I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The exorcism team returned to Whitby.

Thankfully, thankfully, the black dog wasn't following behind someone.

Richard glanced back as he emerged from the cave; the dark figure was still crouching there.

Once that line of gray from the sea rises to the top of the cliff, casting the shadow of the tombstone from the east, the boundary disappears.

The black dog faded away along with that boundary line, like a dream that no one mentions after dawn.

The coast guard post is a two-story stone building with a stove inside.

As Richard entered, the warmth of the coal fire enveloped his face, and his frozen fingers slowly regained feeling.

The seized items filled an entire long table.

The staff from the branch office took notes first, Hathaway reported the numbers, and Corbyn checked them.

Richard was called over to review the work as a scholar, which was also one of the reasons for his visit.

There were quite a few things on the table.

The snake mother's corpse was scattered all over the ground, and many of the snakes they brought back had completely lost their vitality during the transport.

The rune markings on that half-set of runestones were still as clear as ever.

Richard's spiritual vision slowly swept over the area.

The remaining traces of pure Tai Chi on the half-set of runestones are the work of a Viking priest from 1,200 years ago.

This is the highest quality batch of ether among all the spoils seized today.

Then there's the condensate.

The seven skull-shaped concretions varied in color, with the largest one being the size of a walnut. The ether concentration was so high that his inspiration was gently bounced away as soon as it touched it.

The smallest one was about the size of a thumb, and its concentration far exceeded the medium concentration level he usually encountered.

He picked one about the size of a peanut, of high quality but of moderate size, and didn't touch anything else.

Corbyn glanced up briefly but said nothing.

"You have good taste." Hathaway glanced at the condensate he had chosen.

"That one has the fewest impurities, making it perfect for use as a medium in surgical procedures."

"As for this half set of runestones..."

Hathaway raised an eyebrow: "This stuff requires a lot of ether to work; for ordinary practitioners, using it is like pouring money into a bottomless pit."

"I know," Richard said without elaborating. "Just these two things."

Corbin glanced at him: "Don't you want the others? Those evil materials aren't bad either."

"don't want."

Those evil materials are soaked with the serpent mother's essence from 1,200 years ago, so purifying them would be time-consuming and not worth the effort.

Now, when he's picking things out, he's not like he used to when he first started out, wanting to put everything he saw into his pocket.

Moreover, overall, I didn't put in a particularly large amount of effort this time; getting half a set of runestones and one piece of condensate was enough.

Gerald received the largest skull fragment and several shimmering scales.

Colonel Havel was assigned the black beads on his spine.

Montagu, as his uncle's deputy, also received a small portion.

Phillips was sent to a corner by his father to write an action report and didn't get anything.

He had no complaints about it and focused intently on arranging the wording on paper.

By the time we finished distributing the items, it was already dawn.

The group rested at the guard post for half a day.

The military train was scheduled to depart in the afternoon, and everyone took advantage of the break to catch up on sleep, but Richard couldn't fall asleep.

He helped his maternal grandfather lie down in a small room on the second floor.

Gerald hadn't said much since leaving the cave, and his etheric field had shrunk even further since entering.

The old man had his eyes closed, and his breathing was so shallow that it seemed he might stop breathing at any moment.

Grandpa.

"I'm fine." Gerald's eyes remained closed.

"When a hunter gets older, he always needs a few days to recover after a tough battle. Go and rest."

Richard didn't leave; he sat on a chair by the bed.

He looked at his maternal grandfather's face; the skin on his cheekbones was loose, and his eye sockets were sunken.

When I saw him in the study two years ago, he didn't look this old yet; it hasn't been that long.

In the afternoon, the military train headed south, and the carriages were quieter than when it had arrived.

Those who have fought tough battles are exhausted, and most of them are resting with their eyes closed.

Phillips, unusually not reading, covered his face with a book on the history of lighthouse construction and started snoring.

Richard sat for a while, then got up and walked to the dining car at the back of the carriage; he wanted to get a glass of water.

There weren't many people in the dining car; only two people were sitting at the very back.

Gerald and old Phillips, two great experts, sat facing each other with two barely touched cups of tea between them.

Richard stood silently in the shadows of the aisle, holding his water glass.

It wasn't that he wanted to eavesdrop; those two sentences just popped into his ears the moment he stepped into the dining car.

"It looks at me for longer," Gerald said.

"It stood up when it looked at me." Old Phillips turned his teacup halfway around.

Richard's fingers tightened on the water glass.

They were arguing, but Richard didn't understand what they were arguing about at first.

As the two continued their conversation, taking turns speaking, he gradually began to understand.

"I'm an old hunter," Gerald said nonchalantly.

"It's only natural for hunters to die in the wild; arguing with me about that is against the rules."

"I'm a hunter too, and I'm the chief inspector."

Old Phillips seemed amused and chuckled.

"It's more dignified to die in office than to die in a hospital bed after retirement."

"You still have a long term ahead of you."

"You haven't finished exploring the wilderness yet."

Neither of them was willing to back down.

Richard stood in the shadows, listening to two men, whose combined age was over a hundred, jokingly arguing about who deserved to die more.

After arguing for a while, Gerrard finally smiled.

The laughter carried a hint of self-deprecation, as well as the familiarity that only exists between old friends.

"What's all the noise about?" He picked up his teacup and took a sip. "It already knew what was going on."

"Neither of us can make decisions about it."

Old Phillips remained silent.

After a while, he also picked up his own cup of tea.

Richard, holding his water glass, retreated back into the aisle.

The wheels rolled over the switch, making a series of thuds.

The desolate wilderness outside the window receded into the distance, and the gray-blue of the distant sea slowly sank into the twilight.

There is a kind of danger in this world that even two great experts combined can only sit down and discuss... how to die in a fitting way.

He clutched the half-set of runestones, the sharp edges of the stone pieces digging into his palm.

I returned to the capital on January 12th.

Gerald locked himself in the rickety shack on the second floor as soon as he entered. Richard went to check on him twice, but the door was locked both times.

In mid-January, Richard received a notification forwarded from the department.

The Inspector General approved a document that moved the remaining five exorcism schedules forward.

The reason given was: "The budget for the sealing and maintenance of the Northern Region this year has been tightened, and resources should be concentrated to complete it as soon as possible."

"My dad's been acting strange lately."

That day, Phillips brought over his lost and found teapot again and poured tea for the two of them.

"Something's not right?"

"He returned the teapot he had confiscated from me."

Phillips shook the pot in his hand.

"You don't know, I can't even use this pot at home."

I begged him so many times, and all he ever said was, "I can't spoil him."

"He took it out himself last week and put it on my desk without saying a word."

Richard held his teacup but didn't reply.

"And he also took me out to eat," Phillips added.

"In all my years, he has taken me out to eat a handful of times."

The last time was after I finished high school. He took me to a club and talked business with people the whole time, while I sat next to him eating lamb chops all night.

"This time was different. It was just the two of us. He even asked me how I was doing at the academy and what I was reading in those lousy books."

Phillips said it with a sense of awkwardness.

"He also urged us to expedite the scheduling process."

"What's the schedule?"

"The remaining five exorcisms are scheduled."

"Originally, he would do things one step at a time, but now he wants to cram everything into one go."

The staff at the branch office whispered among themselves that the Chief Inspector was in a real hurry lately.

What was his reason?

Phillips, mimicking his father's tone, frowned and said, "I've been having a lucky streak lately."

Richard's hand, which was holding the teacup, slowly stopped.

Phillips was still rambling on:

"My mom also thought he was acting strangely. A couple of nights ago, he went to the old tower of the Ministry of Internal Affairs by himself in the middle of the night. The night watchman saw him."

"The old tower?"

"That old bell," Phillips gestured, indicating the name.

"The St. Michael's Bell has not rung for over a hundred years."

The bell is inscribed with the words, "It rings for the unspeakable."

"He went to see that clock?"

"The night watchman said he stood under the bell for a long time, reached out and wiped the dust off the bell's mouth, and then stood there motionless."

Richard looked down at the tea in his cup.

The tea leaves slowly unfurled in the water, sinking and then floating again.

"My dad is probably getting old," Phillips concluded.

"As people get older, their tempers soften. He used to never say a kind word to me."

"Hmm," Richard responded, then changed the subject.

"Why are you adding sage to your tea now?"

"Add more, that's good." Phillips said smugly, "It's a bit bitter, but it'll keep you energized."

"You chewed dry tea leaves in Whitby last time, and you said it was refreshing."

“That’s different,” Phillips retorted. “That was out of necessity, this is enjoyment.”

Richard smiled.

The afternoon sunlight outside the window cast a thin layer of gold, a rare sight in winter.

Meanwhile, penny pamphlets have already been distributed to many cities in the north.

The second batch of one thousand copies was printed at the Duckworth Printing House in Manchester in early January.

From Manchester to York, Leeds, Sheffield, Newcastle... the newsboy's feet moved much faster than he had imagined.

In her letter, Grey mentioned that there was also a copy on the counter of a tobacco shop near her school, squeezed together with the horse racing schedule.

"I looked through it, and some people in the class were discussing the story you wrote, #039 The Laundrywoman's Back Door#039."

Grey's handwriting was a bit messier than usual.

"Cunningham said that after walking through the back alley at night, she would never look back again."

Richard did something in the next episode.

On the last page of the booklet, he bordered a notice with a thick black border.

Seeking: People who have seen a black dog.

Have you or someone you know ever seen a large, pure black dog late at night, at the entrance of an alley, or on a deserted road?

It didn't bark or bite; it just squatted there and watched you.

If you have seen it, please write to us and tell us its story.

Please send your letters to the Duckworth Printing House in the northern suburbs of Manchester, addressed to the editor of "Strange Tales".

Upon acceptance, a complete set of "Tales of the Strange" will be provided as a gift.

Charlotte saw it and wrote a big question mark in her reply.

"Your booklet is meant to continuously publish stories, so why are you collecting them instead?"

Richard didn't explain much, only replying with one sentence:

"Because I wanted to know what happened to the people who saw the black dog."

He sealed the reply and dropped it into the mailbox.

The "Strange Tales Collection" was not only his mouth for speaking out, but also became the ear through which others spoke to him.

Among so many readers, there must be a few whose elderly family members saw that black mass before they died.

Richard wanted to piece together the scattered information about the black dogs, one by one.