I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard certainly knew who he should go to at this time.

As I ran all the way to the Petrie Building, I was still thinking to myself:

If that office on the third floor is locked, then there's nothing we can do.

Whether it was luck or not, he heard that familiar hoarse voice before he even reached the top of the stairs.

"Richard, come here."

Professor Mortimer carried a fishing rod in one hand and a tin can in the other, his hat still askew.

"Hold this for me."

The jar was shoved into Richard's arms. There was something moving inside; it was probably bait.

"professor……"

"Someone caught a seven-pound bass across the canal last week, I need to go check it out."

The old professor walked slowly forward, his fishing rod swaying on his shoulder, indicating that he was in a good mood.

"Professor, something has happened on Flower Moon Street."

"Smash the shop?"

"right."

Mortimer didn't even stop walking.

"This kind of thing is nothing new; it's a case that the police should handle."

"If you smash something, pay some compensation. If you can't afford that, publish an apology, and everyone will forget about it in a couple of months."

"Several hundred people burned down two places on the outer street."

"Several hundred people are involved in ordinary civil cases."

"The branch office has also been closed."

"The branch office was never intended to stay."

"Go look at the eighth, ninth, and tenth entries in those booklets; they're all about the storefronts of shops."

Whoever approved that booklet wants something to happen on this street.

"You know about the booklet?"

"My nanny brought one home yesterday." Mortimer raised the tip of the pole.

"She threw it away after reading the fourth one, saying that her child didn't like singing the national anthem either."

Richard stood behind him, holding the white tin can in his arms.

"They're not just going to smash up the shops."

"Oh?"

"They might move that pillar in Donner's backyard."

The fishing rod stopped in mid-air.

Which pillar?

"Fragments of a pillar from a Sasanian Zoroastrian temple," Richard said. "And the fire on top of the pillar."

A pigeon landed on the eaves gutter outside the window, took a couple of steps, and then flew away.

Mortimer reeled in his fishing rod, and the cloudiness in his half-open, half-closed old eyes faded.

"I don't care if the shops are smashed; the empire will handle it itself."

"But if we move that pillar, it won't just be a matter for the street anymore."

Fisher came from the other end of the corridor, still holding his sheet music in his arms.

"Williams! I've got the third edition..."

He stuffed the fishing rod and the tin can into his arms.

"Kid, you hold this for me," Mortimer said. "Don't knock the jar over, or a whole bunch of bugs will crawl on the ground."

"Professor, where...where are you headed?"

No one answered him.

Mortimer had already pulled a thin old book out of his pocket and turned to the page with the bookmark.

"Minutes of the Huayue Street Committee meeting in 1861. That year, they argued for four whole months about who should repair the drainage ditch."

"What's the use of this?"

"The minutes stated the location of the meeting that day."

He tore that page out.

The door at the end of the corridor, which originally led to the stairwell, was flipped over in Richard's spiritual vision.

"Stay close, this old man will have to eat an extra bowl of rice for dinner after this procedure."

On the other side of the door, the pungent smell of smoke filled the air.

When Richard stepped on it for the first time, he found that the ground beneath his feet was covered in shards of glass.

The stone-paved road had everything: copper candlesticks, wooden frames of old picture frames, trampled account books, and half a willow wreath that hadn't been fully burned.

The fire in Donner's shop had been extinguished, but white smoke was still billowing out from behind the roof.

There were a dozen or so people standing in the middle of the street, all of whom were from this street.

Mrs. McNeil turned around and saw Richard. She first frowned, looking somewhat helpless.

But when he saw the old man behind Richard with his hat askew, he froze on the spot.

"...Professor, you've arrived too."

She didn't say it loudly, but everyone still standing on the street heard her.

The old lady raised the lamp in her hand a little higher;

The man who never spoke to anyone took half a step forward from the shadows.

The businesses on this street operate independently, and for decades they have ignored each other.

But they all knew who Mortimer was, and they also knew that this old professor, who never meddled in other people's business, wouldn't have come here for no reason.

Mortimer pushed his hat brim up and looked around.

"It's a complete mess."

Mrs. McNeil sighed, "The teacher is inside and can't come out."

He gestured with his chin toward the antique shop.

"Where's Donald?"

"In the backyard."

"Is the person still alive?"

"While he was alive, he pressed both hands against the brazier and refused to move, and was whipped three times with an iron bar."

Mortimer put his hands into the pockets of his dusty old coat.

"Where's the fire?"

"The fire is still burning."

Richard walked from the doorway to the end of the street.

Number one, Griffin's archives are under trusteeship.

Half of the frosted glass was broken, but none of the metal cabinets inside had been pried open.

Someone slammed the cabinet door seven times, leaving seven white spots.

The unmarked tailor shop number two was half burned down, and an unfinished lining was still lying on the cutting board.

Number three, timekeeping by Brenner clock.

All twenty-seven pendulums stopped, and the old man squatted on the ground, picking up the scattered gears one by one.

Number 5, rt mineral identification, the touchstone broke into two pieces.

Number 7, Donner Antiques and Miscellaneous Items.

Number nine has no sign.

From the outside, there's nothing there; the door is iron, but there's no handle.

There are only three incineration furnaces in the entire capital. Those that the academy refuses to burn, the headquarters dares not burn, and the guilds refuse to record in their accounts are all sent to this one furnace.

As for the remaining few, Richard only had time to glance at each one when he walked over.

The glass shop at number ten grinds lenses that can't reflect people.

An old lady who transcribes scriptures for others lives at number 11.

Number 12 is making a lock, the kind that only recognizes one person.

Number Thirteen is the butcher, who prepares the sacrificial animals for the ceremony. The bloodletting technique was passed down from the highlands.

This street truly has everything, covering all aspects of life, from the mysterious side to everyday life.

But if you take any one of them out of the box, none of them seem particularly outstanding.

On the other hand, the officials seemed to have been waiting all along.

Three cars were parked outside the gate, and the people who got out were wearing clean, dark coats, and their shoes were spotless.

The leader, who claimed to be the deputy director of the Wartime Abnormal Affairs Coordination Office, was also a hunter with some expertise in observing ether fluctuations.

Richard remembers this office was only established last month.

Because his five thousand copies of "The Collection of Strange Tales" were bought by this group of people.

Behind the deputy director were two staff members from the branch offices, and then another person.

The man's scarf was wrapped loosely, hanging down to his chest, and his face was narrow.

The eyes behind the lenses were bright and quick, scanning their surroundings every two steps.

"Associate Professor Corbin." Richard strode forward and gave a slight bow.

"Don't call me associate professor, I'm the technology evaluator tonight."

Corbyn made the corrections without any expression.

"These two roles have separate responsibilities; using them interchangeably is procedurally very sloppy!"

Richard gave an awkward smile and skillfully changed his form of address.

"Okay, Mr. Assessor."

The deputy director stopped in front of Donner's pawn shop and glanced at the broken glass scattered on the ground.

"It's very regrettable, and we are also deeply saddened by what happened today."

As expected of someone from the government, they're adept at this kind of thing. The shopkeepers on Huayue Street present all sneered inwardly.

Donner sat on the threshold, his hands wrapped in cloth, without even glancing at the person who came.

"Mr. Donner, we've come here tonight to help you solve your problem."

The deputy director took a document out of his briefcase.

"We're going to take over that superior artifact in your backyard."

"Take over?" Donald thought the word was quite interesting.

"You could call it: protective takeover," the deputy director added, completing the word.

"This street can no longer be defended today, as you yourself have seen. They will come again tomorrow."

If you leave such an important and rare item here, you might not have such good luck a second time.

"We will register you and issue you another receipt."

"After the war ends, you can use this receipt to apply for its return."

These words fell on the stone pavement, and none of the dozen or so people standing on the street uttered a sound.

They were all seasoned veterans in the business, and they understood exactly how much a piece of paper was worth.

The country's archives contain countless such documents, but very few are ever actually returned, and those that are returned are usually those with powerful connections.

"Mr. Deputy Commissioner," Richard began, "where are you going to send it after taking over?"

The deputy director glanced at him, wondering to himself who this unfamiliar young man was.

He didn't hide anything; there was nothing to hide anyway.

"We're going to send it to the Western Front, that blood-soaked belt that's hundreds of miles long, and they're still building it up every day."

The church's pronouncements couldn't keep up, and the guild's manpower was completely depleted.

The Northern Region's maintenance budget for the sealing off of the area was halved this year, with the entire amount going to the other side of the sea.

"We lack anchor points. Last week I signed a document to remove three 17th-century church bells from Yorkshire."

He spoke these words in a very high-sounding manner, and it was indeed a legitimate reason.

"So, this pillar is useful to us."

"Deputy Director, it will be useless once it gets there."

It was Corbyn who said this.

The deputy director turned his head, his brows furrowing immediately, not understanding why the other party was trying to undermine him.

"Mr. Assessor, your report this morning clearly stated that 'the ether deposits are extremely high, possessing the potential to become a high-value anchor point.'"

Corbyn pulled his scarf up higher.

"I need to correct this; I wrote 'available on-site'."

"I used 'in situ' on the third line of the second page of the report. You should blame your subordinates for deleting that word when they were compiling the summary."

The deputy director did not respond.

"The pillars were ritual objects used in Sasanian fire temples."

Corbyn never gives anyone any face when it comes to his profession.

"The ether deposits on it could not possibly fall from the sky; they were infused layer by layer by the incense rituals of 1,500 years."

You can only move the stones.

"Even a stone can stand up."

"A stone standing upright is still a stone."

Donald slowly raised his head from the threshold.

"Gentlemen, you've been talking about pillars for quite a while now."

"Actually, the most important thing is fire."

The fire was on top of a pillar in the backyard. The flames were only about half a hand's width high, but their color was frighteningly clean, and not a single wisp of smoke rose.

Donner raised his hand, which was wrapped in cloth, and pointed to the pillar.

"My great-grandfather guarded it for forty years, and it has been passed down for a hundred years to this day."

In all these years, we've never once extinguished it.

"The pillars are the temple. If you move the pillars away, the fire will fall to the ground, and the fire on the ground will be no different from the fire I use to boil water on my stove."

The deputy director frowned.

"Mr. Donner, we can take the fire with us. We'll put it in a bronze urn, and there will be troops escorting it along the way."

"How long will it take to walk?"

"Three days."

Who will shield it from the wind for the next three days?

"Who will shield it from the breath of the living? What if one of your escorting gentlemen sneezes on the road?"

"This fire must not touch the ground, must not be blown out, and must not be extinguished halfway."

"This is the rule, it's been like this for 110 years. When my father told me this, I was only this tall."

He gestured with his hand three feet off the ground.

"If the fire goes out on the way, you'll have just carried a pot of ashes across the sea."

The deputy director closed the folder.

I understand how you feel.

"You don't understand."

"The reason why more than a dozen shops on this street have been able to do business smoothly for decades is because of this pot in my backyard."

The old professor, who had been silent all along, slowly spoke up at this moment.

"Mr. Deputy Director."

"...Professor Mortimer?"

The old professor put his hands in his pockets: "Yes, I'm not wearing a rank badge tonight."

The deputy director's expression changed.

"I'll show you something; you can decide for yourself after you've seen it."

"What are you looking at?"

"Let's see what this street looks like after the fire is extinguished."

The old professor made a finger motion in the air.

The fire in the backyard dimmed at the same instant, only for fifteen seconds.

Within fifteen seconds, something inside the row of metal cabinets number one started to push outwards, and the cabinet doors bulged out in the spiritual vision;

From behind the handleless iron door number nine, came a very soft scratching sound of a fingernail.

The locks on number twelve, which only recognize one person, turned half a circle on their own, one after another.

The stone pavement had grown cold.

The young professional behind the deputy director took two steps back, stopping only when he reached the base of the wall.

The fire was lit again, and everything returned to normal.

No one spoke in the backyard.

"Those fifteen seconds," Mortimer said slowly, putting his hands back in his pockets, "were also under my weight."

"If they really wiped it out, they wouldn't be so polite."

The deputy director sat down on the threshold.

He sat next to Donald, the two of them about half a foot apart, but neither of them looked at the other.

After a long pause, he finally spoke: "Professor, I can't go back empty-handed."

He also had to report back to his superiors.

"If I submit a blank paper tonight, a second person will come tomorrow morning, and that second person won't sit on the doorstep and try to reason with you all."

"Then give them a fire," Mortimer said.

The deputy director looked up.

"Divide the fire, leave the old pillar on this street, leave the fire on this street, and light a new pot and take a branch from the old fire."

"You've got the anchor point you needed, and Mr. Donner's temple hasn't collapsed."

"Fire splitting is procedurally feasible," Corbyn immediately added.

"There are precedents in the literature; this process is called..."

Mortimer interrupted him: "It doesn't matter what the procedure is called."

He turned to the deputy director.

"Protective takeover requires approval from a vice minister, while the division of power only requires reporting, and your level can sign off on it."

The deputy director reopened the folder and turned to the last page.

"I can fill out the filing form tonight."

He looked up, and the slight embarrassment on his face had mostly disappeared.

"Mr. Donner, let's divide the fire."

Donner placed his two hands, which were wrapped in cloth, on his knees.

"There are rules for dividing the fire."

"Sixteen different trades, each with its own fire source, are combined into one pot, and the person delivering the fire must cover their mouth and nose with a white cloth."

Corbyn muttered something under his breath: "Padan."

"Yes," Donald said. "My grandfather's generation all wore them."

Mrs. McNeil began counting people in the middle of the street.

She ordered very quickly, from number one to number thirteen, and then stopped there.

"Only thirteen places."

"This street is full of middlemen: valuation, inspection, resale, storage, and destruction."

We are neither involved in human affairs nor skilled in blacksmithing, much less in alchemy.

All three items are outside the wall.

Mortimer chuckled and looked at the person next to him:

"You go ahead?"

"Me?"

Richard pointed to himself, his face full of question marks.