I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The two golden snakes stopped moving once they reached Richard's ankles.

He looked down and found that his shoes hadn't changed; they were still the same old boots with worn-out heels, and there was nothing extra on the uppers.

Two very thin gold lines appeared on the outside of the boot shaft, with the snake's head biting its own tail and its body pressing down against the ankle bone.

On the heel, a small wing grew out on each side.

It's very tight, clinging to the boot shaft, so that unless you look closely, you can just mistake it for a shiny mark from wearing it for a long time.

Seeing Richard standing still, Casalis asked from behind the white cloth:

"Mr. Williams, are you standing still because you've thought of some solution?"

Richard pulled up the condensation mirror technique.

The shattered glass, charred wood, and half-collapsed roof ridge in this area were all reflected in the water.

Although it is an inner street, it is still the material world. Ether certainly exists, but it is so scarce that it is almost intangible.

That pillar of the fire god temple suppressed all the unclean things, which is why it exists here.

Well, even though ether is scarce, there is still some left.

Richard pushed the ether down the inside of his right leg, down to the two small wings on his ankle, and the wings immediately flapped.

But no one would notice, which is exactly what Richard wanted.

If they really put on some grand spectacle, it would cause too much of a stir.

Richard felt as if something suddenly lifted up his feet.

He lifted his left foot and took half a step towards the pit opening, only to find himself stepping on nothing but air.

"Good heavens!" Casalis gasped behind him.

Richard didn't turn around; he held the lamp in his right hand level and walked forward.

He walked very slowly, his feet barely touching the ground, so the stone slabs wouldn't shake him.

He doesn't need to step or jump; his body doesn't move at all.

The small flame inside the lamp stood upright, barely flickering from beginning to end.

At that moment, Richard suddenly connected the "messengers cannot be harmed" inscription on the double serpent staff with the flying shoes on his feet.

The messenger god only needs to deliver the goods; he holds the scepter to deter people from stopping him; and the flying shoes prevent all kinds of hardships and dangers on the road from becoming obstacles.

He quickly landed on the other side of the pit, placed the lamp on a clean brick at the base of the wall, and then turned back.

On his second trip, he took the lamp from Casalis's hand, and on his third trip, he took the bronze urn from Clara's uncle's arms.

The old craftsman didn't immediately let go, but looked him up and down through the white cloth.

"You, a practitioner, have mastered the levitation technique so quickly?"

"Yes."

"Not bad, kid. Even a mediocre craftsman like me needs creation to carry me so I can fly."

The old craftsman retorted somewhat defiantly.

He finally let go and placed the heavy bronze urn into Richard's arms.

"The item is a bit heavy; I thickened this bronze urn myself."

After the three fires cleared the pit, it was the people's turn. This was even easier. Clara's uncle took three steps back, ran up, and leaped over.

This short distance was nothing more than a small pit under his feet; he landed on the other side without even bending his knees.

Casalis was not so dignified.

This person does not appear to be a practitioner of the mystical side.

He stood on the edge of the pit for a long time, tucking the hem of his coat into his suit trousers, somewhat hesitant.

"Mr. Williams, the last time I jumped this far was more than ten years ago when I was tested on the standing long jump on the school playground."

Did you pass the test?

"I met the standard, but I fell flat on my backside in the sandpit and my ankle hurt for several weeks afterwards."

The man rushed over with his eyes closed, swinging his arms wildly in the air.

When I landed, my toes missed the mark, and I started to lean backward.

Richard grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up from the edge of the pit.

The old craftsman pursed his lips and didn't offer a single comment.

The three of them started walking towards their destination. There were still broken pieces of glass scattered on the ground from yesterday, which made a crunching sound when they stepped on them.

The goods were delivered, and the fire was given to Donald.

Clara's uncle tore off the white cloth covering his mouth and nose and casually stuffed it into his pocket.

"Don't look at other people's fires."

Richard understood. There are taboos in this line of work. It's the same principle as a butcher not going into someone else's slaughterhouse or a locksmith not looking at someone else's lock cylinder.

"Let me see you out."

The cordon rope on the outer street was still in place, and two policemen were pacing back and forth behind them.

A girl was waiting outside the rope; the evening breeze in May was still a bit chilly.

The girl had her hair down and was dressed very lightly.

"Uncle."

She saw a man emerge from the doorway, his large, dark brown eyes scanning her uncle from head to toe before settling on Richard.

"Have all the items been delivered?"

"It's been delivered."

The old craftsman suddenly patted Richard on the shoulder and pulled him towards the wall.

"What's wrong, sir?"

"I'm telling you..." the old craftsman said in a low voice, "I don't approve of your relationship with Clara!"

Richard was somewhat puzzled.

"What exactly happened?"

You know the truth in your heart.

"I really don't know."

The old craftsman glared at him: "That rubbing machine."

He sneered, "The Latin phrase that was carved was chosen by Clara herself. I gave her the chisel to carve it, and if I made a mistake, she would make me wipe off the material and carve it again."

He stared at Richard.

"That child didn't go home after recovering from his illness; he went straight to school. Why do you think that was...?"

"Uncle."

Clara somehow appeared at the other end of the rope and stood two steps away.

The old craftsman straightened up immediately, as if he had been poked hard from behind.

What are you two talking about?

"Let's talk about tonight," the old craftsman replied quickly, without looking at his niece.

Clara turned her gaze to Richard's face; her stare was intense and her gaze was unwavering.

My senior will be a great teacher in the future.

"Yes!" Richard also wiped his hands on his coat.

"We were saying that the fire tonight was almost extinguished during the escort."

The old craftsman added from the side, "Yes, yes, thankfully I'm still quite agile despite my age."

Richard exclaimed, "That was really close!"

"Yes, thanks to you, kid."

Clara looked back and forth between the two faces, but in the end asked nothing.

"You two continue your conversation, I'll wait here."

She turned and walked back, her steps quicker than when she came.

The old craftsman only breathed a sigh of relief after she had gone far away.

Then he felt that venting his anger was too weak, so his face hardened again.

In short, I disagree.

"Sir, I think I understand what you mean."

"What do you think you know, kid?"

"I understand that my life is probably saved."

The old craftsman glared at him, then turned and walked toward the rope.

Clara saw her uncle off onto the carriage, and watched as the wheels turned the corner and circled back down another road.

Meanwhile, Richard returned to the courtyard and found that the white cloth had been distributed to everyone.

Corbyn held his piece, examining it closely under the light for a long time, clicking his tongue in amazement.

Donna sat on a low stool in the middle of the yard, unwrapping the gauze in her hand one layer at a time.

When they got to the last layer, even Mrs. McNeil couldn't bear to watch anymore.

Both palms were covered in blisters from the scalding.

Yesterday afternoon, to prevent the rioters from touching the brazier, these two hands tightly protected it, and they were even whipped several times with an iron bar.

Mrs. McNeil said, "Shall I take your place?"

"No!"

"You can't hold the pliers like that."

The short store manager was particularly stubborn:

"It was passed down from my grandfather to my father, and then from my father to me. For over 100 years, it has never passed through the hands of anyone else."

Donald reached for the long-handled brass pliers, slowly lifting them up until they reached chest height, his arms trembling.

Richard took the pliers from the side.

Donald looked up, frowning as he was about to speak.

"Mr. Donner, I won't touch the fire. I'll just hold the pliers for you and tell you where to drop them."

Donna looked at him for a while, then relented.

"...Those from the Ashford family are indeed all shrewd and astute."

Sixteen fires were arranged in a circle around the charcoal ash, and Donald had someone bring out half a box of sandalwood from the back room.

He said it was left to him by his father, and that he had bought it from Mumbai before the war.

This year, you can't buy it no matter how much money you have.

Richard knew that, given the situation of the Grey family, the routes to the Eastern Continent were basically blocked.

By the time they started to light the fire, it was almost midnight.

Sixteen fires were lit simultaneously, and the only sound in the yard was the faint burning of wood chips as they were ignited.

No one spoke. Corbyn squatted in front of his spot, lighting a fire while counting in his mind.

He wanted to write it down, but then gave up because he didn't have time to do so.

The fire that Richard used to burn at the goldsmith's place, from the Blackburn family's two-hundred-year-old furnace, was a yellower color than anywhere else.

He counted each piece of charcoal once, then moved it to the next piece.

Looking up, I saw Casalis still squatting in front of number nine, motionless.

The eyes on the white cloth were bloodshot, and the lips were moving silently as they counted.

After waiting for a while, Donald spoke.

When he uttered the first sound, Richard's "Erudition" skill automatically activated.

The way the other person read it didn't resemble any of the Avesta manuscripts (the core sacred texts of Zoroastrianism) that he had read before.

Consonants are rounded, long vowels are all collapsed, and the declensions at the end of words are completely removed.

This story has been passed down through generations for so long that only the melody remains.

[Bowen] Comparing it with the fragments of Sasanian prayers in the memory bank, several off-key notes were found.

It's likely that Donald himself didn't know this ancient language; he had only learned how to pronounce it from his father.

Corbyn suddenly raised his head, his mouth opened, and his eyes shone with an alarming light.

He wanted to speak.

Richard quickly pressed down on his shoulder from behind.

Corbyn turned around, and Richard shook his head vigorously.

Corbyn frowned and gestured with his eyes: This is all wrong. It has been distorted for over a hundred years. If we don't correct it now, when will we?

Richard shook his head again.

Donald was reciting the fourth sentence, his two blistered hands loosely clasped above his knees.

Richard, imitating Catherine, pulled out a notebook from his pocket, tore off a page, and quickly wrote a line with a pencil.

"They've been reciting the name of this fire for three generations for 110 years. Whether it's done properly or not isn't that important."

Corbyn took the paper to his eyes, sighed, turned it over, wrote a line on the back, and returned it.

"Then I'll treat it as a living record of dialect variations."

An additional half-sentence was added at the end.

"If we offer another course this time, the number of students enrolled will probably be halved again."

Richard almost burst out laughing under the white sheet.

The sixteen fires were brought together one by one into the bronze urn in the center of the charcoal ash circle.

When they got to the last part, Donald also finished reading the last sentence.

He stood up from the stool and walked to the broken stone pillar.

The fire on top of the pillar was still only half a hand's width high, not emitting a single wisp of smoke.

Richard raised the long-handled copper tongs.

"Where should we land?"

"The innermost piece was put in by my father that year."

Richard inserted the pliers, and the instant they plunged into the fire, a burst of white light erupted from the still water.

He tightened his gaze and steadied his wrist.

What came out with the pliers was a small piece of charcoal, smaller than a fingernail.

Donald stretched out both hands; the blisters had long since burst, and his palms were covered in blood and pus.

He put his two palms together, palms facing up, to make a shallow bowl.

"Mr. Store Manager..."

"Catch it with my hands," Donner said. "The pliers are yours, but it has to be me who catches it."

Richard loosened the jaws of the clamps.

The small piece of charcoal fell into his palm, and Donner trembled all over, but he managed to hold it in and not shake it off.

Richard felt pain just watching from the side.

The short man carried the charcoal for eleven steps, then turned it over in front of the bronze urn, causing the charcoal to fall into sixteen fires.

No one in the courtyard made a sound.

The small piece of charcoal rolled half a circle on the new firewood, then stopped, and nothing happened.

One second, two seconds...

The old man in charge of the archives snapped the unused wooden strip in his hand.

At the fifth second, a small clump of firewood bulged up in the center of the pile inside the bronze urn.

It was yellow at first, but quickly faded to a very clean color, standing upright just like the pot on the top of the pillar.

Mrs. McNeil pulled her shawl down, revealing half of her face.

The butcher sat down on the ground nearby.

Casalis stood there motionless, the pair of bright red eyes on the white cloth blinking twice.

Donald let his hands hang down.

"It can be sealed off now."

The deputy director's filing form has been completed.

"Mr. Donner, after this pot is delivered to the other side of the sea, I will have someone send a telegram back every three days."

"to whom?"

"Here you go."

Donna wrapped the gauze around her hand again and again.

"Tell the guards not to speak to it on the way."

"What you want to say, wait until you're settled down."

After the fire was distributed, everyone on the street went back to their own shops.

Only three people remained in the backyard.

Donner sat on the low stool, and Mrs. McNeil was changing the cloth on his hands.

"Mr. Manager," Richard said.

"I want to see that pillar one more time."

The hand that was changing the fabric stopped.

Donald looked up and examined him through the newly wrapped cloth.

"Just one look?"

"Let's take a closer look."

"Last year you took three steps and then turned back."

"This year is different."

Donner was silent for a moment, then withdrew his hand from Mrs. McNeil's.

"OK."

"This street owes you tonight."

"But I'm warning you, don't touch it!"

"I won't touch it."

"And you're not allowed to try to find inspiration inside."

"I know."