I loaded the Mysticism panel.

York Station is large, but not crowded.

When Richard looked out the car window, he first saw Montagu.

The blond young man was wearing a well-tailored dark blue overcoat, and a man in military uniform stood next to him.

The man's face bore a resemblance to Montagu's, but his jawline was very sharp, and he looked quite old.

The three hunters leading this team are all veterans...

"That's Colonel Javier Montagu," Gerald whispered from the side.

"Alexander's cousin, a hunter of the sun tradition."

He's just one step away from being a master, a very prestigious title among hunters in the North.

Richard's spiritual vision swept over the man, and the concentration of ether was extremely high.

The two got into the car, and Montagu saw Richard as soon as he entered.

"Richard, you too..."

Before he could finish speaking, his gaze passed over Richard's shoulder and landed on the person next to him who was reading with his legs crossed.

"Phillips?" Montagu's expression changed.

Phillips peeked half his face out from behind the lighthouse's architectural history.

"Montagu." He raised his hand lazily. "Long time no see."

What are you doing here?

"My dad carried me up here," Phillips gestured toward the chief inspector.

"Don't ask why, it's just a matter of upbringing."

Montagu paused for a second, then chuckled at the guy's antics.

He sat down in the empty chair opposite Richard.

"interesting."

The blond youth took off his gloves and placed them on the table.

"You, me, Phillips," he called out each name one by one.

"Let's call Catherine over too, then we'll have all four of the top teams from that year's Cicero Cup."

Montagu's cousin, Javier, also greeted the two elders, speaking very politely.

Shortly after the train departed York station, it picked up another person at the end of the platform.

The man's scarf was wrapped loosely, hanging down to his chest.

He has a narrow face, and his eyes behind his glasses are bright and quick; he takes a few steps and then scans his surroundings.

"Associate Professor Corbyn," the Inspector General greeted him from the car doorway.

The maternal grandfather whispered to Richard:

"Associate Professor Corbyn of Trinity College is well-suited to this operation, and he was in charge of the main ceremonies."

The associate professor immediately began working at his desk.

Phillips moved closer to Corbyn and glanced at the words on the other man's notebook.

"Professor, are you writing runes?"

Corbyn's pen didn't stop.

"Yes."

"This symbol is quite nice; it looks like a tree."

Corbyn stopped writing.

He glanced at Phillips, seemingly thinking the kid had something wrong with his head.

"This symbol is ?, fehu, meaning livestock and wealth, and is an associated rune of Frey in Norse mythology."

"It's not a tree, and it has nothing to do with being 'good-looking'."

"If you want to discuss its aesthetic value, I suggest you find an art history tutor."

Phillips opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He quietly returned to his seat and began to revisit the history of the lighthouse's construction.

Richard watched this scene from the side and barely managed to suppress his laughter.

The chief inspector lifted his gaze from the pile of documents, his eyes revealing a calmness born of long-gone despair.

The train arrived at Scarborough Station and stopped for less than three minutes before the last person boarded: Hathaway, the local little hermit.

Once everyone had arrived, the chief inspector took the envelope from his adjutant.

"Operation Exorcism Code Name: North Point"

He placed the paper face down on the table.

"Operation time: 4:00 AM on January 10th."

Location: Ruins of Whitby Abbey, entrance to the cave.

The scenery outside the car window had changed from hills to wasteland.

On the distant horizon, a faint line of gray-blue can be seen; that is Beihai.

Hathaway glanced out the window.

"The wind has changed."

"Starting the day before yesterday, the wind blowing from the sea towards the land has a fishy smell."

Several seagulls emerged from under the railway bridge, startled by the noise of the train, and scattered towards the sea.

………………

The train arrived in Whitby in the evening, and as soon as it left the platform, the wind blew up from the mouth of the Esker River.

The town stretches out along both banks of the river mouth, half on the western cliff and half on the eastern cliff, separated by a suspension bridge.

The smoke from the fish-smoking shed, mixed with the fishy smell, clung to people's faces.

Old Phillips divided the line into two groups in front of the station.

"The accompanying personnel will go to the coast guard station with the branch office; the rest of you, follow me."

Richard, carrying a canvas bag, followed his grandfather down the eastern cliff.

He paused for half a step as he passed through an extremely narrow alley.

There were lights and sounds in the alley.

The humming sound of the lathe turning came from three or four windows at the same time.

"Black Jade Workshop." Hathaway glanced in the direction of his gaze.

"The black jade from Whitby is ground into funeral ornaments."

"This profession almost died out twenty years ago; all the young people went to become sailors."

She put her hands into her sleeves.

"Starting last month, all the workshops have resumed operations, and orders from Beijing are booked until Easter."

The capital is dark, but Whitby is even darker.

If someone dies on the other side of the sea, the lathe on this side will make one more turn.

As everyone climbed to the top, the wind suddenly picked up.

The cemetery is built on the top of the cliff, with rows of tombstones leaning crookedly, the characters worn smooth by centuries of sea winds.

Further in are the ruins of a monastery, with a newly collapsed corner on the west side, where rubble is piled high.

"That shot on December 16th," Colonel Havel began.

"Shoot at the west gate."

Gerald walked over to Richard and lowered his voice.

"Once you click in, stick close to me and don't fall behind."

"The cave is more complex than described in the report. Hathaway only explored the first two hundred meters last time."

What's next after 200 meters?

"Nobody knows." Gerald tightened his gloves.

"Whitby Cave has only ever been partially opened since it was renovated in 1763."

"The sealed section can be reached within the first two hundred meters; no one has ever gone down to the section beyond that."

"Because the latter part is the snake mother's body."

Hathaway chimed in from the side.

"The first two hundred meters are the throat, and the next two hundred meters are the esophagus."

At 3:40 a.m., the team assembled at the deepest part of the cellar.

In the corner of the cellar was a well, and a gust of wind surged up from the wellhead, carrying an indescribable sweet and fishy smell.

Phillips pulled a tobacco box from his pocket, opened it, and found it contained dried tea leaves.

He picked up two pieces, popped them into his mouth, chewed, and then tilted his head towards Richard: "Want two pieces?"

"Chewing raw tea leaves?"

"Chewing two tablets is more effective than praying for energy."

Richard picked up two pieces, threw them into his mouth, and found them bitter, astringent, and numbing to the back of his tongue.

"It really works."

"What did I say again?"

Corbyn held up the lamp in front.

"Down."

The stone steps spiraled down about sixty steps, and then the marks of human carving disappeared.

Richard saw the scratches where the acetylene lamp's yellow light swept across.

The scales overlapped one another, stretching from the cave ceiling to the floor, just as described in the survey notes.

In the spiritual vision, the scales pushed down layer by layer, stopped at a certain point, and then slowly retracted.

Richard's stomach churned.

He had learned about this phenomenon from a biology chart; it was a form of esophageal peristalsis.

The line walked down for about twenty minutes.

Richard first heard a very soft sound, the kind of sound a oven door is pulled open.

Then came the sound of footsteps, people walking back and forth in slippers on the kitchen floor tiles.

"elder brother?"

Richard stopped.

"Brother, are you back?"

Every syllable is correct, with a slightly nasal tone and an upward curve at the end.

When his younger sister called him, her hands were usually covered in flour and her cheeks were rosy.

Richard didn't turn around; the set of rules in his mind was already automatically starting to run.

When you hear your name called, do not turn around or answer.

He pursed his lips tightly, his right hand reaching for the silver ring in his pocket.

Just as he raised his hand, Corbyn turned around from the front.

"This isn't about calling back a soul." The associate professor licked his chapped lips.

"The soul-calling thing wants you to speak; it can only swallow you if you respond, so the rule is to keep quiet."

He raised his hand and pointed vaguely at the cave wall.

"This is the stomach, which is 1,200 years old. It swallows the last breath of the dead."

"She doesn't need your cooperation. She can't reach you when you're alive, but once you're dead, your breath will naturally belong to her."

"So she neither calls you nor tries to persuade you; she simply doesn't care whether you respond or not."

Richard loosened his grip on the silver ring.

"What I just heard..."

Corbyn explained:

"The ether here is so concentrated that it can bring up and play back what's in your head."

"Like a phonograph," Phillips muttered.

Corbyn turned and glanced at him.

"The analogy isn't bad."

Richard, with his back pressed against the cave wall, slowly straightened up.

It's 4 a.m. in Briston now. My sister should be asleep, and the blankets are probably on the floor again.

As the procession continued downhill, Montagu suddenly pressed his ear.

After walking for a while, he spoke up on his own.

"It's my brother. He's calling me by my given name. He's the only one in the family who calls me that."

Richard slowed his pace.

"He was still writing letters last month."

Richard wanted to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

Corbyn, who was ahead, heard this: "That's in your own head."

He repeated the same set of words, much like he was giving a lecture.

Montagu lowered his head: "That's worse."

Corbyn couldn't understand what was worse; he had spent his entire life working with texts.

The line walked down for another ten minutes, and the noise level increased.

A man is counting, counting the beats of the oars.

There is also a prayer in Old Anglo-Saxon, whose roots have not yet been modified by the Normans.

A woman was cursing a man named Hall. She cursed him three times, but stopped after the fourth.

Accents from different eras overlapped and pressed together, none giving way to the other.

Richard's temples began to throb; the problem lay with his own gazing technique.

He had only been using it for less than a month, and the water was already reflecting it; the mirror didn't discriminate based on what it reflected.

Richard quickly pulled the still water back in, pulling it as tight as possible, and felt a heat in his nasal cavity.

He reached out and wiped it off.

"What's wrong?" Gerald, who had been watching him closely, noticed.

"It's just a little dry, but it's fine." Richard wiped his hands on the hem of his clothes.