I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The sound of the ninth note dissipated behind the curtain.

Old Phillips, supporting himself on the rim of the bell, bent over and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

He took a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and dabbed it at the corner of his mouth.

He folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.

Old Phillips straightened up and adjusted his hat.

He looked at the clock, and at the silent curtain behind it.

"Record it." He spoke, his voice hoarse but each word clear.

"Routine maintenance."

The adjutant was taken aback for a moment, then took out his notebook and wrote it down stroke by stroke.

The Old Tower of St. Michael was inspected by the Inspector General in the early hours of the day of mourning. Routine maintenance was carried out, and everything was normal.

Old Phillips, holding onto the stone wall, descended step by step.

The adjutant tried to help him up, but he raised his hand to stop him.

When he arrived at the duty room at the bottom of the tower, there was a stack of official documents spread out on the table, with each section blank, waiting for his signature.

He signed the last word and put down the pen.

Then, he bent down and picked up the thermos from beside his feet.

The tea inside is from my youngest son's teapot, with sage added; it's very bitter.

Old Phillips slowly finished his last glass of the night.

He placed the empty cup on the table, stood up, put on his hat, and pushed open the door to walk into the fog outside the tower.

The fog on the riverbank was so thick that it blew out the light from the gas lamps.

Before dawn, the river flowed silently beneath the mist.

Old Phillips walked along the riverbank, step by step.

After walking a few steps, something followed behind.

It walked to my side and sat beside me.

A man and his dog walked along the riverbank into the depths of the fog.

That night, Whitby's black dog watched him for a long time and even got up for him.

Tonight it didn't look anywhere else; the black dog recognized this person.

Tonight, everyone in the city was given a proper send-off.

The half-open door stopped, and the soaking wet guest retreated.

Those who are seeing someone off should also offer them something to help them on their way.

The black dog walked alongside him, guiding him into the fog.

The adjutant in the duty room later wrote about that night in his testimony.

He wrote: The Inspector General walked along the river, and the black dog followed him into the fog.

That's it, the fog was too thick, we couldn't see anything beyond that.

………………

The fog wall on Huayue Street naturally filtered out 90% of the guests tonight.

Those wet, unidentified things that crashed into the fog wall mostly scattered, became lost, and couldn't find their way outside the wall.

Of those who can actually squeeze into the inner street, less than one in ten can.

Tonight, a fire has been reignited atop the half-person-high pillar of the fire-worshipping temple in the backyard of Donner's pawnshop.

The dead rely on light to find their way; all the hundreds of thousands of welcoming lights in the city are fake lighthouses, each one leading the returning souls to the doorsteps of the living.

The ferry crossing needs a real fire that burns through the curtain, to take the soul from the false lighthouse and guide it to where it is meant to go.

That sacred fire, which has been burning for 1,500 years, is this lamp.

The sealed walls covered with seals on all four sides of Huayue Street are the outer embankment.

Mrs. McNeil brought her five spirit vessels; two were broken in Black Ditch that night, and the remaining five each performed their duties tonight.

There are other hidden individuals, each guarding their own place and using their own abilities.

Under the skillful command of Mrs. Mary, a dozen or so people firmly protected the entire Flower Moon Street area.

And from this center, they radiated outwards in concentric circles, managing to suppress a significant portion of the chaos in the capital.

Lady Mary herself remained seated in the Room of Mirrors the entire time.

The room full of mirrors has become the registration desk at this ferry crossing tonight.

The soul of a shy little girl drifted to the door of the mirror room and huddled there, too afraid to come in.

She dared not photograph a faceless lady.

Mrs. Mary "borrowed" a face from the room full of mirrored reflections.

Richard looked at the face that had been shrouded in mist, and for the first time, it became clear.

It was a very young face, unbelievably young, with a touch of childishness in its features.

Mrs. Mary knelt down and gently coaxed the little girl with her youthful face.

Once the little girl had quietly joined the line, her face was veiled in mist again.

Richard used the mirror as ink and his breath as paper, reflecting the name of the soul stroke by stroke into the mirror and reciting it aloud.

Once the name is pronounced correctly, that originally damp and confused soul can no longer be used as a puppet in the spirit world corridor to knock on the doors of the living and impersonate someone's son.

Richard used the runes of the journey and the wheels to pave the way for the group, one by one.

In the distance, the pillar of fire in Donner's backyard serves as a distant light illuminating the way home.

At the very end of the line, the Sheng'er copper paperweight automatically recorded the entries.

The bronze balance scales weighed the souls crossing the bridge, strand by strand.

Richard held the pen and sent them to the team one by one.

It was past three in the morning, and the fire on the pillar of the fire temple in Donner's backyard had been burning for seven hours.

Richard stood to the left of the pillar of fire, having already recited countless times.

My tongue feels numb, my jaw is clenched for too long, and my temples are throbbing with pain.

The shadow emerged from the other side of the curtain, took the oil paper package, and ran to either side.

The raidho symbol landed on top of the mooring stone, which is the end of the ferry crossing where boats depart.

The thorn symbol thurisaz was buried at the base of the old brick wall, keeping out anything that shouldn't come in.

The torch symbol kenaz is affixed to the base of the pillar.

The symbol of livestock and wealth, fehu, was pressed under the sacred paperweight.

The symbol of the original cow, uruz, is buried in the heart of the street, bearing the weight of this boundary.

Richard held the last Ansuz, a symbol of words, in his hand.

Richard's [spirit appearance] plummeted from twenty to the bottom, so much so that he felt a sudden darkness before his eyes.

At 4:20, the wind direction changed.

"Here it comes." Mrs. McNeil pulled the moonstone pendant from her sleeve.

The sound of hooves pressed down on the clouds as they passed by.

Thirty or forty wisps of souls surged up from the direction of the ditch, tumbling and crawling, scattering in disarray.

Some were wearing military uniforms, some were wearing work clothes, and one was wearing only one shoe.

They were the ones who ran out from all over tonight, followed by a pack of dogs.

The pack of dogs rushed to the boundary stone.

The front paws were less than half a foot away from the mooring stone when dozens of them braked at once.

The one at the head of the group stepped out from the ranks.

It was a size larger than the others. It stopped in front of the boundary stone and sniffed the raidho on top of the stone.

He looked up again at the pillar of fire, at the balance scales rising and falling beneath it, and at the long beak of the sacred eagle hanging in mid-air, its tip tipping as if recording words.

Finally, it looked at Richard.

Richard's right hand was still in his coat pocket, his fingertips pressing on the tip of the antler that was wrapped with the reins.

That gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, neither confirming nor denying it.

Then, the lead black dog lowered its head toward the direction where Lady Mary was.

He then turned around and led the entire pack of dogs away.

Those thirty or forty scattered souls were still trembling on the paving stones within the boundary.

"Volume 1," Richard called out in a hoarse voice.

The long beak of the paperweight began to move.

The voice from inside the mirror room carried a hint of laughter.

"If the biggest one tonight acknowledges this boundary, the rest of us will have to as well."

It was indeed much easier to walk in the latter half of the night.

The workers were divided into shifts, taking turns sitting down against the wall to have a hot drink.

A young professional fell asleep against the wall and was woken up by Mrs. McNeill with a slap. He had only been asleep for less than two minutes.

At 5:40, the line came to an end.

The fire burned all night, and the flames were still so high.

Richard then remembered to call his shadow back.

It worked behind the curtain all night long.

Wearing a mask, I ran between his two ends, handed him his name, and held up the light on the boundary stone.

At this moment, it was so thin that it was almost translucent, and the black mass had faded into a layer of smoke.

The morning light climbs up from the other side of the ditch, first shining on the top of the pillar, and then sweeping down along the pillar.

As the smear reached the base of the flame, the bronze mask behind the curtain began to change.

First, the two golden wings closed inward, and then two golden snakes crawled down from the mask.

The two snakes twisted together in those dark hands, tightening and stretching.

The ends interlocked and bit together to form a staff about three feet long.

The pair of wings at the top of the staff were folded up, fitting together perfectly.

At the same moment, Richard's Philosopher's lamp was also getting hot.

【Facial glow·Complete】

Hermes's Caduceus

[Current Abilities: Messenger Invulnerability, Extradition (Core abilities not yet unlocked).]

"Your wonder has transformed."

Lady Mary appeared at the backyard gate at some point.

"A marvelous object transforms with the skill of craftsmanship; that was the ruler."

"Among your cohort, there are probably very few people who are faster than you."

Richard, holding the Sphinx lamp, didn't reply.

At 6:10, the light spilled over the roof ridge.

The wind died down, and the fog over the ditch began to dissipate completely, allowing the paving stones to dry one by one.

Far away, a single bugle call sounded.

It was very short, a tune for wrapping up work.

………………

Bone Hill Garden, 4:40 AM.

Gerrard remained standing still.

He thought the horn would return, that the Hunter would eventually come; he had watched the invitation on the gatepost being carved with his own eyes.

He waited.

13 Chelsea Road, 5:00 AM.

The butler stood guard under the porch all night. The oil in the lamp was almost gone. He looked up and glanced at the doorpost.

The tooth-shaped engraving on the left stone pillar has faded at some point.

Rainwater flowed down the groove, and the engraving was so shallow that it was almost invisible, as if it had been erased little by little from within.

The butler rubbed his eyes, thinking he was seeing things.

Bone Hill Garden, 5:50 a.m., a sliver of gray appeared on the horizon.

Gerrard was still standing.

He has spent more nights on the hunting grounds than anyone else in his life.

But he had never defended a battlefield like this before. The ground was covered with the spoils of war that he had personally cleared away. The battle was over, but the one who was supposed to come and collect his spoils did not come.

He looked for inspiration nearby.

The sound of the bugle has completely disappeared.

The Wild Hunt's party left completely and never came this way again.

A hunting dog trotted over from outside the garden wall.

Gerrard's heart leaped into his throat. Here it comes.

The dog ran up to him along the narrow path; it was entirely black.

It circled the old man halfway around and sniffed at his legs.

Gerrard stood ramrod straight, waiting; he had been waiting for this moment for two weeks.

Wait until it recognizes its own scent, wait until it barks out into the night to lure its owner back.

The dog sniffed twice.

Then, it sneezed.

It stepped back half a step, shook off the moisture from its body, and looked Gerald up and down again.

That look lacked the sharpness of a hunting dog spotting its prey; it only held a kind of... bewilderment, as if someone had entered the wrong door.

It turned around and trotted out the other end of the narrow path.

Gerald watched the black tail disappear into the mist outside the garden gate, remaining stunned for a long time.

There was no trace of him on the roster.

He didn't know why, he couldn't figure it out.

Outside Bone Hill Garden, at 6:10 a.m., the milk delivery truck arrived.

The horses' hooves clattered on the wet stone slabs.

The copper bell hanging on the carriage shaft jingled as the carriage swayed.

The milkman huddled in his cloak, placing the milk bottles on the steps at each doorway.

As he passed the rusty door of Bone Hill Garden, he glanced inside at the gaunt old man standing blankly in the center.

He muttered something under his breath and then drove off again.

The ringing had faded into the distance, but Gerrard was still standing in the pit.

The thin line of gray in the east widened; it was already dawn.

Hunters should not see the dawn.

Gerald kept watch for forty-nine years, but never saw the sunrise on the hunting grounds.

The Wild Hunt should have ended before dawn, so that one of them could have gone home alive, while the other could have died in the night.

He got nothing tonight.

He stood in the garden, which was gradually becoming brighter, leaning on his knife.

The mess on the ground was revealed in the morning light.

He made the rags, the broken bones, and the lime, but who was he making them for?

Hearing the commotion outside, he slowly sheathed the knife and hid it in his bag.

A patrol bicycle stopped outside the park gate.

A young police officer in uniform was holding the handlebars and peering into the park.

He saw an elderly gentleman, dressed in a fine hunting suit and carrying a leather bag, standing alone in the middle of a messy cemetery under the fir trees.

The patrol officer hesitated for a moment, but then spoke up.

"Old sir," he called through the gate.

"Do you... need help?"

Gerrard turned his head, and the morning light fell on his face.

He opened his mouth, but for a moment he didn't know how to answer the young man.