I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard sat up straight in his chair.

He recalled the window sill on the second floor of the Imperial Capital University library two years ago.

The two people who spoke that afternoon are now one on stage and the other in the audience.

As the performance entered its fourth segment, the set changed, and someone in the audience let out a soft "hmm."

The blessed land in the underworld is actually a club.

There were rows of dark leather armchairs, one after another, with one person sitting in each chair.

The walls were covered with enormous oil paintings of hunting attire, one on top of the other.

Phillips walked barefoot, carrying a jug, through the middle of the row of chairs.

There was a man sitting in the chair at the very back. Phillips walked up to him and stopped.

The man put down his newspaper, and the audience was so quiet you could hear someone sniffing.

The man stood up, looked Phillips up and down, and reached out to straighten his askew collar.

He performed that action so skillfully that Richard didn't even realize it was acting.

Then he turned around and pulled a canvas over from the side curtain.

There was a drawing of a ladder leading upwards on the board, and Phillips shook his head.

The man ignored him, took out a paper-cut medal from his pocket, and pinned it to his chest.

The medal fell, I picked it up and put it back on, then it fell again.

There was a few soft laughs from the audience.

The man bent down, picked up the medal, and stuffed it into his son's hand, clenching his fist tightly with each of his five fingers.

Then he raised his hand and pointed upwards.

Everyone in the audience understood: his father wanted him to go back, to climb the social ladder, and to support the family.

Phillips raised the hand that was clutching the medal and shook it.

He took a step forward and opened his arms to hug his father.

The first time, the brims of their hats bumped together.

One of their hats fell off, and the two men bent down to pick it up at the same time, bumping their foreheads together, which made the whole audience burst into laughter.

The second time, he learned his lesson. He took off his hat and put it on the chair before spreading his arms and lunging at her.

For some reason, the person took a step to the side.

He missed his target, staggered half a circle, and only managed to regain his balance by grabbing the back of the chair.

The laughter was still there, but quieter than before.

He didn't pounce the third time.

He walked very slowly, one step, two steps, until he stopped in front of the man, and then very gently clasped his arms together.

The arms were clasped together, but there was nothing in between.

There was not a sound in the theater.

Phillips held that pose on stage for a full three seconds.

Then he lowered his arms, shook his sleeves, dusted off his blouse, turned around, and bowed deeply to the audience.

The entire audience burst into laughter, half of which was choked with sobs.

Richard also felt as if something was gripping his heart.

The last segment was very short, and the stage setting changed again:

There was a child selling newspapers by the lamppost, and several people in a hurry passed by.

Phillips stood under the streetlight, patted his pockets, and found them empty.

He took out the cup, looked inside, turned it upside down, and found nothing in his palm.

He put the cup back in his pocket, adjusted his non-existent hat, and turned up his collar.

Then he left, still with that same spirited gait from the beginning, only now he was missing a shoe.

One high, one low; one limping, one limping, perfectly timed with the drumbeat.

After the curtain fell, the crowd dispersed slowly. The lady to Richard's left remained seated, clutching her handkerchief in her hand.

She only stood up, holding onto the back of the chair in front of her, after the cleaning lady started cleaning up the orange peels in the aisle.

Richard sat in his seat for a while longer.

There were no lines in the entire play, but he understood perfectly what the question was:

Two identical people are standing together. Why should one be taken away and the other left behind?

The person on stage didn't ask anyone.

He turned this line into a performance, letting so many strangers watch it, and then everyone went home without having to answer him.

The answer he sought was in the third row.

………………

Phillips sat at the dressing table, applying oil to his face.

The white powder was wiped off layer by layer, revealing the face underneath.

Richard then realized that the other person had lost a significant amount of weight since two months ago, and their cheeks were almost sunken.

"How is it?" Phillips asked the person behind him in the mirror.

Richard sat down on the stool by the door.

"Very good, no... very good."

Phillips laughed, so much so that the paint on his lips smudged crooked.

He threw the towel into the basin and turned around.

"Where's the wine?"

The two of them sat on the stage while drinking.

All the stage lights were off, except for a work light hanging on the side curtain.

Phillips pulled two teacups from the prop box, one chipped and the other with chalk powder stuck to the bottom.

"These two were used as relics in the movie 'The Returnee' last month."

"The Returnee." Richard looked at him.

Who wrote that play?

Phillips wiped the dust out of the cup with his sleeve.

"Anyway, it wasn't me," he said.

Richard took out the bottle of wine.

Phillips took it, pulled out the stopper, and brought it to his nose to smell.

"Peat, but the quality is a bit average."

Richard replied, "Catherine's original words were that the expensive one is for the professor, and you can take the rest of the bottle and drink it with Phillips."

Phillips poured the wine into the chipped glass.

"She's still the same; even when she doesn't speak, she doesn't show any mercy."

He raised his glass: "To whom?"

Richard thought for a moment and said, "Let's offer a toast to His Majesty."

"Your Majesty," Phillips nodded.

"He vowed never to touch alcohol, so we drank this portion for him."

The two cups bumped together in mid-air, making a muffled sound.

After drinking the wine, Richard was so choked that he coughed twice.

Phillips drank steadily, finishing the glass in one gulp, then placed it back on the table without saying a word.

"How is it?" Richard asked.

"good."

"What's good about it?"

"……burn."

Richard awaits the next installment.

This guy used to be able to spend fifteen minutes evaluating a cup of tea, discussing everything from whether it was fully fermented to the water temperature.

No further updates were received.

"Let's talk about something happier," Phillips said, pushing the glass towards him again.

"You go first, there's always something interesting going on on your end."

Richard said so.

He said about his aunt's sugar jar, and that Sofia stole so much sugar that she couldn't even crack a single crumb from the bottom of the jar.

He said his sister had ruined the meringue cake, and he sat in front of the oven for twenty minutes watching it.

After looking at it, cut it into pieces and announce that it's a new variety called flat cake.

Phillips laughed so hard he leaned back.

Richard then recounted the Earl of Blackburn's booklet.

"That booklet," Phillips said, rubbing the tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes, "the volume that evaluates successful marriage partners. You haven't seen it, have you?"

Richard was somewhat surprised: "Your evaluation?"

"Yes." Phillips slapped the table.

"Constance showed it to me; it's on page eleven."

"What did you write?"

Phillips closed his eyes and recited the menu as if he were a mantra.

"The second son of the Phillips family, eighteen years old, a scholar, mild-mannered, and with a large collection of books."

"They have a very large collection of books; they probably thought about this for a long time before writing it down."

"Aside from this, there's really nothing else to write about me."

"Where is Constance?" Richard asked.

"Come on Thursday."

"Thursday?"

"Every Thursday." Phillips spun the cup halfway around.

"She was in the last row, by the side. After the show ended, she waited at the door without saying a word and handed me her umbrella."

"Don't you usually talk?"

"Actually, I would say so too." Phillips shook his head.

"She told me last week that the transition in the second act was too long, dragging on for half a minute."

He drank the glass of wine.

"I still don't plan to marry someone I don't know."

Richard frowned, about to offer some words of advice, when Phillips blurted out the rest of his sentence.

"However, now that I've met her... we're practically acquainted."

"Richard," Phillips suddenly spoke.

"That thing at the entrance of the hole that morning in Whitby."

Richard stopped, his hand poised to pour the wine.

"It saw two people: my dad lying in the cemetery, and your grandfather growing potted plants in the backyard."

The filament of the work light hummed.

"I'm not complaining about anything," Phillips said.

"It's not that I don't know your grandfather; he's a very nice old man."

"I just want to know, on what basis?"

Richard opened his mouth.

In fact, he has become increasingly adept at telling all sorts of lies over the past year.

Hermes' mask would burn every time he uttered a lie that he himself thought was beautiful, without batting an eye.

This time, he had nothing to offer.

"I don't know how to answer you."

Phillips stared at Richard, his eyes shining brightly after the white powder had been washed off.

"Okay," he said.

"I've already written it into a play."

"If I write it as a play, no one will have to answer me anymore; everyone can watch it and go home."

He lifted the bottle and filled both glasses.

"Don't give me that look. I didn't ask you to give me a father."

Richard lowered his head and drank the glass; he didn't choke on it.

"Oh, right." Phillips took the teapot out of the prop box.

"Drinking only this is too harmful, let me pour you something else."

Richard's [Perception] has reached level 5, enabling him to conduct high-precision observations around the clock.

He noticed that the chipped piece on the spout had been repaired, but the small patch didn't look like porcelain.

"Your pot..."

"They all turn out like this after being raised for a long time."

When Richard finished his drink and was about to leave, it wasn't completely dark in the alley yet.

"I'll walk you to the alleyway," Phillips said, clutching his jug.

"Need not."

"Why are you being so polite with me?"

The two walked out along the narrow alley, and halfway there Phillips suddenly spoke.

"If you're coming again next week, don't choose Thursday."

The carriage was already waiting at the alley entrance.

Richard turned around before getting into the car and found that the back door was already closed.

………………

Mr. Barnaby is 43 years old and is a star actor in the theater, capable of playing several different roles.

"Has Mr. Williams left?"

"It's been delivered to the alley entrance."

"Did he figure anything out?"

"You should have figured it out by now," Phillips said.

Barnaby's pipe stopped in mid-air.

"How much did you notice?"

"You can tell I'm not very talkative."

Phillips turned the pot halfway so that the repaired spout was facing upwards.

"I've experienced his eyes before; they've been watching this pot ever since I poured the first cup today."

Barnaby exhaled the smoke: "That young gentleman is a sensible man."

"He realized it too late," Phillips said.