I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard went up to the second floor, and this time the door to the room where he received his great-grandfather's remains was open.

Gerald sat behind the thick oak table, on which lay a pile of documents.

"You should have seen what's on the gatepost too."

Richard nodded.

Gerald put down the documents in his hand and pointed to the chair opposite him.

"sit."

Richard sat down.

Gerald took something out of the locked metal cabinet on the table.

It was a charcoal sketch.

A young woman turned her head to the side, her hair loosely tied back.

It wasn't drawn very well; there were a few hesitations in the lines, and the stroke for the bridge of the nose was drawn twice.

The eyes were drawn with great care, with the outer corners slightly upturned.

Richard looked at the charcoal sketch.

"Who drew this?"

The painting technique is very rough; it doesn't look like it was done by a professional portrait painter.

"Me," Gerald said.

"I sat across from her and drew while she was doing needlework, and she didn't even know I was drawing all afternoon."

"After I finished drawing it, I showed it to her, and she snatched the paper away, saying that it didn't look like her at all, and that the nose was too big."

The old man's lips twitched slightly, but quickly returned to their normal shape.

"This is the only portrait of your maternal grandmother in the house."

"Your mother's excellent cooking skills come from her; I still remember the taste of her roast goose."

Richard gripped the edge of the paper, not daring to apply too much pressure.

"She left us early; your mother was only nine years old then, and your aunt was not even three."

Richard gently placed the sketch back on the table.

On the back of the paper was a line of very faint pencil writing, the date that was jotted down on the day the portrait was drawn; the ink had long since faded.

"When she was young, she was someone who was followed by a black dog all night."

The study fell silent.

"At that time..." Gerald paused, "...I was already married to her."

"The black dog followed her all night, which was equivalent to writing her name into that book."

Richard recalled the saga fragment Corbin had mentioned; the Wild Hunt had a hunting book that recorded the names of the chosen ones.

"And what happened to her later..."

"I used the ritual of the reverse hunter to take her back."

Gerald removed his fingers from the sketch.

"A ritual for the hunted?"

"I can't tell you the specifics of the ritual." Gerald shook his head. "Only a madman would do that."

"And the price?"

Richard asked very softly.

Dealing with things behind the scenes always comes at a price.

Gerald looked at him.

"I made a pact using the rune blood pact."

"The terms of the agreement are..." the old man said, emphasizing each word: "The debt will be paid off for future generations, and the hunting season will be rescheduled."

"Grandmother... she still passed away in the end?" Richard's throat was a little dry.

"The ritual of reversing the hunt can bring her back and postpone the debt, but it can't change her fate."

"She left Margaret and Isabella behind and then left."

"So the Ashford family... is both sensitive to what's behind the curtain and has a natural resistance to it."

Gerrard said slowly.

"Sensitivity comes from being seen in the blood."

The resistance stems from that rebellious hunt of mine, which left traces of resistance in my blood.

"These are Ashford's old debts."

The tooth mark on the doorpost flashed into Richard's mind.

My maternal grandfather said this was an invitation, and that the debt would be postponed until the next hunting trip.

Richard placed the sketch back in front of Gerald.

"Grandpa, this one... please keep it safe."

Gerald pushed the paper toward Richard.

"Take it."

"I remember what she looks like, I don't need this piece of paper."

"You've never met her, but in the future... there will always be someone in the family who remembers her."

Richard took the sketch.

Over the next few days, Gerrard took him on a tour of his network of contacts.

He went to old Phillips’s private residence, where the two great luminaries spent an afternoon tea in the study.

Richard sat beside them, listening to their rambling about old times, neither of them bringing up the black dog.

He met with several branch leaders of the folk guild.

There are hermits, herbalists, and an old craftsman who specializes in maintaining the seals.

There was an elderly woman who was so fat she could barely sit in a chair. She held Richard's palm and examined the lines for a long time, then nodded without saying a word.

Gerald introduced them one by one, saying that this was his grandson Richard Williams and that he hoped they would look after him in the future.

He even sent a message to Huayue Street.

Lady Mary was still in seclusion, but she made an exception and accepted a letter. Richard didn't know what was written in the letter.

Gerald sorted out the family accounts, sealed documents, trust arrangements, wills...

The trusts on both Isabella's and Margaret's sides have been sorted out.

Although the eldest daughter married an ordinary man, she still retained her share of Gerald's fortune.

"This copy is for Evelyn to use later."

Gerald pointed to a document and said to Richard.

"She wants to attend culinary school, and she needs to spend money to open a shop."

This money was sent through discreet channels; please consider it a token of my appreciation as her grandfather to my granddaughter.

"Grandpa..."

"You need to know everything that's going on in the accounts." Gerald ignored his hesitation.

"From now on, someone has to hold this family together. Vincent and his men are just hunters; they can't handle the accounts."

He wrote a will and had his housekeeper witness it.

Richard stood beside his grandfather, watching him sign the document.

The old man's hands were very steady, each stroke more steady than Richard had ever seen.

After signing, Gerrard put down his pen.

"Finally, I'll teach you a hunter's sign language."

Gerald led Richard to the backyard.

"This sign language is used in hunting grounds where it is impossible to speak."

Gerrard showed him each gesture one by one: making a fist, opening it, making a scissor shape with his index and middle fingers, turning his palm sideways...

"Some things in the hunting grounds can hear, so hunters communicate with each other using their hands."

Stop, retreat, things are on your left, I'll cover you... Richard learned and memorized them one by one.

[Bowen] copied the angle and force of every gesture into his brain.

Gerrard stopped when he reached the last one.

The old man made a downward pressing gesture.

"This means: the wind is blowing in your direction."

"wind direction?"

"Whoever gains the upper hand in the hunting grounds gains the advantage."

Gerrard made the gesture again.

"Hunters only use this gesture in one specific situation."

Which one?

Gerald looked at him.

"When you give up the hunting grounds to the other party."

Richard stood in the wind, looking at his grandfather's hand that was pressing down diagonally.

The night wind ruffled the old man's gray hair.

"Grandpa," Richard finally spoke.

"Why did you have to teach me this gesture?"

Gerrard lowered his hand, and the wind stopped for a moment.

"Because one day, you will need to give up your hunting grounds to others."

He smiled, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.

"And one day, someone will give you the hunting grounds."

Richard lowered his head.

He looked at his hand and slowly made a downward pressing gesture as well.

Gerald looked at his gestures, neither saying they were right nor wrong.

He simply reached out and, just like the last time he visited, patted Richard heavily on the shoulder.

That night, Richard had the clearest dream he'd had since starting school.

There is no color in dreams.

There was only a vast wilderness, no road, no light, only wind.

The wind comes from all directions and goes in all directions.

There was also the sound of hooves coming from the horizon, the dense, broken drumbeats of tens of thousands of horses treading on the hard, frozen ground.

The sound of hooves grew closer, and my grandfather stood in the middle of the open field.

It was a young maternal grandfather, not the old man with sagging cheekbones and sunken eyes that Richard knew.

It's the hunter in the photo, standing straight with a knife hanging at his waist.

He was fighting against something that had no shape.

It was a dark mass pressing down from the sky, and a buzzing sound that grew louder and louder in the wind.

This thing is impossible to fight against, impossible to escape.

It simply came, like a tide surging onto the mudflats, like night washing over day.

My maternal grandfather rose up in resistance.

He drew his hunting knife, and as he slashed down, a gash appeared in the black patch.

The crack closed up again in an instant.

He cleaved, split, and mended again, never retreating an inch!

The darkness surged up from his feet and wrapped around his ankles, which he cleaved away.

It rolled over him from behind, covering his shoulders, and he slashed away.

The blade pressed down on his head, and he tilted his head back, raised the knife above his head, and cleaved it open!

Richard watched in his dream, speechless.

My grandfather split it open once, twice, a hundred times, a thousand times... and that patch of blackness always closed up.

My grandfather's movements slowed down.

The buzzing in the wind grew louder and louder.

Richard suddenly realized that the buzzing sound was mixed with the cry of geese.

A flock of geese flew overhead in formation, their movements both majestic and orderly.

My grandfather raised the knife for the last time.

This time, he failed to strike.

The darkness spread from the moment he raised the knife, across his arms, shoulders, chest... and finally across his face.

The hunting knife clattered to the ground.

My maternal grandfather was defeated.