I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The question is, what should he write on it?

Write another piece similar to that call for submissions?

But it didn't work out. Actually, he relied on luck this time, which happened to fit the current era.

But he can't expect every paper to fit the historical context; otherwise, it would just become an editorial.

Who wants to read editorials?

As for writing essays, the editor-in-chief of *Northern Literature Review* said that they should be written with sincerity.

But with essays, people might nod as they read, but they'll probably forget them afterward; they don't really stick in their minds.

Richard wanted to be able to take root in the minds of those gentlemen.

He thought for a long time and came up with a political satire that he particularly liked.

He wants to serialize stories about two people.

One of the ministers sat in his thickly carpeted office on the top floor of the Ministry of the Interior, his mind filled with eloquent words about serving the country and its people.

He wanted to do some great things that would go down in history.

The other was his permanent vice minister, a highly educated and seasoned veteran who had been in the game for decades.

His greatest skill was subtly translating those beautiful words into a document that was utterly ineffective.

This minister wanted reforms, while this vice minister just wanted to avoid trouble.

The minister wanted to save face by appearing on the front page of the newspaper, but the vice minister only wanted to have his file remain unchanged.

The two exchanged polite words, their confrontation hidden in their language and administrative measures. Richard tried to write a dialogue like this.

"Mr. Vice Minister, I want to push forward this bill; it concerns justice."

"Of course, you are very wise; it was an extremely courageous decision."

Why do you call this bravery?

"Your Excellency, being brave means that this decision might cost you votes."

"So what's your suggestion?"

"I suggest that a committee be established to thoroughly, carefully, and comprehensively study this matter."

"How long will your research take?"

"Continue the research until you are no longer responsible for it."

Richard chuckled to himself after writing this passage.

After he finished laughing, he was very satisfied and wanted this one.

Those in high positions who read this comedy might laugh, thinking it depicts the absurdities of other departments, other high-ranking officials, or other people.

They laughed while still understanding the author's meaning.

While they may laugh, they might also recall a document they signed last week, or a committee that had carefully studied the matter for years but ultimately failed to reach an agreement.

Comedy is obviously fictional, but the things depicted in comedy can very well be true.

He tentatively mentioned this idea to Montague.

He said he wanted to write something that would make those people laugh at the same time.

The blond youth leaned against the corridor of the training room and thought for a moment.

"You mean... you want them to look in the mirror, and while they're looking, you want them to think that the person in the mirror is someone else?"

"Speaking of which, you've come to the right person. I have an uncle who works in the Ministry of the Interior."

Richard's heart tightened.

Montagu looked at him with a faint smile on his lips.

"These people hate two things the most."

Some people pointed their fingers at him and berated him for being a useless person who held a position without doing any work.

Or someone might write an article, laying out all the things he did in detail.

"My uncle isn't afraid of being directly insulted. He's gotten thick-skinned because so many people have insulted him."

"But he's afraid of the latter kind."

"He can't turn against them, since they didn't insult him."

If you were to come forward and say that this was written about me, wouldn't that be tantamount to admitting it?

He said it and found it funny himself.

"What I'm going to write is the second one you mentioned."

Richard, however, had a very serious expression.

"Um."

Montagu looked at him for a while.

"Williams, you really are..." He shook his head, not finishing the sentence.

"Okay. Write it down and show it to me first. I've seen plenty of people like that since I was a kid."

I'll help you decide which sentences will resonate and which won't.

Montagu gazed at the gas lamp.

"I also want to see what kind of expressions those people will have when they read their own faces."

"I've seen their fake faces on the dinner table at home for over ten years, and I'm already tired of them."

Richard hasn't decided on a name for the new serial yet.

He first wrote "Your Excellency the Prime Minister" on the draft, then crossed it out.

I wrote another piece called "The Cabinet Corridor," but I crossed that out too; it was too literary.

Leave it blank for now; you can come up with a name later. Try writing the article first.

It was late at night, and the oil in the lamp in the storage room was almost gone.

Richard blew it out and sat in the dark for a while.

His mind had already wandered to much farther places.

If the serialization receives a good response, establishes a foothold in "Century Review," and accumulates a group of loyal readers who follow the updates, then the first step has been completed.

It's published one issue at a time, and no matter how many people read it, it's still just a few thousand eyes in the club.

If we have more resources and money in the future, the animation for this comedy will definitely be even better.

Satirical cartoons are still a very novel and eye-catching product in the current empire.

He could have someone draw a picture of the minister, his belly protruding, spouting sweet words, while the vice minister behind him squinted and plotted.

Those who could read looked at the words, and those who couldn't read looked at the pictures. After they finished looking at them, they all remembered those two faces.

It can fit in the newsboy basket below, and it can also be placed on the club coffee table above.

By then, both "Strange Tales Collection" and this comic can be rolled out across the board.

Richard chuckled; he was thinking too far ahead.

Right now, he hasn't even come up with a name yet, and he has no resources, channels, or anyone willing to draw for him.

Eat your food one bite at a time.

………………

Recently, something of moderate importance happened at Imperial University.

The drama club is putting on a new play.

This club usually puts on some outdated stuff.

Shakespeare, Sheridan, and occasionally an adaptation of an ancient Greek tragedy—the same few plays performed year after year for the same audience.

Due to severe staff shortages during the war, the club president changed three times, and they were originally planning to cancel the performances this year.

As a result, a poster appeared on the notice board on March 10th, which read: "The Returnee".

Fisher was the first to see it, and he dragged Richard out of the classroom.

"Original." He pointed to the poster, looking incredulous.

"Can you believe it? The drama club at Beijing University is doing original content?"

When was the last time you created an original piece?

"1891," Fisher answered quickly.

"The play is 'The Death of the School Supervisor,' which satirizes the dean of academic affairs at the time."

"And the result?"

"The dean of academic affairs left halfway through, and the drama club's funding was almost completely cut the following year."

Fisher put his hands back into his pockets.

"For the next 24 years, they never dared to touch original content again."

March 12, East Auditorium of the Petrie Building.

Ten minutes before the show started, Grey peeked out from the crowd.

She was wearing her school uniform jacket, and her cheeks were red from the wind outside.

She tiptoed through the crowd, searching for a while, and her eyes lit up when she saw Richard.

"Richard!"

She bumped into two people as she squeezed through, repeatedly saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

You weren't there on Valentine's Day...

She stopped halfway through her sentence, her face turning even redder.

"Here, take this." She shoved the tin box into Richard's arms.

Richard lifted the lid and took a look inside. There was a neat row of heart-shaped pastries inside, not a single one broken.

I made three batches.

"What about the first two batches?"

I ate the first two batches myself.

Richard picked one up and put it in his mouth.

The icing had hardened, and the almond aroma had faded considerably, but the slight lemon tartness remained in the very center.

"It's delicious," he said.

"Then eat one more."

Richard picked up another one.

The lights went out at that moment.

A gray cloth hanging on the back wall serves as the entire stage.

There were only two lights, shining from the side and casting long shadows of the actors, stretching all the way to the row of open space in front of the stage.

Richard's acquaintances were all there. Fisher, carrying a paper bag, came in and started peeling peanuts.

The prelude was short: a man in a military overcoat knocked on the door, but no one answered.

He stood there, took off his hat, and put it back on.

The first act takes place at the parish office.

"Sir, do you need to prove you are alive?"

"right."

"Who said you're dead?"

"you."

"Then you'll have to prove we're wrong first."

Someone below chuckled.

The clerk opened a very thick booklet and read out a series of numbers.

Tell him he needs a certificate of survival and two witnesses who have known him for more than five years.

He said my wife has known me for eleven years.

The clerk said that your wife had already signed a statement regarding your death, and her current statement is perjury.

The second act is entirely set in an office.

The same two actors changed hats, one after another.

The woolen hat belonged to the pension department, the hard-brimmed hat to the household registration department, and the brimless hat to the conscription office. The audience laughed louder and louder.

The five pounds pension was spent on the funeral expenses.

To be deemed alive, the five pounds must first be returned.

Someone filled his workstation; the woman who filled it was a better worker than him.

The ration book has been cancelled, so he can't buy bread.

In the last room, the clerk took off his hat and poured him a cup of tea.

"I can't help you."

"I know."

"Have you considered..." the clerk pushed the teacup towards her, "that perhaps the information in the brochure is correct?"

The laughter stopped.

The ending is at home.

After setting out the cutlery, the wife put one set away without glancing at the person sitting there.

The family ate their meal and talked.

They talked about how much of the pension was left, whether the frame on the picture above the fireplace should be changed, and that he used to dislike eating turnips.

They used only past tenses.

The man sat at his table and looked up at the photograph on the fireplace.

It's him in the photo.

The lights went out.

The hall remained silent for a long time, so long that someone in the shadows cleared their throat.

Then the applause started, but it was sporadic and scattered.

"I think the form in Act Two was filled out incorrectly."

Fisher was the first to jump out and express his opinion.

"The application for compensation is a Category C form, but the one he's holding is clearly for a change of household registration; the colors are all wrong."

No one responded to him.

"...I was just saying." Fisher pulled his scarf up a little.

Edith remained seated without moving.

"If he can afford a lawyer, the second act won't be able to continue."

"To get a certificate there, you need to ask the town's clerk to write it, and it costs two shillings."

"Two shillings, and my father had to carry twenty bags of flour."

Montagu looked at the empty space below.

"In the last scene, he sat at his own table, and his family surrounded him, talking to him."

The blond youth rested his hand on the edge of the bench.

"It's the same in my family. My brother writes back home and all he says is how good he is."

"We read his letters at home, put them away after reading, and then continued eating."

"It's a pity I can't see it anymore," he thought to himself.

Catherine opened the notebook, wrote a line, and turned it over.

"The accounts cannot be settled; neither side is at fault."

After she finished writing, she closed the notebook and placed it on her lap.

Grey held onto the tin box the whole time.

"I don't quite understand what you're talking about."

"I was thinking that he should just knock on the door first."

"Why are you knocking?" Richard asked.

"If he knocks on the door, his mother has to open it at least once."

After saying that, Grey took out another, even larger box of pastries and handed them out one by one.

Fisher ate three in one go.

Edith held the food but refused to eat it, saying she wanted to save it.

As usual, Catherine didn't eat food from others. Grey pushed the box toward her, and after hesitating for a moment, she took one anyway.

Grey said, "Those made with beet sugar probably aren't very sweet."

Catherine took a bite, then opened her notebook and began to write.

"It's delicious."

After the show ended, people squeezed out through the two narrow doors.

Montagu and Richard walked at the back.

Once they reached the steps, he suddenly spoke.

Have you looked at the program schedule?

"I've seen it."

"The original manuscript was provided by Phillips."

How did you know?

"I know the president of the drama club."

Richard turned his head.

Montagu put his hands into his coat pockets.

"On the fourth day after the funeral, he sent the manuscript to the drama club."

The president said he came in, put his things down, and left without saying a word.

The president chased after him and asked if he wanted his name credited.

He waved from a distance.

Did he come tonight?

Montagu glanced at the two narrow doors.

"The top row, the seats near the door, were occupied for the entire show."

He left before the lights came on.

Richard took a few steps back and pushed open one of the doors.

Half of the lights in the hall were off, rows of benches were empty, and the carpet was rolled up and leaned against the wall.

On the top row near the door, there was a ring of watermarks on the wood.

He closed the door and stepped back.

Grey broke the last pastry in the tin box in half and handed her half.

"The burnt half is for you."

Why?

"Because you said last time that you eat everything."

Richard took the half of the burnt meat.