I loaded the Mysticism panel.

On the evening of January 8th, Richard was summoned to the department office's small conference room.

Croft and Greer were sitting in the conference room.

Greer shook his large beard.

"Regarding the Rune Anchor, the Imperial Capital General Administration has transferred it to the Military Intelligence Department."

The military intelligence office replied that it had been "incorporated into the wartime intelligence analysis sequence."

"That means it's already in the filing cabinet." Croft rolled his eyes.

"I can write this kind of sentence too. I use this sentence structure every year when I write rejection letters to students."

"What do you think they're up to?" Richard asked.

Greer hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but then stopped.

Croft spoke for him, saying what Greer couldn't say, but he, with his more venomous tongue, said it.

"A coordination meeting was held at the higher-ups."

"The church, the guild, the branch office, and the military—the four parties sat down at one table."

He picked up his cup of bitter tea and took a sip.

"The church representative took the initiative."

He said that spiritualism is a heretical doctrine that corrupts believers and undermines public order and good morals, and that all folk spiritual activities must be banned.

His words were righteous and eloquent, citing numerous classical texts and speaking with great passion, moving everyone present.

Croft laughed heartily.

"Of course, what the church is most worried about is not the corruption of believers' souls, but that spiritual mediums are taking away the jobs of pastors."

In the past, when someone died, widows and old ladies would run to the church and throw money into the donation box.

Now that someone has died, they're flocking to the medium's shop, and the money is flowing into Flower Moon Street.

Greer cleared his throat beside him, as if to say, "That's enough."

Croft ignored him.

"The guild representative spoke second, saying that all the manpower had been transferred to the coast and the front lines."

"The rear guards in the capital are mostly elderly and weak; where would they get the resources to conduct any kind of investigation?"

"That's true," Greer interjected.

"That's the truth." Kroft nodded.

"After telling the truth, the guild representative changed the subject and said that if the higher-ups wanted to investigate, the guild could cooperate, but 'on the condition that additional staffing and special funding be provided.'"

"What about the branch offices?" Richard pressed.

Croft imitated that tone.

"We fully understand the concerns of all parties and will actively study feasible solutions."

"That's how it is in the branch offices. All the workers are dead, but the people who talk get promoted."

"military?"

"The military representative asked a question."

Croft adjusted his glasses.

He asked, "Do these spirit-summoning activities directly threaten frontline security?"

The answer is that there is currently no direct evidence.

"So the military representative said it wasn't their responsibility, closed the folder, and left."

Greer said.

"The four parties are each giving their own version of events, and the next coordination meeting is scheduled for the end of January."

"The end of January?" Richard was completely baffled.

"Yes, the end of January." Croft's face was filled with barely suppressed sarcasm.

"Don't complain about the slowness. Take the last coordination meeting on wartime blackout standards, for example. It took six weeks from the proposal to its implementation."

At least the blackout regulations are something that can be seen and addressed, but the impact of this "spirit summoning" hasn't even fully materialized yet.

Greer added the last layer.

"Moreover, the fighting on the front lines continues, the casualty list keeps piling up, and everyone is very dissatisfied; they're just short of taking to the streets to protest."

"You jump out now and tell everyone, 'No mourning for your son who died in the trench, no singing, no lighting candles to summon his spirit'..."

"What do you think those gentlemen in parliament will do?"

"The ballot," Richard blurted out.

Greer glanced at him but didn't reply.

Croft scoffed.

"See? Even the pre-college students know."

"At this critical juncture, whoever steps forward to issue a ban is a public enemy."

Although it is called an empire, it is not a centralized state at all. No one can force the implementation of government orders with just a word.

Parliament, the Church, the House of Lords, the military, the Interior Ministry… everyone should mind their own business.

He flipped the empty teacup upside down and placed it face down on the table.

"Nobody's a fool, Williams."

The people in that room were all very shrewd; each of them had clearly calculated the pros and cons.

"They all made the choices that were most advantageous to themselves, and each choice, taken individually, is flawless."

Croft stood up and pushed the chair back.

"But when you put all these flawless choices together, it's just a pile of shit!!"

"No one is making mistakes, and no one is doing anything."

"Because those who take action have to take risks, while those who do nothing only need to wait for others to make the first move."

Everyone is waiting, watching, and calculating.

"In the end, the rescue efforts that could have been carried out in time also slipped through everyone's fingers."

It was completely dark when Richard came out of that small conference room.

He stood by the corridor window, looking at the scattered gaslights in the distant capital city.

After the blackout, the nights in the capital were much darker than before.

Among those lights that were still on, countless living rooms were having their curtains drawn, candles lit, and candle holders arranged.

Richard thought of someone.

Mrs. Mary.

Things could be different if she were willing to stand up.

She can't control the mouths and hands of millions of citizens in the capital, but she can control the spiritual medium line.

If she were to leverage her network of connections and order all the mediums she could control to do so, the spread of the psychic craze could be cut in half at least.

However, the operation to investigate the mole has yielded no results so far, and with the mole still at large, people remain anxious.

Those people at the top needed Lady Mary, but at the same time, they were wary of her.

She stepped forward to help?

She helped, but the credit went to someone else; when things went wrong, she took all the blame.

Richard was not surprised at all that she chose to protect herself in this situation.

………………

King's Cross Station, January 9.

Gerrard arrived very early.

He was dressed in a dark gray hunting outfit that allowed for easy movement, with his hat pulled low over his shoulders.

He was holding a train ticket and a newspaper he had bought from a newsstand at the train station, but he hadn't even opened the newspaper yet.

Richard followed behind, his bag containing preliminary research materials, personal artifacts, and spellcasting mediums.

After their tickets were checked at the ticket gate, the two walked along the corridor deeper into the platform.

The military train formation occupied the first eight carriages, with numbers painted on the gray-green bodies.

A middle-aged man in uniform was waiting on the car door sill.

"Sir Gerald." The man gave a slight bow. "This way, please."

The two got into the car.

The interior of the carriage has been modified and divided into three private compartments and one slightly larger public cabin.

"Sit down and rest for a bit." Gerald sat down by the window, took off his hat and put it on his lap.

"Not everyone has arrived yet; the car will have to wait an hour."

Richard sat down opposite him and pulled out the stack of rune research notes from his canvas bag.

He planned to use this hour to finish the last few pages.

Gerald opened the newspaper, then quickly closed it again.

"Today's newspapers are still reporting on the aftermath of the Christmas truce."

He folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the corner of the table.

"A motion has been proposed in the House of Commons to investigate the responsibility for the Christmas truce, arguing that it 'affects military discipline'."

"It affects military discipline." Richard looked up from his notebook.

"If the soldiers stop fighting on their own, someone has to be held responsible; that's called administrative logic."

Gerrard snorted.

The train hasn't moved yet.

The sound of military boots clattering on the concrete floor echoed from the platform, occasionally punctuated by whistles.

The first group to board the train consisted of three people.

I've already met Richard at the club; he's the Chief Inspector of the Capital, Old Phillips.

He wore a gray trench coat with the collar turned up high, and his adjutant was carrying his briefcase.

The man saw Gerrard first and nodded.

Then his gaze shifted to Richard, pausing for about half a second.

"We meet again."

The person who got into the car behind the chief inspector surprised Richard a little.

Phillips even showed up.

He swayed in from the footboard, an old book tucked under his arm.

The difference was that he wasn't holding the teapot in his other hand, probably because his father had confiscated it beforehand.

"Oh." Phillips' eyes lit up when he saw his tea friend.

"You're here too?"

"Scholars observe."

"It's good to observe." Phillips found a seat next to Richard and sat down, spreading the old book on the table.

Richard glanced at the cover, "A History of Lighthouse Construction Along the North Sea Coast".

What does this have to do with exorcism?

The answer is, of course, no problem; Phillips never needed any problems to read books.

"Sit still," the chief inspector's voice came from the other end.

Phillips straightened his back instinctively.

The chief inspector didn't look at his youngest son again; he had already sat down opposite Gerald.

The adjutant took out several folders and sorted them into categories.

"One group of people will be picked up at York Station and another at Scarborough Station."

The chief inspector flipped through the folder.

"Associate Professor Corbyn boarded at York, the Montaguena family was at the same stop, and Alexander came with his cousin."

He pushed a page of the roster to the center of the table and pointed to the bottom row with his index finger.

"Up from Scarborough is Hathaway, a secret member of the Whitsbourne guild."

"I know Hathaway," Gerald added.

"I've been guarding that sea cliff for almost twenty years."

"Yes, she is more familiar with the local sealing system than the people stationed there."

The Inspector General closed the register.

Richard glanced to the side out of the corner of his eye.

Phillips had already opened the book on the history of lighthouse construction and was reading it with great interest, legs crossed.

His father was studying a side view of Whitby Caverns, looking at the masonry structure of the Scarborough Lighthouse from 1847.

The father and son were separated by a table, each doing their own thing, without exchanging a single glance with each other.

Richard leaned back in his chair, while old Phillips probably felt that after eighteen years of trying to reason with him, he still couldn't get through to him.

Now I've changed the method; I won't explain it anymore, you can see for yourself.

"By the way, the paternity test report your grandson gave me last time."

The chief inspector casually mentioned it while flipping through the documents.

"I submitted it to my superiors, and the Military Intelligence Service replied with a standard letter."

"I know." Gerald nodded. "My daughter also applied through the academic system, and the conclusion was similar."

"Almost." The chief inspector closed the folder and sighed softly.

The train started with a hum, the carriages shuddered, and the platform receded.

Phillips soon became restless.

He touched his coat pocket and rubbed his fingers together somewhat awkwardly.

Two minutes later, he touched it again, but still nothing.

"Where's your pot?" Richard asked in a low voice.

"Before my dad left, he told me to leave that piece of junk at home."

Phillips spoke very softly, glancing towards the Inspector General.

"I hid it in the inside pocket of my coat, but he found it before I left the house."

"...Want me to search you?"

"Routine procedure," Phillips said expressionlessly.

"I've been doing this since I was ten years old; I always search before I go out."

I used to search for snacks, now I search for teapots.

He slumped onto the table, looking utterly dejected.

"What's the point of living if there's no tea to drink?"