I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Rewind to before the poison gas spread; Richard was looking at his recently maxed-out skills.

[Perception level 4, progress 100%.]

[Perception] To advance to level 5, the condition is to escape the lock of those of higher rank without relying on outsiders or hidden artifacts.

But then again, the previous one hadn't actually locked onto him.

Just as I was falling asleep, I turned over because someone read something they shouldn't have, drawing my attention in this direction.

But after moving it for a short while, it was moved again.

Richard closed the panel.

If he were truly locked down, what awaited him might be something far more troublesome than simply dying.

The two professors couldn't reach it, Mrs. Mary couldn't reach it either, and my grandfather certainly couldn't reach it.

After thinking it over, he decided to start the bookkeeping process again before the Wild Hunt.

Mrs. McNeill came to the door the following evening.

She was carrying a basket, and as soon as she entered, she put the basket on the table. Two balls of yarn and a needle rolled out of the basket.

"Your maternal grandfather called me and said he was worried about you."

She took off her shawl and casually draped it over the back of the chair.

"Although I said last time that I could let you work as a secretary independently, you are not currently at Imperial University and there is no sealing array, so the situation is different."

"And the teacher said she was worried about you and asked me to come and check on you."

She looked up at Richard, then nodded.

"Same old rule, you walk in yourself, I'll hold the line here, and if you can't get out, I'll reach out."

Richard arranged the items one by one.

Grey-flowered grass, poppy shell, bay leaf, and lichen.

He can now prepare these four ingredients without looking at the paper; he can tell the amount just by touching them with his fingers.

"Turn the light down a bit," McNeil said.

"If it's too bright, you can't see the way; if it's too dark, you won't be able to find the door when you come back."

After she finished speaking, she started knitting on her own, the two needles clicking between her fingers, looking very skilled.

I just don't know who this was made for.

Richard gripped the pen and closed his eyes.

Within minutes of the herbs being applied, the four corners of the room began to slowly fade, covered by a layer of something thicker than water.

The wellhead was right beneath his feet, and he was now more skilled at diving than the previous two times.

When inspiration reaches the shallowest layer, your hands start moving on their own.

The first thing they pulled up was the accounts; someone owed the butcher a shilling and four pence, and never paid it back before he died.

The second one is half a lullaby, which stops after counting to 7.

The third thing was a woman who kept repeating the same sentence: "I still have water boiling on the stove."

The fourth item was a house number, which was read over and over again, but in the end it was read as something else entirely.

It's all just mundane, everyday stuff.

Richard shifted his inspiration a bit deeper.

The direction across the sea should have been the noisiest. Before the Mons evacuation, he retrieved tens of thousands of years' worth of tightly packed "Don't let me die" chants, so dense they covered several pages of paper.

Months passed, and the number of spirits increased day by day, and the list in the newspapers grew longer and longer.

But now there's nothing in that direction, the sounds are all there, but they've all been pushed away.

He peered in that direction a few more times.

On the third time, Mrs. McNeil stopped needlework.

"return."

I'll count to three.

She changed how she held the two needles.

"One, two..."

Richard wisely opened his eyes.

A dull pain first came up from the back of his head, and he leaned on the edge of the table for a while to recover.

The paper was filled with writing. He looked down and read it line by line, his brows furrowing more and more as he read.

"What? Didn't you find anything good?" Mrs. McNeil started knitting again.

"It's alright."

"Then why do you look so pale?"

Richard pushed the two pages aside; they were so clean, as if someone had wiped them down with a rag beforehand.

Mrs. McNeil had put the needle away at some point and was now examining his pale face.

"Don't you students remember to eat?"

"I've been very busy these past few days."

"Even when you're busy, you should still eat."

She pulled out an oil paper package from under the basket, opened it to reveal a piece of hard bread, and shoved it into his hand.

"Is this edible?"

Richard tapped the hard object in his hand.

This thing seems to be called "big bread," and it's not the kind of bread from later generations that's mixed with various nuts, raisins, and butter.

The one I have is the most primitive kind.

"Why can't I eat it?" Mrs. McNeil put her shawl back on, looking displeased.

"This is the teacher's favorite food; she said it reminds her of her grandmother."

She walked to the door and then turned back.

"Remember to soak it in milk; if you chew it dry, your cheeks might swell up."

The door closed behind her.

Richard stood there for a while, holding the brick-like object, smiled, and placed it on the windowsill.

Then he sat back down at the table and flattened the two pages he had retrieved.

Clara, his senior, talked to him about the Hague Convention in the tea room that day.

Those who break this oath will have their territories forfeited.

Over the past two years, he's been reading ciphertexts until his eyes are blurry, but he's come to understand one thing:

Anything that can be written down will inevitably be interpreted in a second, or even a third, or more ways.

Contracts are meant to be broken.

………………

Six kilometers east of Langemark, half of the monastery was destroyed by artillery fire.

But the cellar is still intact, with the iron nails that used to hang the crucifix on the wall now holding maps and windproof lamps.

Professor Hohenheim sat at the far end of the long table.

He is 72 years old this year and is a scholar with a great mastery of the furnace tradition. His public identity is that of a famous chemist.

This month is also the promotion he has been preparing for for a long time.

A piece of paper was spread out on the table.

"Read it again," Hohenheim said.

The legal officer pushed his glasses up his nose.

The military uniform was borrowed; the sleeves were too long, and the shoulder line didn't fit properly.

"The contracting parties agree not to use projectiles whose sole purpose is to disperse asphyxiating or toxic gases."

"Stop," Hohenheim said.

"The last word."

"Geschosse (projection)," the counsel said, repeating the word on its own.

"Where is the French text?"

"projectiles".

"Albion Text?"

"projectiles".

Hohenheim leaned back.

"The three texts actually represent the same concept."

The legal officer nodded.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to express: an object that is given an initial velocity and is thrown out, then falls to the ground in a parabolic trajectory."

Someone coughed dryly in the cellar; it was an engineering captain.

Hohenheim ignored him.

"Were our things thrown out?"

The legal officer turned the paper around so that everyone at the table could see it.

"Of course not, the gas cylinder is buried under our wall."

When the valve is opened, the gas will flow out on its own; it will not have an initial velocity or a parabolic trajectory, and its landing point will not be controlled in any way.

"It's the wind that can carry it to the other side."

"The wind didn't sign that oath, so it's naturally not a party to the agreement."

The cellar fell silent, and the flame of the windproof lamp flickered.

The engineer captain spoke, his right hand wrapped in bandages.

"Officer, even the legal scholars on the other side know this trick of yours."

The legal officer took off his glasses and wiped them with his sleeve.

"Of course they know, but they won't realize it until they suffer the consequences."

Before that, they would keep to their motto, which they've been repeating for so many years: "Go and set up defenses."

He put his glasses back on.

"The Albion people have an almost pious trust in documents."

This is their strength, and also the only part of them that can be pried open with fingers.

"How much protection do you think their troops have?" Hohenheim asked.

The legal officer answered bluntly: "Zero, they haven't even issued a cloth to cover their face."

Why?

"Because issuing it is tantamount to acknowledging that this will happen."

The legal officer put the paper back on the table.

"To admit it will happen is to admit that the oath is unreliable, and they will not be willing to admit it."

Hohenheim finally laughed.

"Officer."

"You haven't told me about the mystical side yet."

When the mysterious side was mentioned, everyone in the cellar slowed down.

Hohenheim placed his hands on the table.

His hands were exceptionally clean, with hardly any wrinkles, unlike the hands of an elderly person over seventy.

"Are you afraid of anything involving the mystical side?"

"Of course I'm afraid," the legal officer readily admitted.

"I've scrutinized the wording of many contracts in my life. The worst outcome of scrutinizing the wording of a steel mill was that I lost my professional license."

"But if I nitpick over the wording of that person, I don't even want to think about the worst possible outcome."

Hohenheim nodded and revealed, "Then I'll tell you something you might not know."

他 说:

"The witness in that room simply gave his testimony; he neither signed nor altered anything, nor did he explain any of the clauses. He listened and then left."

Hohenheim released his grip.

"It is neutral, a witness who only listens and does not speak, and from now on, it will only acknowledge the literal meaning."

The windproof lamp in the cellar shook again, and this time no one spoke.

Hohenheim stood up and walked to the map on the wall.

There was an 8-kilometer-long line drawn with a red pencil, with a row of small squares densely marked on the line.

"Captain, please repeat it."

The engineering captain squeezed the gauze into his palm.

"All 5730 gas cylinders have been installed."

"What are our exact casualty figures?"

The engineer captain answered mechanically.

"When the Second Engineer Company was dealing with the situation, a valve froze and cracked at night."

The wind was blowing from the southeast at the time, and of the 141 men in the company, only 53 managed to evacuate.

"In the last section of the trench, the company commander gave his wet cloth to the messenger."

"What happens next?"

"On April 11, a bomb site was breached by a grenade from the opposite side, and none of the dozen or so people on duty at the time were able to escape."

Hohenheim remained expressionless.

155 people.

The engineering captain corrected him: "It's 157. Two others didn't make it in the hospital."

"Put it in the account."

The engineer captain's face flushed red. He took half a step forward, and blood began to seep through the gauze.

"What do you mean by putting it on the tab? They're not the labels you stick on the bottles."

Hohenheim turned around and looked at him.

There was no anger in those eyes, nor was there any apology.

"It involves the esoteric knowledge of my rank, which you probably won't understand, and I don't intend to explain it all."

"I'm just telling you this: if I want to take the next step, I have to do something that no one has ever done before."

"This matter must be so significant that the entire curtain will remember this moment."

The legal officer spoke up from across the table.

"Professor Hohenheim".

"In your tradition, would that master acknowledge this?"

Hohenheim blew the dust off the lampshade.

"Of course not."

"If the one sitting on the tree trunk knew that I, a master of such knowledge, wanted to advance through this method, He would probably just pick up the shears in His hand."

"And you?"

"So I don't wait for Him to cut it."

Hohenheim pressed his hand against the lampshade; he didn't feel hot at all.

"I can cut myself off."

At this moment, most people in the cellar were unaware of the immense weight of those words.

Only the legal officer slowly took off his glasses.

"Are you prepared to break with tradition? That's a very risky move."

"I know."

Hohenheim shook his hand.

"There are advantages to overcoming challenges; the road ahead will be wider."

Of course, he wouldn't tell these people about the more fatal flaws here.

He looked up at the stone steps leading to the top of the cellar.

The wind was already picking up outside, and on the remaining walls of the monastery, a few wild grasses growing from the cracks in the bricks were leaning southeast.

"What about the weather?"

A lieutenant walked down the stone steps.

"Northwest wind, speed 3-4 meters per second, should stabilize after nightfall."

Hohenheim glanced at the engineering captain again.

"Captain, withdraw all your men from the front 100 yards before sunset tomorrow."

"Yes."

He sat down again and continued reading the article.

Upon reading that word, he lightly scratched the paper with his fingernail.

geschosse, projectile.