I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard moved the sugar jar on the table to the side and laid out the intelligence he had collected, one item at a time.

The conclusion was that the enemy country might be planning a chemical warfare attack!

Clara stared at him.

"Where did you get this information?"

"It's hard to say for sure about half of them..."

"Then don't say it."

Richard looked up at her.

"I've been thinking for the past few days about whether I should pass the message up through Professor Mortimer."

He pulled his hand back from the lid of the box.

"But a prep student said, how is the enemy going to fight this battle?"

Richard chuckled self-deprecatingly.

"If I were sitting behind that table, I wouldn't believe it either."

Clara didn't laugh; the flame in her eyes, suppressed by her injuries, reignited.

"I understand."

"What I got in return for my ears, lungs, and damaged trunk was simply stamped and filed away."

Richard remained silent.

"But actually you don't need to worry too much about what's going on above."

Clara then changed the subject.

"The higher-ups already knew."

Richard was somewhat puzzled.

"……Know?"

"I definitely know more than you do."

"Don't think of those in power as too smart, but don't think of them as too stupid either."

Richard sat there, speechless for a moment.

"Well... since you know that, I haven't heard from my grandfather's military connections that anything is going to be done?"

Clara held the teacup in her hands.

"We have the Hague Convention."

"It's not taught in the preparatory course, but only in the second year of undergraduate ritual studies, and even then it's only used as an example."

In 1899, the countries signed a declaration in The Hague.

"You've probably seen the news in the newspapers about banning anything intended to spread asphyxiating gases."

"I've seen it."

That's the other half of the world.

"At the same time, representatives of the mystical side from twenty-six countries also took an oath before a witness."

Richard's breathing slowed down.

"Who are the witnesses?"

"The literature doesn't use names, it only uses the name of the person."

"Those who break this oath will have their territories refuted by the creatures they have released."

The steam in the tea room trickled down the glass.

Clara said.

"You released them, and from the moment you broke your oath, they no longer recognize you."

"If you don't distinguish between your own people and your own, you can be taken over by the other side and sent back."

"So we are not completely unprepared."

Richard remembered something.

"A tradition of fierce winds?"

"right."

"I see," Richard leaned back in his chair, realizing he had been worrying unnecessarily.

Indeed, those above him stand higher and can see further.

Clara picked up her teacup and took a sip.

"Richard, this is not something we two students should be concerned with."

She pushed the suitcase again.

"Keep the machine safe. The condensate in the copper urn is a consumable."

When you're done using it, come to me for a replacement. Don't pour anything else in yourself.

That roll of mesh paper is also specially made; ordinary paper can't withstand the ether. Let me know when you run out.

"Thank you, senior."

Richard picked up the suitcase and weighed it in his hand, then suddenly remembered something.

"There seem to be words engraved on the inside of the brass frame."

When he scanned the machine body with his vision just now, he glimpsed a line of tiny Latin characters engraved on one side of the roller shaft.

Clara tried to act as if nothing was wrong.

"My uncle has a habit of engraving a sentence on everything he makes."

Richard leaned closer to the window and, using the light, tried to decipher the small print.

"quod fugit, teneo. (Whatever has passed, I remain.)"

Richard raised his head.

"Senior, did your uncle pick this line, or did you?"

Clara stirred her teacup, even after it was empty.

"I picked it."

"Scholars always try to preserve, one by one, those things that are hidden or unclear."

"I think this sentence... suits you."

The senior student, who is usually calm and considerate of everyone, was now stuttering as she spoke.

"Thank you, senior."

"You're welcome."

Outside the window, an early swallow flew by.

With its wingtips dampened, it darted into the weeping willow.

………………

The mud in Flanders is alive.

As soon as someone steps on it, the pent-up air on the ground rises up and engulfs the boot shaft, then slowly pulls it down.

Coleman pulled his left foot out and let go of the mud.

"Your boot will stay here sooner or later."

Tucker squatted on the footboard, scraping the soles of his shoes with a willow twig.

"Once the war is over, the locals will dig it up from the ground and maybe even worship it as a sacred object."

"Someone has to write down its origins first," Coleman said.

"I'll write it," Tucker said earnestly.

"Saint Coleman's Boots, martyred at Willow Stump, at the age of twenty-one."

This section of the defense line is called Willow Stump Land because it was a nursery before the war.

The willow branches are planted in rows, and the harvested branches are used to weave baskets.

The ridges are still there, and so are the willow stakes.

Rows of knee-high black logs stood in the no-man's-land, and no one could tell which one was pressing down on a corpse.

The fighting in the south lasted all night, with flares being launched one after another.

This section was unusually quiet; the other side didn't even launch their usual harassing fire.

Coleman lay on the breastwork until nine o'clock.

What he wants tonight is very simple:

He wants those larks to come back tomorrow morning, wants to sleep for two hours, and wants the mouse to come back and bite him.

At 9:15, the communications soldier ran back from the trench.

This communications soldier is eighteen years old, and he always swings his legs too far apart when he runs.

He stumbled as he ran, the rum jug in his arms rattling loudly.

"Sergeant," he gasped.

"There's a dog over there at the trench."

The sergeant was mending socks and didn't even look up.

"What's wrong with the dog?"

"Very big."

"The local dogs are all big; they use them to pull carts."

"It's not moving." The communications soldier's hands were trembling, and the wine jar hit his leg.

"Sergeant, I walked past it and it just squatted there, watching me without saying a word."

The trench made three turns, and a pile of discarded sandbags was stacked next to the exit.

Something was squatting on top of that pile of sandbags.

One flare after another rose up from the south, casting a pale white glow over everything.

But that layer of white just slid across its surface without sticking to it at all.

It was a size bigger than a regular dog, its tail was stuck in the mud, and its front paws were neatly aligned.

It doesn't call out, doesn't move, and isn't in a hurry.

Coleman stood at the edge of the trench, his right hand still resting on his rifle sling.

The instructors at the military academy talked about this. It was a very short talk, no more than two minutes long. After they finished, they turned the page and said that this lesson wouldn't be on the test.

………………

Baldwin stood at the mouth of the moat, his hands in his coat pockets.

"listen to me."

He glanced at his men.

"Don't look into its eyes."

"Don't talk to it."

"Don't go towards it."

The sergeant swallowed hard.

"Sir, what kind of dog is that?"

"A stray dog," Baldwin scoffed.

"The local stray dogs were starving and followed the grain transport team up here."

This statement was addressed to the entire length of the trench.

At one o'clock in the morning, the communications soldier cried.

He cried very quietly, burying his face in his knees, his shoulders trembling as if afraid of being heard, so he was feeling very uncomfortable.

Coleman pulled a card from his pocket and slipped it into his hand.

This is a field postcard, a light yellow one, with a few lines of pre-written text printed on it:

I am in good health.

I have been admitted to the hospital.

I have received your letter.

A letter will be sent out soon.

At the very bottom, there was a line of small print:

Except for those that have been crossed out, all other lines are true.

If any additional words are added, this card will be destroyed.

The communications soldier wiped his face, took the card, and, using the light of the flare, crossed out the lines he didn't need, one by one.

At the very end, only one sentence remained on the card: I am in good health.

At 2 a.m., the black dog began to move.

Coleman kept watching it as it walked.

It would squat down and look around for a while at each spot before moving on.

Coleman understood, and his fingers grew cold.

This dog is counting.

Coleman.

Baldwin squatted down next to him.

"Major."

"You noticed."

"It's not looking at any one person," Coleman said.

The major did not deny it.

"My father once said that this thing is like the weather."

"weather?"

You can't argue with a rainstorm.

"You can only look at the wind direction and choose a high place to stand."

Coleman stared at the dark figure to the south, his jaw clenched for a long time before he finally relaxed.

At 4:20, all lines were on high alert.

Everyone climbed onto the platform, positioned their guns shoulder to shoulder, and no one looked south.

Only Coleman saw it.

That thin line of gray stretched half a meter wider on the horizon.

The boundary between light and darkness is slowly pushing this way from the no-man's land.

The black dog squatted on the boundary line. It didn't get up, but it slowly faded away.

Baldwin put his hands back in his pockets: "Disarm your guard, it's time to serve breakfast."

Breakfast consisted of hard biscuits, canned cured beef, and those two kinds of jam that were never served again.

Tucker sat on the ammunition box and scraped plum sauce onto the biscuits.

"I did some calculations," he suddenly said.

"It squatted in front of the sergeant's footboard for nineteen minutes, in front of the engineer's pit for eleven minutes, and in front of me for six minutes."

"You counted them?" the sergeant glared at him.

"I wasn't asleep, I had to do something."

Tucker stuffed the biscuit into his mouth. "By that logic, I'll live eight days longer than you."

"You've miscalculated." The sapper propped his shovel against the wall.

"When it was crouching in front of my pit, I wasn't in the pit; I was hiding behind you."

"Then my calculations were correct; you took the blame for me for eleven minutes."

"I'll take your responsibility, my foot!"

The communications soldier next to him suddenly burst out laughing.

"What breed is it exactly?" Tucker persisted. "Its build looks like a mastiff to me."

"Greyhound," the engineer persisted.

"People in our area use greyhounds to chase rabbits; they have the exact same build and run very close to the ground."

"Are greyhounds that big?"

"Our greyhounds are that big!"

"Everything over there is bigger than other places."

The sapper coughed, picked up his shovel, and walked back to the edge of the pit.

The sergeant finished chewing the last half of the biscuit and asked Coleman, "Coleman, what do you say?"

Coleman scraped the can clean and looked up.

"I said it was a dog."

"……nonsense."

That morning, Baldwin sat in the bunker for a long time.

A piece of paper lay open in front of him, the pen tip hovering there, not yet falling.

The mailbag arrived in the afternoon.

As usual, Tucker was the first to rush forward and read out the names of the entire platoon.

Coleman's name was read twice.

The first item was a package sent from home, wrapped in two layers of oil paper and tied tightly with rope.

When you open it up, there's a tin box inside. The gingerbread inside is neatly lined with old newspapers, and not a single piece is broken.

The note at the very bottom was written by his mother.

The second item was just a letter.

The envelope had the address of Imperial University on it, the handwriting was neat and the pen strokes were clean.

When Coleman opened it, he rubbed his fingers on the seal twice before tearing it open; the letter was very short.

Tucker peeked over from the side.

Who wrote it?

"classmate."

"Your handwriting is quite nice."

Coleman folded the letter.

At night, he wrote letters in the bunker by the light of a half-burnt candle.

He wrote about how, when he was fourteen, in St. George's, the instructor lectured on this lesson for less than two minutes, and he now wishes he could go back and ask why it wasn't on the test.

It also describes a black dog that doesn't bite, only counts, and then lies down and yawns after it finishes counting.

He also wrote that he threw a needle out, and when it came back, it was completely black.

Write about who reattached his arm, how he hasn't slacked off for months, and that he originally planned to go to the capital...

He stopped writing the last line.

Coleman held the paper up to the candle.

The fire first bites into one corner, and once it has a bite, it won't let go, climbing up inch by inch.

He held onto that last bit of skin until it was burning hot before letting go.

The dust fell on his knees, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.

Then he took out a field postcard and began to draw lines one by one by candlelight.

I've been admitted to the hospital, cross that out.

I have received your letter. I paused for a moment on this line, then left it.

A letter will be mailed soon. (Cross out)

The bottom line of small print remains: If any additional words are added, this card will be destroyed.

The last two sentences on the card read: I have received your letter, and I am in good health.

Coleman flattened the letter on his knees, turned it over, and wrote the address.

He wrote the words "Imperial University" neatly and legibly.