I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Of course, there are also some common problems women have, all of which are caused by neglecting their health over a long period of time.

"Did you notice anything? This is a good opportunity to test how well you've practiced your Mirror Concentration Technique."

Isabella asked with some curiosity.

She knew that the gazing technique could enhance perception.

Of course, classical texts and traditions also have their own unique techniques for isolating and detecting, but she didn't use them in front of her nephew.

Do you often need to put a hot water bottle on your stomach?

Isabella's expression changed.

"you……"

Her expression shifted from surprise to calm as she placed her hands back on her knees.

"Alright, let's begin."

Richard placed his palm on her right shoulder, and the tree of light within the Sun's Throne began to emanate radiant beads.

For the first quarter of an hour, there was nothing.

"That's it?"

"It hasn't started yet."

"I don't feel anything at all."

"It's seeping in."

"How long will it seep?"

"About half an hour."

"I can grade ten papers in half an hour."

"Then you can change it."

"I can't change it, you're pressing down on my shoulders."

Richard didn't reply and waited another fifteen minutes.

Isabella's breathing slowed down, and her neck, which had been tense all afternoon, relaxed a little.

Clara turned a page of the rubbing by the window, and Isabella suddenly sat up straight.

"stop!"

"What's wrong?"

"You said this needs to be saved up, right? How much stock is left?"

"Enough."

"Enough what? Enough?" She turned her head and glared at Richard.

"You have to save these for your sister; these are just minor ailments of mine."

Clara finally spoke up at the window.

"Professor, if you get up again, all those twenty minutes of work will have been for nothing."

Isabella closed her mouth, leaned back again, and closed her eyes as well.

For the remaining half hour, the only sound in the office was the wind blowing through the window.

Just as Richard stopped, the pot of mint was pushed by the wind and stuck to the windowpane.

Isabella opened her eyes and turned her neck.

It spun around twice, stopped, and then spun around once more.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

She picked up the red pen and then put it down again.

"...I haven't felt this relaxed in over a decade."

She looked down at her right hand, stretched out her index finger and then curled it up again.

"You didn't touch this part."

"That's from when you were grading papers," Richard said. "If I erase it, you won't feel comfortable holding a pen anymore."

Isabella stared at the finger for a while; the callus on the fingertip shimmered under the light.

"You've thought of everything."

The next day at noon, Sophia found Richard in the cafeteria with her tray and plopped down opposite him.

Something's happened.

"What is it?"

"My supervisor went home to rest at nine o'clock last night."

She pushed the plate forward and braced herself on the edge of the table with both hands.

"Nine o'clock! I'm going to room 314 to deliver the proofs. The lights are off and the door is locked."

"I thought she was sick, so I went to her dorm room and knocked on the door."

"and then?"

Sofia's expression was very complex.

"She's washing her hair."

Richard lowered his head and took a sip of soup.

She asked me through the door what I wanted, and I said nothing, I just came to see if you were still alive.

"What did she say?"

"She said get lost." Sofia stuck her fork into the potato. "Her tone was actually quite nice."

………………

When the hunter left the team, he didn't tell anyone, and no one in the team asked him anything.

Over the centuries, this team has learned one thing: if you joke around with the hunter and he won't bother with you, but if you try to find out where the hunter went when he's away, you're sure to be in trouble.

The hunter headed south alone, passing over the sea without the troop transport ships leaving trails of waves making a sound.

After circling the lowlands, it made a discovery that made it stop.

The spirit of a young man is still repeating the action of pulling people up from the trench.

The hunter bent down and read a very clean spell, following the path of the Moon Hunter, and plunged down to pull himself back an inch.

The person who performed the injections was clumsy, but the spacing between each stitch was exactly the same, not a single stitch more or less.

This technique was taught to it by someone else; the person who taught it was the same one who prepared hay for it on Chelsea Road two weeks ago.

A thin layer of frost had settled on the hunter's antlers as he huddled his hands in front of the saddle.

Without breaking a sweat tonight, I suddenly found the person the messenger was looking for.

That messenger will definitely look for it, and may come to ask about it later.

If you ask, we can talk.

The first thing Coleman did upon regaining consciousness was to close his eyes and wait, but nothing came after a long time.

He tried to take a breath, but couldn't get any in, and muttered to himself.

"...I don't know if I'll go to heaven or hell. I should be able to go to heaven, since I've saved so many people."

When Coleman opened his eyes, he found there was nothing beneath his feet; below him were the clouds.

He sat on the edge of a saddle, his legs dangling ten thousand feet in the air.

It was paradise, Coleman breathed a sigh of relief.

The procession came from all directions.

When they saw the newcomer, they all surrounded him.

"Received it tonight?"

"It wasn't taken in," said the one holding the reins. "The hunter brought it back himself."

The people surrounding them all exclaimed "Oh!"

Coleman had heard the meaning behind that "oh" in military school.

On the first day a new recruit is assigned to their unit, the veterans can tell from your luggage that you have family members.

"How many did you kill?" A young man wielding an axe pushed his way to the front.

"I didn't kill any of them."

"Not a single one?"

"I'm pulling people up."

The young man took a half-step back in disappointment, then reluctantly leaned back: "So how many did you drag along?"

Nineteen.

"Did you count them?"

"I counted eleven," Coleman said. "The rest were counted by someone else."

"Count for you?" The young man's eyes widened as he turned and shouted into the line.

"Did you hear that?! There are people down there counting for him!"

A buzzing sound came from the line as hundreds of heads popped out.

Coleman later gradually realized that what the team lacked most was fresh topics.

Some people have been following along for six hundred years, and they've already exhausted all the arguments they could have had. Now they're just going to take turns saying whatever comes to mind.

The man in the red coat squeezed through and gave him a very respectful military salute.

The man raised his hand very high, palm facing outward, elbow almost touching his ear.

Coleman paused for a moment, then replied.

He returned the salute in the modern military style, palm down, elbow pressed below the shoulder line.

The woman in the red coat looked crestfallen.

"Is this what you call a military salute?"

"This is the current military salute."

"Why do military salutes these days look so lifeless?"

"The sergeant said that if you turn your palms outward, you'll see the calluses on your palms, which is not presentable."

"Back then, we wanted people to see our calluses!" The man in the red jacket suddenly raised his voice.

"If you don't show people your calluses, how will they know you've carried a gun!"

Someone nearby immediately chimed in, "You get two shillings a day for carrying a gun, how can you not let people see it?"

"What's wrong with two shillings!"

"I earned sixpence a day back then."

"You didn't have shillings back then."

Coleman stood in the middle, turning his head to listen to their argument, unable to get a word in edgewise.

At this point, he gradually realized that perhaps he was not in any heaven at all.

The old scholar took the pen out from behind his ear and wrote a line on the scroll.

Coleman asked tentatively.

"Sir, do you... issue military pay here?"

The pen on the scroll stopped.

"What did you say?"

"Give us money," Coleman said seriously, after all, his family wasn't wealthy either.

"I earn one shilling and three pence a day down there. After deducting food and laundry, I get about nine pence. I'd like to ask how it's calculated here."

The team was in an uproar.

The laughter echoed back and forth, and when it returned, it became: "The new hunter is asking about the army's pay."

The young man wielding the axe laughed so hard he couldn't straighten up in his saddle: "Six hundred years! Six hundred years since anyone asked this!"

"Three hundred and twenty years."

"...You're calculating the year you came in."

The old scholar didn't laugh; he gripped his pen again and answered methodically.

"Accounts are distributed according to merit."

"How is merit calculated?"

"Those who chase the furthest, bite the furthest, and walk at the front to find the way for the team get the most points."

"Did I do anything good tonight?"

"You're the cargo tonight."

Coleman thought for a moment, then surprisingly nodded: "That makes sense."

"...You're quite easy to talk to."

"I was rejected once at military school," Coleman said.

"On the day of elimination, the instructor said that I should never become a clerk in my life, because if I did, I might be asked to do odd jobs."

The old scholar looked at him but didn't respond.

"Aren't you feeling unwell?"

"What's bothering you?"

"You are dead."

"I was told it was all over when I was fourteen," Coleman said, rubbing his back.

"For the next five years or so, I treated it as if it were free, and I was too embarrassed to ask for more when I used it all up."

The laughter in the group had already subsided.

"Besides, I originally thought that if I died, I would go to the spirit world," Coleman continued.

"A good friend of mine once told me what the spirit world is like, and I couldn't sleep that night after he told me."

"It's fine as it is now, and there's still something else we can do."

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Coleman said honestly. "Anyway, it's better than being soaked in water alone."

The old scholar lowered his head and wrote another line on the scroll.

"What's your name?"

Coleman.

Full name.

Coleman gave his full name.

The old scholar wrote it down.

"Say your mother's name again."

Coleman opened his mouth, but it took him three seconds to remember the name.

Three seconds isn't much, but it was enough for him to realize something was wrong.

The old scholar tucked the pen behind his ear, turned, and left.