I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Isabella looked at the photo from both sides repeatedly, her voice trembling slightly.

"The extras are all from our family."

The wind in the backyard stopped, and three more people appeared in the picture, each with their own unique features.

Standing directly behind Gerald's chair was a young woman.

She rested her hands on the back of the chair. This was the pose my wife always struck when we took pictures; everyone stood like that in photo studios forty years ago.

She wore a very simple dress, her hair was tied back, and her face bore a striking resemblance to the Margaret sisters.

The woman wasn't looking at the camera; she was looking down at the back of her husband's neck.

The right hand had already risen from the back of the chair, seemingly about to reach into someone's collar... The shutter clicked at that moment, the hand still hovering over the collar.

Richard instinctively flipped the document back to the front; Gerald's left collar was slightly crooked.

I never would have guessed that my grandmother enjoyed playing pranks.

Margaret saw it too, and covered her mouth to laugh.

"...That's how the two of them get along."

Gerald raised his hand and touched his neck, which seemed a little cool. "Richard, show me the photos."

Richard handed over the photo.

The old man's hand was very steady when he received it, but it became unsteady afterward.

He didn't speak for a full minute; the only sound in the backyard was the geese splashing around in the pond.

"...Her nose is smaller than the one I drew."

Isabella stood behind her sister, her hands clasped together.

She hadn't said anything until now, when she suddenly exclaimed "Eh!"

"Dad, look at the bottom of the photo."

An old dog was lying on the ground in front of the chair.

It lay there perfectly still, its chin resting on its paws, and it had been lying there at Gerald's feet for decades.

Isabella's face turned red from her ears all the way down to her neck.

"..."

"Oh? Your flower fairy is here too." Gerald glanced at his youngest daughter and said deliberately.

"...Dad! My student is still here."

Clara and Sophia, standing nearby, wisely kept their heads down, but their ears were perked up.

If Rogers were here at this moment, he would definitely say that this is the old dog who blocked the door and wouldn't let Margaret in when they first came to visit.

There were two people standing in the last row.

One was the butler, and the person standing next to him was a full half a head taller.

He had very broad shoulders, his arms were crossed in front of his chest, his chin was slightly tucked in, and he rarely smiled.

He stood at the very back of the row, taking up most of the space in the back.

Richard had seen this face before in that small, rivet-studded room upstairs; he was standing next to Gerald in that old photograph of four people.

The angle from which I stood was exactly the same as it is today.

"My father always stood in this spot when he took pictures," Gerald said.

He said the person in the middle was sitting, and only those standing at the back could see the whole place.

The old man's finger lingered on that spot.

"He burned himself to ashes, leaving not a single bone behind."

The last person stood on the far right of the row, too far out, with half of their shoulder extending beyond the frame.

He looked to be in his early twenties, with one hand in his pocket and his neck craning forward, giving off a nonchalant vibe.

He was looking at the man in the last row who had his arms crossed, looking like he was waiting to be scolded.

Gerald looked at him, the face in his memory long since blurred.

"...This is the second oldest in the family, my younger brother. He never fits into the frame when taking pictures."

"My father always has to pull him up, but even after he pulls him up, he's still the same."

The old man raised the document a little higher, then put it down again.

"He went out on fieldwork when he was twenty-two, and then he never came back."

"People really do pass by quickly," Gerrard remarked with some emotion.

No one in the backyard responded to that.

"How long can this photo be kept?" Isabella suddenly asked.

"Our department's archives have a copy from the 1730s; the paper is so brittle that it crumbles as soon as you turn it."

"This photo..."

"It might last longer than most of us," Richard said.

That morning, he continued his research alone in his room.

He placed the family photo in the center of the table, with the three photos from last night lined up next to it.

Next to it are a notebook, a bronze paperweight, and a small bronze balance scale.

The long beak of the sacred bird leans towards the family photo, and what is remembered is very blurry: the carrier is unknown, the formation time is accurate to the second, and the source is the derivative ability of the signed item.

When it reached the last column, its long beak hung suspended in mid-air.

"...Can't remember?"

Richard pushed the scales over, and the scales weighed for a long time, but the left pan kept wobbling and couldn't be stabilized.

When he returned to the restaurant, lunch was already served.

Gerrard didn't drink today, and the butler locked the liquor cabinet again.

Sophia sat diagonally opposite Richard and suddenly spoke halfway through her meal.

"Richard, have you been upstairs all morning?"

"Yes."

"Thinking about that photo shoot?"

"I thought about it for three hours."

"Have you figured it out yet?"

"no."

Sofia grunted, put down her fork, and rested her chin on her hands.

"I think it works pretty well."

"Where is it most useful?"

"Quick, steady." She said things that Richard already knew.

"You don't have to wait for the medicine, you don't have to worry about light leakage, and you don't have to worry about shaky hands."

Clara added from the side, "The most important thing is that it captured the other side."

"Yes!" Sofia slammed her hand on the table, but was glared at by Isabella and quickly withdrew her hand.

"That side can't be captured by a camera, and the rubbing machine can't press out anything that moves."

She paused for a moment after saying that.

"...It can move."

Evelyn watched the group play a game of guessing games from the sidelines, with a look on her face that said, "Here we go again."

Richard looked up and saw Sophia sitting there; his eyes slowly widened.

My senior speaks like a machine gun; she can talk the whole table in one meal.

But when you really think about it seriously, sometimes even Clara can't compare.

Richard.

"Um."

"When I was in Mons, the graduate students were taking notes back home every day. Do you know what the hardest part was?"

"What?"

"I can't remember it."

Sofia spread her hands on the table.

"That thing is right in front of you, you can see it clearly."

But the moment you bend down to write, it changes; when you look up again, it's no longer the same.

The restaurant fell silent.

"So?" Richard asked.

Sofia looked at him.

"So now you can intercept everything you want and take it home to watch at your leisure."

"If watching for one night isn't enough, watch for three nights. If watching for three nights isn't enough, call Clara, call the mentor, call that old professor, and the five of you will sit around a table and watch together."

"It can't escape now."

Richard sat there, motionless.

He still had half a potato stuck in the fork in his hand.

"...It can't escape." He repeated this sentence to himself.

"Yes!" Sofia was pleased.

Richard put down his fork: "Thank you, Senior Sophia."

"...Why are you suddenly so serious?"

I'll treat you to dinner.

"You're eating right now."

"I'll treat you to something even better!"

Sofia blinked, then turned to look at Clara.

"Has he figured something out?"

Clara put the lemonade down.

"Every time he does this, something bad always happens afterward."

After dinner, back in his room, Richard suddenly had an idea. He turned the photo of the gargoyle over and took out the silver needle from his pocket.

Professor McFee hasn't practiced that broken branch technique much these days.

He thoroughly read the thin booklet that Catherine had given him before she left, but he actually used it less than twenty times.

Now he spread out the still water, and in that photograph, the gargoyle's specific attributes were captured in the water.

The direction of ether, the beginning and the end of the stroke, where each stroke comes from and where it goes... it's all there, no less so than reading about it in the physical object.

Moreover, the information sealed in the photo will not be moved.

To be precise, the movement was very slow, allowing Richard to observe it many times before deciding where to strike.

Previously, in the training room, I practiced with a candle, and that stroke took less than two seconds from start to finish.

He had to read, judge, and strike within those two seconds.

Now, I have almost unlimited time to make my own judgments.

Richard's hand, which was holding the silver needle, slowly tightened.

He didn't actually strike; the gargoyle was a gift from his grandfather, and he didn't intend to use it to test his skills.

The biggest unknown now is whether the actions depicted in the photo will translate into actual objects.

If it can only read images, then its photographic capability is at best a clearer and more convenient toy printer.

If you cut a slice off this piece, the main body will break off as well...

Richard put down his pen and rested his hands on the edge of the table.

"...A curse from a distance?"

He mentally searched through similar cases in the "Bowen" book to see if he could provide corroborating evidence.

The importance of names is repeatedly mentioned in the context of the Black Soil River system;

In the tradition of moon hunting, shadows are the projection of names;

McFee said on the hillside, "The stronger you are, the longer and darker the shadow you cast behind the curtain, and the darker the shadow, the easier it is to read."

There's also his own Shadow Armor, which piles stones on the target's shadow, causing his main body to be crushed.

The three pieces of supporting evidence all point to the same thing.

"...So this is more than just a photograph."

Richard turned the family photo over, and his "debate" began to operate in full swing.

Firstly, this photo allows him to bring back and read anything he couldn't finish reading on-site.

This is the most practical one. On the night of Whitcomb, when Mrs. McNeil started the spell, he could only stand in the innermost circle of the light lock and dared not even look up.

That night, he shouldn't have been tricked, because after he turned over, he didn't even dare to move his eyes.

Those things he didn't dare to look at, didn't have time to look at, or couldn't understand even if he did look at them... he can now film them all.

I took a picture of it, brought it back to my dorm, closed the door, brewed a pot of tea, and read it slowly.

Moreover, after reading it, you can practice on it yourself.

Thinking of this, Richard's palms sweated slightly with excitement.

The most difficult part of the Branch Cutting Technique given by Professor McFee is the pre-reading before the blade strikes; on the battlefield, even half a second is considered ample time.

The reason why Loki's table was eliminated so cleanly and efficiently was because they had just swallowed the names of the Celtic gods, putting them in their most vulnerable and vulnerable state.

This is the huge gap between being prepared and being caught off guard. Under normal circumstances, McFee would never have been able to easily defeat a group of minor masters led by a major master.

Now, this preparation time for "being well-prepared" can be extended indefinitely.

A malevolent creature lunged at him, and he was unable to react in time.

But if you take a picture first, and then analyze it repeatedly on the table until you can draw the starting and ending points of each stroke even with your eyes closed...

The next time he encounters a similar problem, he'll essentially be reviewing all the problems he already knows by heart on the spot.

Richard thought to himself that this was tantamount to bringing the battlefield back to the desk.

Of course, the most crucial point is whether or not one can actually make a move on the subject based on this photo.

"It's highly likely," Richard thought, poking the gargoyle in the photo with a silver needle. He had a feeling that if he cut it, it would fall apart on the spot.

The problem is that this ability is ultimately limited by one's own rank and the amount of ether stored.

This photo was taken when Gerald and Isabella were completely off guard with him.

And so, he still burned away all of his ether reserves, including those of the [Spirit Form].

If the opponents are all neutral or hostile targets, not only will mastery not be effective, but even minor mastery is questionable.

Richard did a quick mental calculation.

"...If a high-level evil entity or a hostile master were to appear, I might be burned to death and still not be able to capture it."

If he were suddenly allowed to easily transcend his professional status and dispose of his expertise on a piece of paper, he would doubt whether this ability was genuine.

On the other hand, I actually have a ready-made goal.

Richard brought up that line in the panel.

[Real Name Sealed: Incomplete (One Section Already Extracted)]

A real name is the chain that holds the target.

Perhaps, I won't have to wait until someone becomes an expert to use this real name.

The ability to sign off can continue to evolve, and there are two more major changes: a third transformation and the second major change: mastering the tradition of preliminary selection.

………………

Before Richard could even react, his sister and Grey's relationship suddenly became very close.

He only realized this belatedly when he saw Evelyn dressed up and changing her shoes in the foyer with her bag.

The butler watched for a while, and finally couldn't help but ask, "Who is Miss going to meet today?"

"Friend," Evelyn said.

"Do you need a spare car?"

"No need, I'll take the bus."

Richard, leaning against the doorpost, tentatively said, "I don't have anything planned for today, I'll take you there."

"Need not!"

She answered too quickly, so quickly that she realized it was wrong and quickly added a sentence.

"...We're going to talk about girls."

Richard raised an eyebrow but didn't ask any more questions.

"What time will Miss be back today?" the butler asked.

"have no idea."

"Then I'll have the kitchen keep the soup warm."

"No need to warm it up." Evelyn tucked the umbrella under her arm. "Grey's family provides meals."

When she arrived at Grey's large kitchen, she unceremoniously turned on both ovens in turn, and the whole house quickly became as hot as a steamer.

The two girls rolled up their sleeves to their elbows and tied their hair up with strips of cloth, but they were still sweating profusely.

They're making a batch of lemon shortbread today; the lemons are grown by the Grey family.

Evelyn is peeling the skin, peeling it very thinly, just the yellow layer.

Grey was pounding butter on the side, and suddenly spoke up.

Evelyn.

"Um?"

"Your brother..."

She seemed a little embarrassed as she said this, and tapped the whisk on the rim of the bowl.

Evelyn's hands didn't stop; her eyes were fixed on the lemon in her hand.

"What happened to my brother?"

What does he usually like to eat?

"..."

Evelyn put the lemon down, thinking: So, all this time she just wanted to be Mrs. Williams.

She turned around and sat down solemnly at the long table, her hands folded in front of her chest, as if preparing for a meeting.

"That's a good question!"

Grey was horrified and her hand trembled, splattering butter onto her apron.

"Don't be like that, I was just saying it casually..."

"He likes sour food," Evelyn said in one breath.

"The more sour the better, lemons, green apples, last year's gooseberries... he can eat anything sour."

The jar of pickled cucumbers we made last fall was meant to last until spring, but he finished it all in just half a month.

"...Half a month?"

"He has a big appetite," Evelyn said, shrugging.

"You have no idea how much he eats. He gets six servings in one meal at the Imperial University cafeteria."

"The version I heard before was three copies," Grey sighed and put down the whisk.

"And that heart-shaped box I made for him last time..."

He finished eating in half a day.

Grey turned around and took a bowl down from the shelf, lingering for a long time.

"And him..." she said, her back to him, her voice slightly muffled, "What about the sweet one?"

"He eats sweets too." Evelyn thought for a moment, "But he doesn't show much expression when he eats sweets, and he squints when he eats sour things."

"Squinting?"

"Yes." Evelyn squinted and demonstrated.

"That's how it is; he himself doesn't know it."

Grey put the bowl on the table and turned around.

"Evelyn, if you tell me all this, will your brother...?"

"He won't know," Evelyn waved her hand, looking like a seasoned veteran.

"He's always thinking about other things. You could burn a whole pot of caramel in front of him and he still wouldn't look up."

After saying that, she added another sentence.

"However, he has an exceptionally good memory. Six months later, he can repeat exactly what you casually said."

Grey's hand stopped on her apron.

"...So what did he remember me saying?"

"I'll definitely remember that."

"for example?"

"For example, in your letter in March you said that you were knitting socks and you couldn't turn your heels around."

"He told me last month that the girls in St. Brie were sending socks they knitted to the front lines, and maybe some people actually found that one foot was warmer than the other."

Grey blushed all the way to her ears.

"...He told you all of this."

The lemon tarts burned in the oven that day.

Later, these intimate conversations between women became the norm. When Evelyn went to Grey's house, she would start doing chores as soon as she entered.

When they took a break halfway through, Grey stopped hiding her intentions and started asking questions directly.

What was your brother like when he was a child?

"Sickly child," Evelyn said mercilessly.

"He's as skinny as a stick, and he gets out of breath after running just a few steps."

When I was seven, I got into a fight with him and pushed him down the steps. He was bedridden for two days.

"...You pushed him onto the steps?"

He took my candy first.

"And then what happened?"

"He got better on his own later." Evelyn flipped the dough over.

"Starting in the winter before last, he suddenly started eating again, and his appetite increased day by day. My mother said it was because he wanted to live a good life."

As she said this, she wiped her hands on her apron.

"But I always felt something was off."

Both ovens in the kitchen were making noise, but Grey didn't say anything.

"He has a problem," Evelyn continued.

"He shoulders everything on his own. When my mom asks him, he says nothing's wrong; when I ask him, he changes the subject; when my dad asks him, he talks about the railway bridge."

"Talking about railway bridges?"

"Yes, he knows my dad can't walk away when he hears about bridges."

Grey didn't laugh; she put down the scraper in her hand.

Evelyn.

"Um?"

"He was in Beijing last month and didn't answer the phone for a whole week."

Evelyn stopped.

"I called his dormitory, and the old man at the gatehouse said he was there, but he wouldn't come downstairs."

"It happened three times, and all three times it was the same."

"...Which week?"

Mid-June.

Evelyn lowered her head and flipped the dough over again.

She was preparing for exams during that time, and her mother got up several times that night.

Neither of them continued speaking.

After a while, Evelyn rolled the dough into a ball, put it in the bowl, and covered it with a damp cloth.

"Grey, my sister."

"Um?"

"If he ever stops saying anything, go find him."

Grey looked up.

"Don't ask him what happened; he won't tell you."

Just bring some food, sit next to him, and he'll start talking on his own as he eats.

After she finished speaking, she thought for a moment and then added a sentence.

"Preferably acidic."

That evening, Grey's mother invited Evelyn to stay for a proper dinner.

The lady asked a lot of questions at the dinner table, and in the end, Grey kicked her mother under the table.

Evelyn answered in a measured tone, "My grandfather paid for my and my brother's tuition."

After the meal, Grey escorted Evelyn to the door, and the two stood there for a while.

"I'm sorry, my mom asked too many questions."

Evelyn shrugged, unconcerned.

"What's the big deal? If my mom sees you, she'll only ask more questions."

Grey was completely stunned.

"...Should I go see your mother?"

"It's only a matter of time," Evelyn said, then grabbed the paper bag and ran towards the bus stop.

Grey was left blushing in the evening breeze, lost in thought.

………………

That July, the heat was simply unreasonable.

Catherine's hometown is in the northernmost part of the Highlands, where blankets are needed even on July nights.

When I opened the door in the morning, the grass was wet and white steam was floating on the lake.

When she was little, she always thought the word "summer" meant: the days get longer, but the nights are still cold.

The area where I currently rent in Beijing has roofs made entirely of corrugated iron, and the sun bakes them from eight in the morning until six in the afternoon.

Lying in bed at night, she could feel the brick walls exhaling the heat they had stored up during the day.

She rented this room at the end of June; it was very close to her uncle's sanatorium.

The landlady initially refused to rent to a mute girl, but after seeing her enrollment certificate from Imperial University, she handed over the keys.

Catherine moved the table under the window so that she could save a candle during the day.

She started doing the accounting.

In this sweltering weather, the paper gets soaked with sweat the moment you press your elbow against it.

She raised her hand and used a handkerchief to cushion it before continuing to write.

First, calculate your own income.

For the commission of deciphering the code, Hercules, Dionysus, and Prometheus together paid ten pounds and two shillings.

The team battle proceeds were split, but Mars's Moon Hunting Legacy couldn't be converted into cash, so she didn't include it in the calculations.

There was another incident that bothered her the most: that day in the office, McFaye forcibly stuffed money into her hand, saying it was a subsidy from the department for field staff.

She immediately wrote a line and held it up: "This is not an item in the department."

The professor didn't even look at it, just slung his bag over his shoulder and left. As he reached the door, he repeated his usual line: "It's not easy for people from the Highlands to live away from home."

She wrote the fifteen pounds on a separate page, with the header stating "to be returned".

Expenses: Rent is six shillings a week.

The cost of hospitalization at the sanatorium was also considerable, and medication costs were charged separately. In addition, there was a "special care fee" that the head nurse would remind her of once a week.

The option to buy ice was only recently added.

Her uncle's hospital room was on the third floor facing west, and by the afternoon the whole room was scorching hot.

The nurse said this room had the best lighting, which meant that the sweat from a person lying in it could soak through the mattress.

So I need to buy ice.

In addition, the tuition fee for the next academic year at Imperial University will also be a major expense.

Catherine kept adding plus signs until she reached the last line, then sighed again.

At this rate of spending, she only has enough money for two months.

Two months later, Catherine had to drop out of school and take on field jobs for the guild.

The jobs she gets at her rank are nothing more than running errands, crafting inscriptions, and serving as an assistant to the hunter team.

A trip might cost three to five pounds, and each trip could be the last.

There is another option: to transfer my uncle to the charity hospital.

She visited the charity hospital once; there were fourteen beds in one ward.

When the caregiver pushed the cart over, none of the people on the beds looked up.

Catherine closed the ledger and got up to pour water.

The water in the kettle is warm; the water in the house hasn't cooled down in the past two weeks.

On Wednesday afternoon, she went to the sanatorium as usual.

Duncan was lying in the innermost room on the third floor.

"Girl."

He opened his eyes and saw the girl come in, then turned his face away with difficulty.

Catherine dragged a chair to the bedside and sat down, then took out a thermos.

"Drinking...soup again."

She nodded.

"It was soup yesterday too."

She opened her notebook and wrote: The doctor said I should drink it.

"The doctor said," Duncan snorted.

"The doctor said I'd be able to run again in six months. Does he even believe that?"

Catherine poured out the soup and helped him sit up a little.

Duncan took a few sips and then pushed the glass away.

"Girl, how much does this hospital room cost per week?"

Catherine lowered her head and pretended not to hear.

"I'm asking you how much it costs."

She tightened the lid of the kettle before opening the notebook.

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Don't spend money on me," Duncan said.

This was the loudest thing he said after waking up.

Catherine turned the page of the notebook.

"You are my uncle."

"I'm your uncle, I know better than anyone how much I'm worth!"

By the time she got back to her rented room, it was past six o'clock.

Catherine opened the ledger again, remembering what Richard had said before leaving after the battle: he had a way to make things better for his uncle.

For the past two weeks, she has been waiting, and her thoughts have been changing every day.

On the first day, she thought: That was probably just a casual reassurance. He noticed she was tired when the party ended, and it's normal for him to say a few nice words, given his personality.

On the third day, she thought: Richard was just a practitioner, and she had seen too many practitioners, including herself. What could a practitioner possibly do?

After a week, she thought: Even if Richard really had a solution, why should he use it on a middle-aged man who had nothing to do with him?

Today, she started thinking about something else.

What should I do if Richard goes back on his word?

The moment the thought crossed her mind, the Nemesis mask provided the answer.

The answer came quickly and clearly, so quickly that it surprised even herself.

...Breaking one's promise is also an imbalance and must be punished.

She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching her dress tightly with both hands, battling that thought for half the night.

In the morning, she took the notebook and wrote a line on it.

"If he goes back on his word, then it's my obligation."

He owes me nothing; on the contrary, I owe him far too much.

At that moment, there was a knock on the downstairs door.