I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The person in charge of the office window in the training room has changed.

The old clerk was transferred to the quartermaster department to help out, and the person who took over was a retired soldier with a limp.

"Room 3, two hours." The man drew a line on the duty roster on the wall.

"Gas will be supplied by the hour this month, and lights can only be turned on halfway."

"Half is enough."

Richard didn't argue, took the sign, and walked down to the ground.

He walked confidently to room number three, which was at the very back.

After the iron gate was locked from the inside, the few footsteps in the corridor were completely swallowed up by the inscriptions on the wall.

He turned the lights down to their lowest setting and sat down in the center of the room.

The panel is lit up.

[Perception level 4, progress 100%.]

Available points: 3.17.

He managed to evade the detection of an expert in the unlock conditions section.

Richard was somewhat disappointed by the idea that extra rewards would be given for not exceeding skill requirements.

[Perception and Reflection: When stationary, it is more difficult to detect itself in the opposite direction, and it can reflect probes thrown by others as if they were still present.]

The hunter is the knife, the hermit is the net, and the scholar is a lamp behind the curtain.

How can someone who carries a lamp live a long life? The answer is today.

He put two dots in.

[Perception level 4 → 5.]

Available points: 1.17.

Nothing surged up; only the direction changed.

[Quiet Observation] is a one-way glass; people outside cannot see inside, but the person inside can still look out.

Now, a layer of mercury has been applied to the back of this glass.

Richard remained seated, first summoning his shadow from behind the curtain.

"Detect me."

The thought was passed on, and the black mass hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do.

It wasn't until he attached the [Sentinel] to the shadow that the perception, condensed into a single line, reached out and pointed directly at his chest.

The moment the line touched him, it went back.

The shadow's outline froze instantly, and it leaned back.

Through the wisp of spirit embedded in its body, Richard could sense that the probe had only read a blank.

A clean, quiet ethereal background noise, just like an empty room.

Richard frowned.

This is the default value for this advanced trait; when reflected, it will appear as blank.

That's exactly where the problem lies.

If a room has all its windows covered with black paper, passersby won't think that no one is in the room; they'll just think that something is wrong inside.

A living person standing here, probing past and reading nothing, is more dangerous than actually reading something.

He studied the explanation again: it reflects the original image.

What is meant by "original"?

That water is his own water, and what it reflects is entirely up to him.

Richard closed his eyes, pressed the condensation method to the most stable line, and began to write on the water's surface.

He was writing a file.

I'm almost eighteen, and I've been working in this field for a year.

The Ether Circuit is a family heirloom; I'm of average ability, only enough to support five or six ordinary spells.

He can master the Stone Armor, but it's not very thick; he can master the Moon Nail, but his aim is only average.

The breathing method was only switched from this year due to the change in humidity, and the microcirculation hasn't been properly adjusted yet.

He wore a low-level artifact on his chest, its depth so shallow that it could be seen through at a glance.

Finally, he deliberately left a few rough edges:

The ether flow in the rib area is not smooth; there is a branch path that is chronically undersupplied, and its end is dark... If it's too clean, no one will believe it.

"Let's explore it one more time."

This time, the shadow read out a stranger's name.

A seventeen or eighteen-year-old, newly registered author, mediocre student who hasn't slept well these past two days, is a preparatory student in the Department of Classics.

The shadow circled him twice, its tentacles extending and retracting, and it took a while for its core to recognize itself again.

Richard apologized to it in his heart, then took out a small piece of scrap material from the hidden compartment and threw it over.

The shadow carried it away, glancing back at him as it went.

Next, we will examine the ether layer.

You can deceive people about what they can see through their psychic abilities, and you can also deceive them about what they can touch through their intuition.

The etheric layer is the most difficult to forge, so those who want to probe themselves rely on it the most.

Richard took the rubbing machine that Clara had given him out of the canvas bag.

He pulled out the roll of the special grid paper and let the shadow probe again.

With a turn of the handle, the condensed liquid seeped along the silver threads onto the back of the paper.

The first picture shows the result of his previous work on an empty water surface.

There was nothing on the paper; it was completely white.

This machine can even press out characters from stone tablets that are two thousand years old.

The second one was after he finished writing it, and this is the rubbing that appeared on the paper:

One of the branching paths on the loop is awkward, and the end of it is dark.

A small, almost invisible mark on the corner was that low-level artifact.

Richard placed the two sheets side by side under the lamp and couldn't find anything wrong with them.

The advanced trait [Reflection] was originally intended to deflect other people's gazes back, making the other side suffer.

But he soon realized that the idea was a bit silly, especially at the lower and middle levels.

As Lady Mary once said: If the other side doesn't find it interesting after watching, they'll just turn around and leave.

Last month, the Black Soil River expert casually took a picture of him.

If he had bounced back then, what would have bounced out?

If an expert gets pricked by a practitioner, at most their skin will itch a little.

After the itch subsides, you'll definitely look down to see what pricked you.

If it's a mosquito or a flea, I'll just pinch it to death.

Before finishing his work, Richard thought that this forged file would have to grow along with him.

Otherwise, if three years pass, others will find that this person hasn't changed in three years, which would be even more suspicious than if they couldn't read the words in the first place.

He added a line in the corner of the paper: Update once per quarter.

I laughed when I finished writing it.

To forge a document, one must periodically return to add page numbers.

Leaving the training room, Richard carried his canvas bag upstairs and bumped into Montagu coming down from the opposite side as he reached the corner of the stairs.

"Williams." The blond youth raised the scroll of lecture notes in his hand.

He didn't rudely scan Richard, but he sensed a change in the etheric fluctuations emanating from the other man.

"...Your mirror breathing technique has improved again?"

"A little bit, I guess." Richard wasn't lying.

"How long has it been?" Montagu stared at him for two seconds.

But he never pries into things; that's not polite.

The blond youth tucked the lecture notes under his arm and leaned against the armrest.

"Perfect timing, there's something I'd like to tell you."

"What?"

"About Phillips."

"Oh?" Richard raised an eyebrow.

"My uncle, who works at the Ministry of the Interior, came to our house for dinner a couple of days ago."

He said that although the position of chief inspector had been filled by someone else, the eldest Phillips brother had also been promoted and taken over some of his father's work, keeping him extremely busy.

"Phillips now spends three afternoons a week in his older brother's office."

Montagu smiled.

"He learns very quickly, and it's said that he now does better filing than other documents."

Richard did not respond.

"There's one more thing I'm not so sure about," Montagu said.

"Someone at the Royal Academy saw him on the theater posters, and he was in the cast list."

"He became an actor?" Richard was genuinely surprised this time.

"I don't know," Montague shook his head. "I don't really like going to the theater; it's just what other people tell me."

The stairwell fell silent.

"Williams," Montagu suddenly spoke.

"Um."

"After my brother passed away, it took me a long time to accept it and I went through the letters he sent back."

"But Phillips... he's already thinking about taking the stage so quickly."

After saying that, the two of them didn't exchange another word until they got back to their dormitory building.

The following evening, Richard received Phillips' reply at the mailroom.

There was no envelope, just a playbill folded three times squeezed in.

The paper was so rough it crumbled, and the back was covered with writing in pencil.

The flowing, flamboyant handwriting was consistent with the gold-embossed invitation from last year.

Richard studied it by the light for a while before he could piece it together into human language.

"Don't come to my house, it's not convenient there right now."

Come to the Apollo Theatre at the corner of St. Martin's Lane at 3 p.m. on Saturday.

I walked through the back gate, gave my name, and the doorman recognized me.

Remember to bring your own wine; I have some glasses here.

There was one last line, written even more hastily than the previous ones.

"Come and see my show while you're at it. You don't need to buy a ticket; I'll arrange for you to sit in the third row."

That spot has the best view; I specifically reserved it.

Saturday was a beautiful day, almost too beautiful.

The carriage turned into Saint Martin Lane, and the noise was suddenly silenced by the wall.

The Apollo Grand Theatre stands in the middle of the alley, with posters pasted between two pillars.

The top one is for conscription, and below the conscription poster is today's show.

Going Downstairs

A pantomime scene.

Screenwriter: Anonymous.

Starring: Actor F.

When Richard saw that letter, he remembered that he was going to adopt the pen name "Mr. L".

Standing in front of this rough paper, I suddenly realized that there are probably more people in this world who want to hide themselves with letters than I think.

There's a line of small print at the bottom corner of the poster, so small you have to look closely to see it.

"This play has no dialogue, therefore there is no script available for review."

Richard laughed out loud.

The backstage entrance is in a side alley, and an old doorman with half a thumb missing sits at the door.

"I'm looking for actor F."

The old man pointed inward with his half-thumb.

"Go upstairs to the second room on the right. They're applying makeup to someone's face inside. Be careful not to touch their powder."

The backstage corridor was piled with props on both sides, and an unpainted wooden horse leaned against the wall with Christmas ribbons hanging from its mouth.

The door to the second room on the right was ajar.

Richard pushed the door open a crack, and inside, the person was applying whitening powder to their face in front of a mirror.

He recognized the face, yet he didn't quite.

The eyebrows were painted off, two lines were drawn under the eye sockets, and the corners of the mouth were hooked upwards.

His entire face was deathly pale.

"Sit down." Phillips glanced at him in the mirror, his hands still busy.

"The show starts at 5:30, so there are still 40 minutes left."

"I brought the wine."

"Put it there for now, I have to go on stage later."

Richard placed the cloth bag on the corner of the dressing table and stood leaning against the door frame.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I suddenly came to find you?"

"We haven't been in touch for so long, it would be strange if you didn't come."

Phillips changed his pen.

"Maybe even after I die, you'll have to open my coffin to see if it's real."

Richard was speechless.

"Alright." Phillips put down his pen and gestured to him from the mirror.

"Let's talk more after you've watched my show."

"Why do I have to watch the whole thing?"

Phillips then turned around.

The white-painted face stared at him, expressionless for a long while.

"Because I don't want to say it myself."

The venue was quite full.

The officers on leave made up a small portion of the group; some still had bandages wrapped around their arms and had their military caps on their knees.

A few little girls in the front row were peeling oranges together.

To Richard's left was an empty seat occupied by an elderly woman.

She wore a plain black dress and a black jade mourning brooch on her shoulder.

The orchestra pit only contained a piano, violin, and drums.

As the lights dimmed, Richard recalled an old story.

Hamlet once performed a silent pantomime for his uncle in order to ask a question that he could not ask aloud in front of the court.

The curtain rose, revealing a set so simple it was almost haphazard.

A hat was draped over the chair on the left, but the chair itself was empty.

Actor F walked out from the side of the curtain.

The top hat was a size too small and stuck on top of his head;

The coat was two sizes too big, and the cuffs reached down to my knuckles;

He had no cane in his hand, but was carrying a teapot.

The audience in the theater burst into laughter immediately.

Phillips began setting the table, two sets.

After arranging them, step back two steps to check; if they're not aligned, go back and move them.

Even after moving them and then moving them back, they still weren't aligned.

The third time, he simply took out a folding ruler from his pocket and leaned over the edge of the table to measure the distance between the cutlery.

The audience laughed heartily at this part: one person was waiting for another to come back for dinner, and got so bored that he started measuring the distance between his knife and fork.

The clock was ticking, and the piano was still playing that light and cheerful tune. It wasn't until the second or third time that there was a knock on the door.

The telegram delivery boy ran onto the stage, handed over a card, saluted, turned and ran, bumping into the door frame at the side of the stage and tumbling over.

A sigh of relief and laughter filled the room.

The short man held the card up to his eyes.

The audience couldn't see what was written on it, and actually, they didn't need to.

After reading it, he folded the card in half and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Then he walked to the table and put away the set of cutlery on the left.

He cleaned everything up thoroughly and even used his sleeve to smooth out the tablecloth.

The meaning is clear: that person is not coming back for dinner, and will never come back.

The lady to Richard's left covered her mouth with a handkerchief.

As the performance entered its second phase, the wallpaper on the back wall suddenly lit up, indicating that someone was shining a light behind the curtain.

Two people walked out of the stage, and they were dressed exactly the same:

The same black coat, bowler hat, and umbrella rolled up straight.

They are about the same size and walk in similar ways.

Then, a silhouette of a "black dog" appeared on the back wall, its tail pressed against the ground as it squatted upright.

The "black dog" swayed against the wall, first looking at the one on the left, then at the one on the right.

They watched very slowly, so slowly that some people in the audience started coughing uncomfortably.

Then the black dog got up and went to the right.

The person on the right followed.

The man on the left stood there for a while, took out his pocket watch to check the time, whistled, and left the stage from the left.

The entire room fell silent.

The meaning is clear: two identical people, one was taken away, and the other went home for dinner, with no reason given in between.

Phillips lunged forward, but he was stopped by a red velvet rope.

A uniformed doorman was standing there, holding a rope with both hands, his face expressionless.

Phillips tried to crawl under, so the doorman lowered the rope.

He wanted to step over from above, so the gatekeeper raised the rope.

He went left, and the rope went left; he went right, and the rope went right.

This segment lasted a full minute, and the audience was laughing so hard they were doubled over.

Richard did not laugh.

As the performance entered its third segment, the stage setting changed, and the musicians played the piano in a manner reminiscent of the clattering sounds heard under a train carriage.

Phillips walked to the ticket window and held up two fingers.

He pointed to the ground first, then to the top, making the gesture twice.

The meaning is clear: he wants a round-trip ticket.

The ticket seller shook his head and pushed a ticket out of the window.

Phillips held it up to look.

The light shone on the cardboard, which was printed with the words "one-way ticket".