I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Back in his dorm, Richard locked the door and drew the curtains tightly.

He asked about the control panel first.

Richard treated it as if it didn't exist; he didn't think about it, didn't think about it, didn't write about it, and didn't touch it.

Now, he's going to take it for his maternal grandfather.

The problem is, he can't even think about it, so how can he take it out?

Richard held his breath, suppressing the thought as much as possible.

He only sketched the outline of the three words "can I take it?" in his mind, without daring to touch upon the real name itself in the slightest.

The panel now displays a new prompt.

[Seal inspection: Complete.]

[Executable operation: Extract (single section).]

[Conditions: Automatic recording mode; external carrier; packaged under the name of "something else".]

[Effect: Severes the connection between the extracted segment and its holder. Limited to once.]

[Warning: If submitted in your own name, the link will be recreated.]

Richard stared at the words, a thin layer of sweat slowly seeping from his back.

The panel itself told him how to remove himself from that real name.

Automatic recording mode.

That was a state where he was in a daze, his hand writing on its own.

"Packaging in the name of 'something else'" does not allow him to be credited.

He intended to send out this real name as an anonymous letter without a signature.

Richard recalled what the mirrored head of Thoth had said during the Seed Trial in the museum.

The power of the recorder has never been light.

When you write a name on something, that thing becomes inextricably linked to that name.

I was also reminded of another saying: a pen can write down words it doesn't recognize.

Richard's gaze slowly fell on the shadow at his feet.

If a shadow were to act as the writer, imprinting the mirror image of that true name stroke by stroke into a carrier, without going through his own brain the entire time.

So the writing wasn't done by his hand or his brain, but by a hand that didn't understand what it was writing at all.

Richard's traditional mirror-like qualities came in handy at this moment.

The traditional reading for a mirror is "reflection".

He doesn't touch the real name itself, but only lets the shadow trace the afterimage of that real name projected onto the curtain.

He had already decided on the vessel: the black bronze mirror that Ares had brought back from the Ashlands.

His origins were already vague, and he had personally purified the "comparison curse" on them.

The ether was soaked in so thoroughly that there was no trace of its identity within it.

It's perfect for using as anonymous stationery.

Moreover, it is itself a mirror, so it is only natural that the reflection and afterimage fall into the mirror.

Richard didn't act immediately; one wrong step in this situation could lead to utter ruin.

He first performed a blind verification, allowing the panel to transcribe a completely harmless text that he had memorized perfectly, while in the book-writing mode.

For example, the opening of Cicero's "A Defense of Murena".

After taking the four herbs, he closed his eyes and held the pen in his hand.

Three minutes later, the thick, sticky water rose up, and the summoned shadow hand began to move.

When the rules Mrs. McNeil had taught him earlier pulled him out of his daze, he opened his eyes and looked down at the paper.

The paper contained the opening paragraph of "Defending Murena," written in a crooked and uneven manner, but word for word.

He tried to recall what had just happened, but his mind went blank.

He remembers sitting down, closing his eyes, and then opening them again; the paper was already full.

During that middle part, his mind was completely blank.

There is zero memory and zero recollection of the writing process.

Richard folded the test paper, burned it, and flushed the ashes down the drain.

He took out the ash-covered bronze mirror from the bottom of the drawer.

The mirror, gleaming a dark bronze under the gaslight, coldly reflected the ceiling.

He had already figured out the encapsulation rules.

The first layer, lead, is a common metal with the worst ether conductivity, which locks the vibrational modes onto the mirror surface, preventing them from escaping.

The second layer is coarse salt, an old method for isolating ether. Unlike refined silver powder salt, coarse salt provides broad-spectrum shielding.

In the third layer of bone, Richard retrieved the needle, a relic of his great-grandfather, from the deepest part of the hidden compartment.

The bone needle is engraved with inscriptions from the Moon Hunting tradition; it is itself a seal for the hunter.

Attaching it to the outside of the lead casing is like adding a "hunting pass" to the envelope.

When the hunter opens it, he will first sense the familiar aura of the moon hunter from the inscription.

After being sealed in three layers, only the hunter was allowed to open it; even the two professors were not permitted to handle the contents.

Richard prepared all the materials and laid them out on the table.

He didn't consult the oracle; at this point, consulting the oracle would be tantamount to wishing he hadn't died soon enough.

He wanted to bring his grandfather's name back to the living from that book that read "damned".

………………

The external situation is deteriorating rapidly.

Clara's third dive was on January 27th during a high tide.

The ether accumulator, which had been leaking since the second dive, completely failed this time.

One hundred feet below the seabed, sunlight is invisible, and the etheric field is distorted by the pressure of the seawater.

Inside, she relied entirely on the energy storage device on her back to keep going. Once the energy storage device stopped, she became like a lamp extinguished in deep water.

Her uncle saved her; the young alchemist, who was skilled in alchemy, had slipped a disposable stone lung pouch into the lining of her diving suit while he was crafting her equipment.

Clara later recalled that on the day of delivery, the other party, with that sour face, unusually said something extra:

"There's something in the interlayer, don't pry it open, it could be your life."

The moment the accumulator stopped, she pressed the mezzanine button.

Her lung sac ruptured, and a mouthful of ether, enough to last five minutes, rushed into her lungs.

It was during those five minutes that she saw the "Bastion" with her own eyes.

It was a silent white light that exploded directly above her head.

The sea swallowed all the sound. She only saw light, a hundred feet underwater, which suddenly became as bright as midday.

Then came a snowfall.

A snowfall falling downwards.

Splintered wood, military boots, twisted steel plates, and people... slowly sinking from the sea surface.

More than 800 people, along with the wreckage of that giant steel ship, fell onto the seabed.

Clara froze in the water.

What chilled her to the bone were the sailors who sank to the bottom.

They did not struggle.

When a person drowns, their limbs will instinctively flail and kick, and their body will desperately try to float to the surface.

There were none of the sailors who fell onto the seabed.

They landed and stood up.

They were lined up in rows on the seabed.

Clara looked in the direction they were facing, towards a certain direction.

There was a crack in the seabed, and they lined up, gave a military salute, and filed in.

Neatly arranged, one after another, they went into that mouth.

A young sailor glanced back before going in.

Even through the hundred-foot-deep seawater, Clara felt that the glance was directed at her.

The air in my lungs was almost gone, and my left eardrum ruptured with a loud bang.

The seawater was cold and painful as it poured in; my lungs started to burn, and I felt a burning pain from the inside out, as if I were being scalded by the ether.

She thought of the Stanislas Ring and the Broadgay Ring.

Those Neolithic standing stones have stood on the seashore for thousands of years.

Although the old seal beneath their feet had weakened, a small pocket of still water remained within it.

That was a small area where the ether was pressed very low by the ancient inscriptions.

Clara swam desperately toward the Brodgai Stone Circle.

Swimming into that still, pocket-sized pool of water, the turbulent ether behind her could no longer reach her.

She clung to the outermost standing stone of the stone ring and climbed up.

The sky was already beginning to lighten.

In the Orkney Islands, the morning winds are so strong they could shred a person into a sheet of paper.

She lay on the cold stone, unable to hear anything in her left ear, her lungs burning so badly she couldn't speak.

The navy ships didn't arrive at the scene until after dawn.

After three days of salvage, the only official assessment was: spontaneous combustion of smokeless gunpowder.

Clara's rubbing of the seabed and her written testimony were all stamped and filed.

Then, silence it.

More than 800 local families received news of death on the same day, adding to the long list of casualties on the front lines.

So in early February, the empire declared a national day of intercession and mourning.

Richard read that announcement on the front page of the Beijing Morning Post.

"...At this time of national crisis, we, the people of the country, mourn together the fallen soldiers and civilians who died in battle."

February 15th will be designated a national day of mourning, during which churches across the country will ring the gong in remembrance.

At noon, the whole country observed three minutes of silence, traffic stopped, and factories shut down.

As night fell, hymns were read in each diocese to pray for the deceased, that they may rest in peace in the Lord…

The words were spoken with great solemnity, bearing the royal seal.

Richard remembered the date as he folded the newspaper.

The day of mourning is set for February 15th.

On that day, churches across the country will ring the bells of remembrance at the same time.

Millions of people will observe a moment of silence, recite hymns, and pray for the deceased at the same time.

It was a net that was many times larger than the wax cylinder of a phonograph.

The queue outside the divination shop was now exactly the same length as the queue outside the candy shop.

At five in the morning, when it was still dark, an old woman wrapped in a blanket stood guard outside the door of the unlicensed medium.

Even before the day of mourning arrives, the capital is already quietly changing.

Richard decided to have the "Strange Tales Collection: Special Issue for the Day of Mourning" printed overnight.

He sent a telegram to Charlotte and a letter each to Dawn Paper and Duckworth Printing Company.

Mr. Dawn replied the fastest.

"I'll give you the paper for free."

The letter contained only one serious sentence, followed by the phrase: "Consider it my way of repaying you for being my friend."

The phrase "Consider it a friend" was something Mr. Dawn said when Richard refused the Dawn family's financial assistance, and now it has come true.

Charlotte revised the manuscript quickly and ruthlessly.

She crossed out all the words "deceased" in the original manuscript.

"Change it to 'guest'." She wrote a small note next to the returned manuscript.

"Once the word 'deceased' is published, the censorship board will be unable to sleep that night, and they will accuse you of spreading death panic."

"If we change it to 'guest,' the censorship board will be able to sleep soundly, and readers will remember it."

Richard looked at the change and a thought struck him.

Charlotte is absolutely right.

If you tell a mother that your dead son might come tonight, she will break down and make a scene.

You tell her that on the night of the day of mourning, a guest might knock on the door. She'll be scared, but she might do as you say.

Fear makes people follow the rules.

The Duckworth plant operated overnight, with the drums running non-stop.

Grey's truck also followed the old shipping route to the south, helping to pave roads into the city.

Richard placed the most important thing right in the center of this issue.

A whole page framed by a thick black border—"Rules for Hospitality on the Night of the Day of Mourning".

1. Knocking on the door in the middle of the night, and receiving no response after three knocks, it went to find the next house.

2. If you have already spoken, ask first: Which way did you come from?

3. Sprinkle salt on the threshold, leave a lamp on the windowsill, and leave the milk outside the door; do not bring it inside.

4. If you have already welcomed the guests in, do not expose their wrongdoing or cry out.

Sit with it until dawn, then see the guest off. After the guest leaves, then you cry.

……

Richard finished writing the last line, and his pen lingered on the paper for a long time.

On the third day after the special edition was distributed, Casalis came running, drawn by the scent.

"Mr. Williams," he held up the booklet, "did you write this?"

"Yes." Richard did not deny it.

"Distributing this stuff on the eve of mourning."

Casalis turned to that entire page of rules:

"Teaching people not to open the door when they hear the bell at midnight, teaching people not to recognize relatives if they are wet..."

He looked up: "Wouldn't this be considered spreading panic?"

Before Richard could answer, a dry, hoarse voice came from the end of the corridor.

"What kind of panic is this?"

Professor Mortimer strolled over slowly.

"Casalis, I don't blame you for your weak foundation in classics."

The old professor walked up to him and took the booklet from his hands: "Take a look at this format."

He opened the book and pointed to a line of small print at the bottom of the page.

"First-hand accounts, including time, place, place of origin, and age of the individuals involved."

Morty read it aloud.

"This is the standard format for recording folk customs, just like the records of miracles by saints from hundreds of years ago in the parish archives."

"Professor, this..."

"This is an appendix to the folklore study." Mortimer shoved the booklet back into Casalis's hands.

"The Department of Classical Studies at Imperial Capital University has a long history of collecting oral legends and strange tales from northern industrial cities."

This volume was compiled at my request. If you have any questions, come find me.