I loaded the Mysticism panel.

It was a copy of the *Beijing Morning Post*, folded in half twice, with the front-page headline in bold, large lead type:

"The Third Expeditionary Force to the New World has gone missing; the Colonial Affairs Department denies any connection to 'Indigenous Phenomena'."

After confirming that the person had indeed gotten off the bus, Richard picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.

The wording of the main report was steady and measured:

"The expeditionary force lost contact with its rear after advancing to the central highlands of the New World, and has been out of contact for more than six weeks."

A spokesperson for the expeditionary force stated that the communication disruption may be related to the harsh local weather and terrain, and that a second support team is being organized.

The spokesperson denied the recent rumors circulating among the public regarding alleged unusual phenomena involving indigenous people, stating that there were no instances exceeding the normal range.

Richard silently read the passage twice.

"There is nothing outside the normal range," echoing the conclusion of that government report from decades ago.

The wording is always so airtight in denying everything, yet airtight in explaining nothing at all.

He flipped the newspaper down.

The third page features a mix of domestic news and GG content, with the page crammed tightly together.

A young man's name was squeezed between the obituary section and the medicine section:

"Mrs. Mary, the most effective spiritual medium in the capital"

"Anything can be asked; even the deceased can speak."

"Please make an appointment at No. 17 Huayue Street. Closed on Sundays."

Next to GG was a mimeographed portrait, only an inch square.

The ink had bled out, and the printing quality was about the same as the GG brand of hemorrhoid cream next door.

Even with such a rough oil print, the outline of the person's eyebrows and eyes can still be seen to be very good.

Her jawline is smooth, her nose is straight, and the curve of her lips has been deliberately outlined by the artist, with a lazy yet reserved upturn.

As far as oil-printed portraits go, this face is almost too beautiful.

Richard stared at the GG for a while.

Two middle-aged men wearing gray plaid coats were chatting together in the seats diagonally opposite.

One of them was wearing a felt hat, and he was holding a cigarette in his hand, not even noticing that the cigarette butt was almost burning between his fingers.

"...You should know that Mrs. Mary, right?"

The man's voice rose and fell amidst the noise of the third-class carriage.

Richard's hearing was more sensitive than most people's; he could catch most of a sentence even through the aisle.

"On Flower Moon Street, signs openly proclaim spiritual communication, but secretly..."

The man in the felt hat tucked the cigarette between his lips and made a very lewd gesture with his hand.

His companion chuckled twice, his voice greasy:

"Indeed, everyone knows what those crystal balls and candlesticks in front of the shops on Flower Moon Street are for, and what those rooms behind them are for."

The man in the felt hat shook his head:

"That's called being capable. Whether it's fortune telling or shady dealings, they can keep big shots in the capital completely under their thumb, and they can even publicly swear in the newspapers without anyone investigating. You think they don't have someone protecting them?"

At this point, their voices lowered even further, and Richard only caught a few words:

"Count So-and-so," "police station," "that thing that happened on Christmas Eve"... they can't form a complete sentence, but the meaning is clear enough.

Huayue Street.

Mediums, prostitutes, the private quarters of the powerful, and shady deals that cannot be found on the books.

Richard wrote down the place name, along with the house number and the mimeographed portrait.

17 Flower Moon Street, Madame Mary the medium.

A renowned beauty in the capital, a guest of honor of the powerful and wealthy, and a public psychic.

Judging from the Warren family's example of hiring Mrs. McNeil, most psychics follow the path of quietly making a fortune.

This person in the capital city did the opposite, not only publishing a notice in the newspaper announcing his death, but also printing his own portrait on the page.

Either she's a complete fraudster using her looks to lure customers, or she genuinely has real talent to back up such ostentation.

"What are you looking at?" The father peeked out from the corner of the newspaper, only half an eye visible.

"News from the capital." Richard flipped the newspaper back to the front page.

The father's gaze swept over the medium's message, and his brow furrowed slightly.

"Those are all scammers."

"Um."

"The area around Huayue Street is full of shady dealings. Don't wander around when you get to the capital."

"understood."

Hearing the noise, the younger sister next to her curiously leaned her head closer.

"Mrs. Mary, the medium... can ask about anything, and even the dead can speak. This guy is exaggerating too much."

She leaned closer to examine the oil-printed portrait.

"However, this woman's painting is quite beautiful."

"really."

"Are all the con artists in the capital this good-looking? None of the fortune-telling old ladies in Briston are even remotely attractive."

"Everything is expensive in the capital, so the threshold for becoming a scammer is probably higher."

Evelyn tilted her head, quickly lost interest in the newspaper, and went back to looking out the window at the scenery.

The hills outside the window became increasingly gentle, and the fields were divided into large plots of farmland by more orderly fences.

The blurry outline of a city began to appear on the distant horizon.

There aren't many chimneys; the silhouettes of the church spires and bell towers form an undulating skyline.

The capital is getting closer.

………………

The train arrived at the station after noon.

Capital Central Station is infinitely better than that old station in Briston.

The cast iron dome is ridiculously high; looking up at it makes your neck ache.

There were more than a dozen platforms, with steam locomotives lined up at the end of the tracks, like a group of black behemoths panting.

Passengers poured out of the carriages, forming a dense crowd that pushed and shoved toward the exit.

Richard and his family were swept along by the crowd.

Unlike the gloomy and cramped atmosphere of Bristol Central Station, everything at the Imperial City Station felt magnified several times over.

The dome is higher, the passageway is wider, and even the cast patterns on the iron pillars are more elaborate.

The mosaic stone slabs on the ground have been polished to a mirror-like shine by the hundreds of thousands of pairs of shoe soles that pass by every day.

As you exit the station, the cityscape of the capital unfolds before your eyes.

The streets are lined with trimmed sycamore trees, their trunks whitewashed, their branches rustling in the autumn wind.

In the distance, the twin towers of the cathedral emerge from above the complex, their spires gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.

There were far more horse-drawn carriages in Bristol than in Briston, four-wheeled, two-wheeled, open, and enclosed, flowing in a stream on the streets.

Occasionally, a car would emerge from the group of horse-drawn carriages, honking its horn with great gusto.

Evelyn stood on the steps at the station entrance, her eyes already overwhelmed with sight.

"It's huge, much bigger than Briston."

"...Didn't we come here before?"

"I've been here before, but I haven't seen enough of it."

As she spoke, her gaze followed a dark red four-wheeled carriage past.

The carriage's paint was so shiny it reflected a person's image, and the family crest was painted in gold on the door.

The two black horses pulling the carriage had glossy coats, and the brass buckles on their harnesses glittered in the sunlight.

The coachman, dressed in uniform, sat in the driver's seat, his hat brim pulled down so that only his chin was visible.

"How much does one of those carriages cost?" Evelyn asked a question she knew she wouldn't get an answer to.

"It should be more expensive than our house," Richard replied casually.