I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Five miles ahead, there was reportedly a train collision.

Because the old-fashioned wooden carriages used by the military trains still had gas cylinders for lighting.

If such a train were to collide, it would truly become a "train".

There wasn't enough water nearby, so the fire brigade dragged a water hose from the canal half a mile away and connected it section by section.

When the water pressure was insufficient at the end, the sprayed water dispersed into mist in mid-air.

Everyone in the carriage was awake, but no one spoke.

Richard could see from afar that someone was taking roll call at the edge of the scorched earth.

A young lieutenant with half a bandage hanging from his chest had nothing in his hands.

The only complete roll call list was in the officers' carriage, and it was burned along with the carriage.

He was calling out names one by one from memory, and when he got stuck on a certain name, he would start over from the beginning.

Richard suppressed the gaze technique through the car window, and his level 5 [Perception] allowed him to see the layers clearly:

All the shadows on the scorched earth fall in the same direction, toward the south.

The water tower at the station, the twisted bogies, and the shadows of the paramedics crouching on the ground all point south—the direction they were originally headed.

The railway tracks behind the curtain stretched southwards, until they disappeared from sight.

Every now and then, someone gets on the bus.

The boarding procedure was very proper: first hand over the luggage, then grab the handrail, and then lift your feet.

After boarding the train, they leave, then return when the carriage is empty to board another batch.

The gas cylinders under the car were still breathing behind the curtain, inflating and deflated, inflating and deflated.

Richard looked at them and recalled the yellow-green toxic gas that had waded through eight kilometers of Flanders swamps last month.

That was something someone had been planning for decades.

According to the well-informed colonel, the incident was caused by two signalmen misreading the newspaper while changing shifts.

But on the other side of the curtain, it's indistinguishable.

McFaye opened the curtains a crack, looked around for a while, and then closed them again.

"The military will take over and its branch offices will assist in the process; we don't need to meddle."

Inside the cordon, a young practitioner squatted by the pit, holding a simplified version of the liturgical ritual of prayer and sleep issued by the parish.

I stopped halfway through the third recitation; if I couldn't continue, the hook wouldn't hang.

He flipped the book over to look at the back cover, as if trying to find out where the printing was wrong.

Richard recognized that expression; he had made that same expression on his face that night in Black Ditch last year.

The red-haired girl next to him pressed her pencil into her notebook on her lap, the pencil already bent under the weight, her eyes fixed on the crack in the curtains.

The scales of Nemesis tilted above her head.

Hundreds of people boarded the bus and were burned so badly that they didn't even leave their names. Not a single person came to see them off.

In her mind, this matter should be evened out.

The girl's breathing became rapid.

Richard glanced at her, then took out his notebook and tore off a page.

He held the pen and thought for a while.

Professor McFee is right, it's not their job, but it's never wrong for them to offer a reminder.

"First, don't recite church words. These people may have only been to church twice in their lives."

"Second, the army has a roster. It doesn't matter if the roster is burned, the format is still there."

"Third, the living must be present in place of the dead, one by one, without missing a single one."

Catherine reached out and took the paper, adding two lines at the bottom.

"It's okay if you mispronounce the name, just keep reading."

"When someone corrects you while you're reading, that's him."

After she finished writing, she put down her pen, and the breath that had been stuck in her chest slowly dissipated.

Richard went to roll up the car window.

"What are you going to do?"

McFaye glanced at him:

"Kid, you're not thinking of throwing him, are you? What, are you stronger than the hunter?"

The white-haired giant reached out and took the paper.

"Professor, you just said..."

"I meant don't meddle."

He folded the paper and held it between his fingers, then lifted a sliver of the curtain.

"I don't know what that kid's last name is, but he read out more than forty names tonight, and he got stuck on the seventh one three times."

"Those who pronounce names will also be bound by those names."

He made a stroke on the back of the paper with his index finger.

That stroke was a carved character, a vertical line followed by a diagonal cut to finish, the white mark formed by condensed ether lingered on the paper for half a second before seeping in.

The paper disappeared from his fingers.

Richard's eyes lit up as he watched from the side. "Professor, I want to learn this!"

The young man squatting over there suddenly lowered his head.

He turned the simplified version of the book that was lying on his lap over, and a corner of the slip of paper was visible.

He took it out, unfolded it, and read it by the firelight.

Upon reading the third line, he folded the paper again and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then walked toward the lieutenant with a bandage around his neck.

Catherine was still looking out the window.

McFee drew the curtains shut and pulled his hat down to cover his eyes.

Catherine opened the notebook, wrote a line, and pushed it to the other side.

"Professor, you just said not to meddle in other people's business."

"What I meant was don't interfere too much; a piece of paper doesn't count as interference."

"What does that count for?"

"Consider it a side job."

………………

After crossing the sea, Richard and his two companions' first stop was Queenstown, a well-known deep-water port.

He was very interested in this place, having heard that ships sailing from here could reach the New World.

Seventy years ago, during the Great Famine, ships full of Highlanders were transported from here to the New World, where they died in droves, just like wheat.

Three years ago, the Titan sank, and the bodies and survivors came ashore from here.

On the 7th of this month, the Tania sank and the bodies came ashore here.

McFee came here only for the list of people on the sunken ship.

They went to the town hall and took the list from the clerk.

Richard stood next to McFee and could see it clearly.

The first-class section has names on almost every line.

It has a name, age, nationality, occupation, and someone who claims it.

Several lines were followed by a smaller line of text that read, "The belongings have been handed over to Mr. So-and-so."

Flipping back, you'll find empty spaces starting from the second-class section.

Turning to the pages for steerage, large sections were empty.

McFee flattened the page.

"The power of the judgment lies entirely in the name; wandering ghosts are the most difficult to deal with."

"That's why local practitioners are in such a mess."

As we left the town hall, another group of people were preparing to dive and salvage the items at the pier.

They salvaged a shipment of goods marked "Category II" that had been transported from the New World.

Strange objects are converging on the capital, and also sinking to the bottom of the sea.

McFee, passing by, simply said, "Let them do their thing, we'll do ours."

At night, the three men went up the cape.

There wasn't a single light on the sea; even the lighthouses had their operating cycles changed after the blackout.

McFee stood still at the edge of the cliff.

"Activate your spiritual vision."

"To what extent?"

"The one you know in your heart."

Richard pulled up the mirror-like technique.

As the still water spread out, he saw a road stretching out from the sea to the west.

The road rises from the water's surface and then flattens out when it's about a person's height above the water.

There was nothing paved on the road, but people walking on it felt very stable.

There was a queue on the road.

The procession stretched westward from the bottom of the cliff, into the depths of the sea, until it reached a place where the water couldn't reach Richard, seemingly without end.

They walked at a moderate pace, one after the other.

Some were carrying luggage, while others were empty-handed.

Richard pushed the still water westward to its limit, but the road still extended.

He understood in that instant.

This is the entire Northern Ocean route, the route that has been traversed for three hundred years from the east coast of the New World to the west coast of the Old World.

The ships that sank over the past three hundred years are lined up end to end, and so are the dead.

"Is this the drowning line around here?"

McFaye nodded beside him.

"Let's continue reading."

Richard continued his observation and discovered that the roads were stratified according to their historical periods.

The people on the top floor are dressed in clothing from that era.

They were wearing suits and sweaters, and some were even wearing life jackets issued on the ship. These people probably froze to death.

The clothes below that are much older.

The men wore soft-brimmed hats, the women wore shawls, and several people were barefoot.

The cloth bags they carried were tied with ropes.

This must be an immigrant ship from the Great Famine era, originally destined for the New World to build a railroad, but it was cut short here.

Richard's breathing slowed, and he was just about to lower his gaze...

McFee patted him on the shoulder.

"That's it. If you go down to the next floor, you're not even looking anymore."

Richard then realized that the back of his neck was covered in sweat, which was chilled to the bone by the sea breeze.

Catherine crouched down and handed him the water bottle from his canvas bag.

McFee walked back to the edge of the cliff.

"The path you just saw for the dead comes from the west; their landing point is in their hometown."

"They're not going to Queenstown?"

McFaye shook his head.

"Those who walk through here will ultimately remember the road in front of their own homes."

Richard raised his head.

"That's why we're going to Yanhuo Village."

McFaye turned around.

"Yes, the twelve standing stones in Yanhuo Village are right at the entrance to the shore, and that formation was not reinforced this year."

"The old ranks need a new anchor, and the newly dead need to rest in peace."

As the three of them descended the mountain, fog rolled in over the sea, obscuring even the path beneath their feet.

Catherine walked in front, taking a small flashlight out of her pocket.

She pressed the button twice but it didn't light up, so she pressed it twice more, and even considered taking out the battery to check.

McFaye said from behind, "Stop pressing it."

"The battery stops working after dark around the weakest point in the ether."

"So, how do we get there?"

McFee took out the flat flask and took a sip.

"Go towards the area that smells of coal smoke."

He lifted his foot and walked into the fog.

"Stay close."

"Especially you, Richard."

If I leave you on this headland tonight, Old Mo will smash my door when I get back.