paper from the folder, on which was listed a row of words.

Richard glanced at it.

"Are the Phillips family going too?"

"He is the chief inspector of the capital, personally in charge of overall coordination." Gerald nodded.

Richard's gaze shifted down another notch.

"Montagu".

"Alexander Montagu and his cousin."

Gerrard tapped the name with his finger.

"The Montague family owns an estate in North Yorkshire."

Richard put the list back on the table.

January 10th, that's about two weeks from now.

"Before that, your department will give you a batch of preparatory work."

"Preparations?"

"Whitby's three-layered sealing system spans three traditions, and very few records of the bottom layer, the Rune Inscription, remain at the Imperial University."

Gerrard flipped the report back to the side view.

"I've already had Isabella put you on the pre-research list."

He pulled the side view out of the report and spread it out on the table.

"Your aunt has already submitted the application for access to those Viking-era manuscripts, and you should be able to get them on the 28th."

"The 28th." Richard calculated the time; today was the 25th, so it was only two days away.

It looks like I won't be able to slack off during the Christmas holidays.

Gerald was a hunter, but he was clearly an intellectual hunter.

"Celtic inscriptions speak of pairs, one in heaven and one on earth."

Runes are about carving and binding; each stroke is like a knot, and if you untie them in the wrong order, everything will be messed up.

Richard thought about his schedule during this period.

He not only had to appraise Hercules's cursed artifacts and adapt to the new breathing technique, but also handle the information he had shared with Catherine last time.

Now, his grandfather has added these runes to him...

Gerald put the folder into the metal cabinet and locked it.

"Is it possible?"

"Yes." Richard replied without hesitation.

Gerrard nodded without saying anything more.

"Go back and rest. Spend time with your parents and sister from Christmas to the 27th. After the 28th, you probably won't have much free time."

When Richard came downstairs, only the fireplace glowed and a floor lamp remained in the living room.

Sofia had already been woken up by Isabella and went back to her room to sleep.

Vincent and Baldwin had left sometime during the night, leaving only two extinguished cigarette butts on the back porch.

Richard's parents had gone to rest, and he was also preparing to go back to rest.

Turning into the corridor, I saw his sister huddled by the door of his room, the cake notebook spread out on her lap.

The pencil was held between my fingers; I was awake, but my eyelids were drooping.

On the page of her notebook, she was using a pencil to modify a line of a recipe.

Richard glanced at it and saw the words "whipped egg whites with honey" written in crooked handwriting, next to which was a drawing of a rabbit carrying a carrot.

After seeing the wartime sugar control notice on the culinary school's bulletin board yesterday, she started experimenting with sugar-free recipes.

She heard footsteps and looked up.

"elder brother."

"Aren't you going to sleep yet?"

"I'm waiting for you."

She leaned against the door frame, shifting to a less curled-up position.

"What were you and Grandpa talking about up there? You talked for a long time."

Richard squatted down against the wall opposite her.

"There are a number of urgent preliminary research tasks to be done, which have already been scheduled by the department."

Evelyn was a little unhappy.

"Then you'll have to get busy after Christmas."

"almost."

She looked down at the rabbit professor wearing a graduation cap on the notebook cover.

Yesterday at the culinary school, an admissions officer opened her notebook and asked her why all the rabbits were wearing hats.

"That's design," she replied stiffly at the time.

The employee smiled and took the materials away.

"All the formalities are complete," Evelyn changed the subject.

She looked up at Richard.

"So, there's nothing else we need to do if we stay in the capital?"

"Dad's leave was originally only until the 28th."

Evelyn spoke for him.

"You should go about your business. It's pointless for my parents and me to just wait here."

"I've registered for the culinary school, and you've also shown me around Imperial University."

Evelyn, supporting herself on her knees, stood up.

"I'll go tell Mom that we're going back to Briston on the 27th."

"Why not stay a couple more days?"

"If you're not free, what are we doing here?"

………………

The central and western districts of the capital have always been bustling.

Wartime blackouts couldn't suppress the laughter and singing that overflowed from the taverns, and the new money from military supply contracts filled some people's pockets to bursting.

While some were munching on hard bread in the trenches, others were raising their glasses in pubs to celebrate their new contracts.

"Boone's Old Shop" is a small tavern that stretches very far into the back alley, right up to the wall of the back alley.

The pub was packed tonight; the owner brought out the last few cases of Irish whiskey from the cellar.

"This wine will probably be out of stock next year."

He wiped the glasses and chatted with a regular customer at the bar.

"In Ireland, half of the distilleries were requisitioned to produce industrial alcohol."

A person sat in the corner, twirling a cup in their hand.

The cup's brass handles clashed with nothing in the tavern; it was too antique.

He's been sitting there since the store opened.

The boss struck up a conversation with him, and he cheerfully ordered a bitter beer and just sat there without moving.

By eleven o'clock, the atmosphere in the pub had been completely soaked with the excitement of Christmas Eve.

Some people were singing, some were banging on the table, and some were standing on stools telling a joke about a quartermaster and the young widow of Fran.

The joke was interrupted halfway through by another person who thought his version was funnier.

Both versions were presented simultaneously, and each had its own audience.

The man in the corner brought the copper cup to his lips and began to smell it.

Yeasts take root in sugar water, consume the sugar, and release alcohol and carbon dioxide.

Fermentation requires temperature, time, and a sufficiently concentrated base liquid.

The atmosphere in this tavern is pretty much set for tonight.

[The Glowing Shadow of the Face - The Cantalos Cup of Dionysus]

He placed the bronze cup back on the table, and the air in the tavern began to feel "warm".

Deep purple liquid seeped from the curved handles of the cup, flowing down the sides, almost like crushed grapes.

The singing grew louder and the laughter more unrestrained in the tavern.

Someone threw their coat onto the bar, and someone jumped onto the table.

The boss peeked out from behind the bar and decided to ignore it.

It's a holiday.

The man in the corner stood up and put the copper cup into his coat pocket.

The boss looked at the five shilling coins on the table.

"So generous," he muttered, putting the coins into his apron pocket.

The revelry in the tavern should have ended after the midnight bells.

But people continued to drink, sing, and dance.

Some people had already collapsed under the table, but the remaining people did not lower their voices because their companions had fallen.

They sang one song after another, from Tipperelli to The Valley of the Green, and then to an old tune whose name no one could recall.