I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Catherine jerked her head up.

For the past two weeks, she has been living alone in this room at night, and no one has ever knocked on her door.

Her hand had already touched the silver needle in her sleeve, but the person downstairs didn't knock a fourth time.

"It's me, Richard. I brought my tools."

Catherine sat frozen in the darkness.

The main problem was that the timing of the other party's arrival was too coincidental, making her suspect that it might be some kind of evil spirit in disguise, specifically targeting her when she was most vulnerable.

The name comes from himself; that was written in the fifth item of Richard's penny book.

Catherine copied it onto the last page of her notebook, and even drew an emphasis line after she finished.

In the heart of the capital, there shouldn't be any evil spirits in broad daylight.

But the excessive mental stress these days has made her unable to distinguish whether some voices are coming from outside the house or from her own head.

The girl tore a piece of paper off the table, wrote a line, placed the needle case on it, and threw it out the window.

The corner of the paper spun down, and Richard bent down to pick it up and unfold it.

"Which road did you come from?"

He stood on the street and laughed out loud.

"Chelsea Road," he shouted through the open window upstairs.

"I took the 6:10 bus, and the ticket stub is still in my pocket."

Another piece of paper drifted down through the crack in the window.

"It doesn't recognize wet things, and it doesn't recognize cold things."

"I didn't go into the water this morning, and I didn't die."

Richard rolled up his coat sleeves to show her: "If you're worried, I can stand in the doorway until the sun shines on me."

The third piece of paper fell faster than the previous two.

Tell me something that only you know.

Richard thought about it.

"At the end of May, in Yanhuo Village, I slipped half a portion of water horsehair into your bag."

There was no movement from the other side of the window.

"The next day at noon, I found an extra receipt in my canvas bag," Richard continued.

"It states that this document is for the personal use of the recipient and is not related to the donor."

The crack in the window slowly widened a little, and Catherine sprinkled coarse salt through the window.

Salt fell onto the downstairs doorstep with a splash.

Then the first-floor window was suddenly pushed open from the inside.

"Who is it! So early in the morning!"

The landlady, wearing a bathrobe, leaned half her body out of the window.

She first looked at the layer of salt on her own doorstep, then saw the young man standing on the street.

Her gaze traveled from Richard's shoes to his collar, and then the woman's anger vanished instantly.

"...Oh."

"Blackie!" the landlady shouted up the stairs, her voice so loud the whole street could hear her.

"Your guest has arrived!"

A dull thud came from the third floor, as if someone had bumped into a table.

When Catherine came down, the landlady had already invited Richard into the foyer and even brought out a chair.

The girl changed her sweat-soaked clothes into clean ones and tied her red hair back up.

When Richard stood up to greet him, he smelled a very faint scent of lavender.

In July, the house was as hot as a steamer, and she couldn't tell whether she was afraid of the smell of sweat on her body or something else.

The landlady smelled it too.

"Oh, you're even wearing perfume today."

Catherine froze on the stairs.

"Madam," Richard coughed, "I'm her classmate, I came here to do my homework together."

"Homework." The landlady nodded at him with an expression that said, "I know everything."

"...Good grades, good grades!"

She pressed Richard back into his chair and then moved a stool over to sit down opposite him.

Catherine stood on the stairs, clutching the notebook tightly in her hand.

"Sir, let me tell you, this girl is the most worry-free tenant in my building."

"The rent is never in arrears. It's a Saturday shilling, and it's always on my stove on Monday morning."

I told her, "You don't need to rush. It's okay to postpone it for a day or two."

"As a result, she wrote me a note that said: 'The accounts need to be settled.'"

Richard glanced at the stairs, while Catherine turned her face away.

The landlady leaned forward.

"Sir, you are dressed quite well."

"..."

"These days, it's tough for a young woman to be alone in the capital." The wife sighed. "You should take care of things that need to be taken care of."

Hurried footsteps came from the side.

Catherine rushed down the stairs, flipped the notebook open, and held it up to the landlady.

The words on the paper were written quickly and forcefully, so much so that the pen tip tore through the paper.

"We're going to have breakfast!"

The landlady saw it clearly, and her face immediately lit up with a smile.

"Go on, go on." She waved her hand, urging the two of them towards the door.

"Young people should eat more; it's good to eat more."

"Blackie, you too, how can you eat dry bread every day..."

The door closed behind them.

The morning light on the street had already turned white, and Catherine stood at the bottom of the steps with her head down.

Richard held it in for a long time, but finally couldn't hold back: "...The debt needs to be settled?"

Catherine elbowed him in the ribs, aiming for the spot where she had punched him last month.

Although we were supposed to eat breakfast, the problem was that there was nowhere to eat breakfast at this time.

Two blocks ahead, there's a teahouse with a sign on its glass door that says: Open at 9:00 AM.

There was a queue outside the bakery.

Richard craned his neck to look; all that was left in the counter was wartime bread, mixed with potato starch and some unknown substance, the cut surfaces of which were grayish.

"...I don't really want to eat this."

Catherine opened her notebook and wrote: "There's no place in the capital specifically for eating breakfast."

"They're available in the university cafeteria."

"During the July holiday, the cafeteria will only be open at noon."

She paused after writing, and the pen tip hovered on the paper for a moment before falling.

"Go back, I'll make it for you."

………………

The water boiled, then the oats were added to the pot.

Spread the barley pancakes out on the pan, and flip them over when they puff up.

As she flipped it, she flicked her wrist, and the pancake nimbly spun around in mid-air.

She sliced ​​the smoked salmon so thin it was translucent.

Finally, she unsealed the earthenware jar, scooped out a large spoonful of honey, and only realized what she had done when she held it up in mid-air.

She held up the notebook with her other hand: "Sweet or salty?"

"Salty," Richard said, understanding.

Catherine carefully put the spoonful of honey back before taking out the salt shaker.

The porridge was served, and Richard took a sip: "Catherine, this is quite delicious."

"You have a big appetite, everything tastes good to you."

He was honest and straightforward. Even though he had already eaten at home, he still ate three bowls of porridge, four barley cakes, and most of the smoked salmon for breakfast.

After finishing their meal, Catherine returned to their business and wrote down a brief summary of her uncle's situation:

Duncan Blackwood was promoted to junior master at the age of twenty-nine in an old castle.

He withdrew halfway through the ceremony.

Why did you withdraw?

"He said he heard sounds he shouldn't have heard," Catherine wrote.

"He still won't say what it is to this day."

Last year, I gave him the technique 【Moon Nail·Reflection】.

So by the time of the team fight, he had almost recovered and successfully advanced to Minor Mastery.

Richard's hand, which was holding the teacup, stopped.

"...It really was him. His records of spell usage are very well written, even more detailed than mine."

Catherine lowered her head.

She turned to the next page of her notebook and wrote much slower than before.

"He stabbed himself twice after the team fight on June 17th."

"And the result?"

"The first time, he developed a high fever that night."

"The second time, he had a fever for a whole day and talked nonsense until dawn, so I didn't dare let him try it again."

She pressed the pen tip on the paper for a long time after she finished writing, leaving a smudged ink dot.

"It's my fault..."

Richard interrupted her, his expression serious:

"You were right to stop. If you had continued stabbing him, he would be dead by now."

"The principle of 【Moon Nail·Reflection】 is to inject a compressed mass of ether into the circuit from the tip of the needle, refreshing that microcirculation completely."

"The prerequisite for successfully injecting ether is that the pipeline is largely intact."

"On June 17th, both Mars and Diana, those two skilled hunters, inflicted penetrating wounds on him, with Mars's spear being the most ruthless."

"Given these injuries, if we continue to stimulate them with [Moon Nail - Reflection], you've already seen the consequences..."

Catherine's fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

Richard sighed and spoke of Ares, who had been missing for a long time.

"A hunter who lost his entire left arm used this technique to stimulate the stump."

The first two times were fine, but the third time the stump started to get hot.

"He mistook the heat for an effect."

"Later, that stump became unusable, and it probably couldn't even fit the prosthetic limb."

The kitchen fell silent, and Catherine knew who he was talking about.

"But the situation is different now. I've used a new treatment that can gradually help him make up for the deficiencies, and he can then receive acupuncture to recover."

"...I can't go into too much detail about the specific treatment."

"No need, I trust you."

Catherine stood up to collect the dishes, standing in front of the stove with her back to him.

Richard remained silent.

After a long time, the girl turned around, her eyes were red, and her face was expressionless.

She opened the notebook: "Let's go."

When Duncan arrived at the sanatorium, he was not easy to fool when he was awake.

He lay on the bed and looked the young man in front of him up and down.

"You're the one."

"...Which one?"

"The one the girl wrote in her letter."

Catherine stood at the foot of the bed, quickly flipped open her notebook and wrote a line, then closed it halfway through and turned to pour water.

"What did she write?" Richard asked.

"She wrote that you can eat a lot," Duncan said matter-of-factly. "She said you can eat six servings in one sitting."

"Just this?"

"Write something else..." The kettle slammed against the bedside table with a thud, and Duncan wisely shut his mouth.

Richard placed the canvas bag on the chair beside the bed and took out the items one by one: a Saint-bronze paperweight, a small bronze balance scale, a frost branch box, and a small roll of soft cloth, inside which were three Soul-Devouring Beast Tooth Needles.

Duncan's eyes lingered on the three needles for a moment.

"Moon Nail".

"You agree."

"It took me more than half a year." He raised his left hand and rolled up his sleeve a bit.

There were tiny needle marks on the skin on the inside of my forearm, as if it had been stitched up.

"When she first started pricking me, I thought she was going to murder me for money."

Richard spread out the still water.

The moment the light shone, the playful atmosphere in the room dissipated.

Duncan's physical wounds have been stitched up, but the penetrating wounds are still enchanted with ether, which continues to erode his body.

"To put it bluntly, I can't cure your old injuries." Richard said directly.

No one spoke in the ward. Catherine and her uncle exchanged a glance, about to say something.

Richard then changed the subject.

"But I can first repair the wound from June until you can heal it yourself with acupuncture."

"Sure," Duncan suddenly said.

"...What?"

"I said okay." He turned his head.

"Young man, the look on your face just now almost scared me so much that I was about to write down my will for my niece."

Without hesitation, Richard sat down on the edge of the bed and placed his right palm on Duncan's right rib.

The first round of treatments for his mother was already finished; the remaining treatments, [Yongquan], were what he had collected over the past two weeks.

Half a month's supply should be enough.

Duncan closed his eyes.

About ten minutes later, he suddenly spoke.

"Young man."

"What's wrong?"

"Yours... doesn't hurt."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Every time I needed treatment over the past ten years, it caused me excruciating pain."

"When the traditional people of the sun came over, I bit down and broke a tooth."

After the treatment ended, Richard stood up, supporting himself on his knees. His vision blurred for a moment, and he had to hold onto the bed frame to keep from swaying.

Catherine took a step forward, her hand already under his arm.

"It's nothing," Richard waved his hand.

He took the Colton 120 out of his canvas bag and hung it around his neck.

"Mr. Duncan, I'd like to take your picture."

"Taking photos?" The man was a little surprised. "Given my condition, it wouldn't be...?"

"Of course it's not the kind of photo you're thinking of. After this treatment, barring any unforeseen circumstances, you should be able to live for several more decades."

Richard raised the camera, but it was just for show.

"Don't move."

"Crack!"

After the familiar shutter sound, the ether in the microcirculation was emptied, and then the [spiritual form] began to be drawn out.

Richard gritted his teeth and held on.

Although Catherine's uncle had been bedridden for over a decade and had offered no resistance whatsoever, he was still quite skilled.

[Spirit Appearance 8/50] → [Spirit Appearance 2/50]

A photograph appeared on the bedside table, and Catherine picked it up.

The room in front of you is this ward: a bed, a mattress, a person leaning against the headboard, and a small patch of dirty sky outside the window.

The next morning, Duncan sat up on his own.

Catherine went to the sanatorium to deliver soup, and when she pushed open the door, she found her uncle leaning against the headboard, his face flushed.

The thermos in her hand fell to the ground, and the soup spilled all the way.

"...Look," Duncan gasped, "I don't need your help."

Catherine stood in the doorway, her hands hanging at her sides.

She wanted to say something, but nothing came out of her throat, and she realized again that her still-unhealed vocal cords were really getting in the way.

For the next week, Richard arrived at 3 PM and left at 4 PM every day, doing some follow-up maintenance and collecting some data along the way.

After Catherine went downstairs to get more ice, Duncan spoke up as soon as she left.

"Young man, name your price."

Richard was somewhat puzzled.

"What number?"

"Money." Duncan rolled his eyes.

"Or something else. I don't really understand what you scholars want, but you can tell me."

"Need not."

"A hunter doesn't eat for free."

This statement was made very decisively, leaving no room for negotiation.

Richard wrapped the rubbing machine back in the soft cloth.

"Sir, you were our substitute on the night of June 17th."

"I didn't get to do anything that night. I hadn't even gone a few rounds before someone stabbed me in the back."

"You shielded her and our companions from the attack."

"That's what I'm supposed to do."

Duncan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"But even though I said I'd give you money, I've already sold almost everything in the house."

"My father sold his knife two years ago, and in March, she also sold the silver-handled dagger that my brother left behind."

Richard held the rolled-up soft cloth without making a sound.

"She told me that the knife was rusty and there was no point in keeping it."

Duncan chuckled: "That knife was made by the little master craftsman himself. I was even saying I'd keep it as a family heirloom."

"That night in June, I saw her crack that whip," Duncan suddenly said.

Richard raised his head.

"That's not the way to hunt the moon. The power is gnawing at her; I can see that."

She's thinner this year than last, speaks less and less, and writes with increasing force in the ledger.

He closed his eyes.

"Young man, you saved my life. I won't stand on ceremony, I just want one thing from you."

"Please speak."

"Keep an eye on her for me."

The ward remained quiet for a long time.

"I'm watching," Richard said.

Duncan opened his eyes and nodded.

Then he raised his left hand and patted his right chest.

That movement was somewhat similar to Captain Field's back then.

"There are still a few people who recognize the surname Blackwood in the north of the Highlands."

"Not many, just three."

One worked in the dilapidated office of the Inverness guild, the other herded sheep for others at the border;

There's also a lighthouse keeper in Stronover, and that guy knows a big shot... who owes me eleven pounds and still hasn't paid me back.

Upon hearing the word "expert," Richard's eyes instantly sharpened.

The expert in the far north of the highlands had only heard of one person related to whirlpools from McFee.

I don't know if these two people are the same person.

"Whenever you head north, just say my name," Duncan concluded.

"Those three people all have bad tempers, especially the one who owes me money."

The door was pushed open at that moment.

Catherine stood at the doorway holding a basket of ice, the outside of which was wrapped in newspaper and was already soaked.

She glanced at the person on the bed, then at Richard standing beside the bed.

Those green eyes slowly narrowed.

She put down the basket, took out her notebook, wrote a line, and then turned around and held it up high.

"What are you two talking about?"

"Speak of ice," Duncan replied quickly. "I'm saying the ice this year is thinner than last year's."

"Yes," Richard nodded, "much thinner."

Catherine turned the page of the notebook.

"Ice is sold by the block."

The ward was silent for two seconds.

"...That means it's been diluted with water," Duncan said.

………………

The two discussed the follow-up treatment plan for a long time.

"Don't puncture it." Richard circled that spot on the photo.

"Stab the outside of the wound," Catherine wrote.

"Yes, stick to the few remaining branch paths and choose the most lush section."

Richard has an example to support this.

Last year, he gave acupuncture to a military academy student who had a congenital ruptured circulatory system. He inserted the needle into the fullest part of the circulatory system outside the rupture point.

"This time it's all good, your uncle's new tube will definitely be thicker than the old one."

"Your uncle is quite proficient; once he completes the circuit, it's not impossible for him to advance further..."

Catherine's grip on the pen tightened slowly.

That night, she returned to her rented room and turned on the lights.

Clear everything off the table, spread out the largest sheet of paper, and start writing.

It describes what she currently possesses most valuable—Professor McFee's sealing and deflection ritual, which mitigated part of the cost of the Nemesis Mask.

The original text also includes the professor's own Latin annotations, which he forced himself to memorize line by line.

She recited from memory until 2 a.m., then tied it up with a thin rope.

When Richard arrived the next afternoon, she simply stuffed the stack of papers into his arms.

Richard glanced down at it, then turned to the first page.

"Catherine, this is..."

She opened the notebook, wrote a line, and held it up.

"The complete ritual to seal off the deflection."

Richard held the stack of papers, speechless for a moment.

At that gathering, Nemesis put this ritual up for sale.

Asking for £300 in cash or its equivalent, or an item of similar value.

No one at the table accepted the offer, and Hecate finally managed to exchange it for one of her personal collections.

Moreover, the one Catherine took out back then was clearly much thinner than the one he had in his hand.

"This..." Richard began to speak.

Catherine frowned.

She turned to the next page of the notebook: "You must keep it."

He turned the notebook around again, and the word in that line was written very large, taking up a whole half page.

"This is my most valuable possession."

Richard looked at the words and tucked the stack of papers into his pocket.

"...Thank you."

Catherine stood still, the scales above her head wobbling twice.

The left pan slowly rose, the right pan slowly fell, and when it reached the middle, it was completely level.

The girl stood there, and suddenly felt her whole body relax.

She took two steps back and plopped down on the old sofa.

"Catherine?"

She raised her hand and waved it, indicating that she was alright.

Halfway through setting it up, the hand landed on the sofa armrest.

Then she lost consciousness.

Before Richard could finish speaking, the girl opposite him slumped onto the sofa and fell into a deep sleep, her notebook still lying open on her lap.

He stood there for a while.

Ever since I got the Nemesis mask, the other person always sits with their back straight, has to touch a notebook before speaking, and has to write an IOU to express gratitude.

Catherine seems to... never appear completely unguarded in front of anyone.

When we got down to the lobby, the landlady was sweeping the floor with a broom.

"Is the child asleep?"

"Going to sleep."

"That's good." The landlady leaned the broom against the corner of the wall and lowered her voice.

"Sir, I'm telling you, her house has been lit up late at night for the past few days."

Richard paused for a moment.

"how long?"

"How could I remember clearly?" the landlady sighed.

"Anyway, when I get up in the middle of the night to add water, there is still light under the crack in the door on the third floor."

It was 2 o'clock the day before yesterday, and it was about the same yesterday.

If this continues, even if you don't die from being scared to death by ghosts, you'll die from exhaustion.

Richard looked up at the third floor of the stairs but there was no sound.

"Let her sleep tonight," he said.

"How could I not know?" the landlady snorted.

"I'll yell at anyone who knocks on the door tonight."

Richard nodded.

"Madam, I'll probably have some business to attend to in a few days."

The landlady's face immediately lit up with joy. Before she could say anything, Richard had already pushed the door open.

Back in his room at Ashford’s house, he began to study it.

His [Critical Thinking] and [Knowledge] skills were raised to Lv.4, allowing him to quickly handle this secret ritual, which was clearly too complicated for practitioners.

This deflection technique does only one thing from beginning to end: it gathers the originally chaotic force into a rope and directs it in the direction chosen by the practitioner.

Catherine's Nemesis-like scales, her impulse to balance them, remained as strong as ever.

What McFee did was simply to stop that force from attacking everyone indiscriminately and instead direct it towards rubbings and inscription collation.

That's why she was able to hold back during the Foxton refugee crisis.

This is the core of the ritual; the key lies in finding a suitable outlet for expression.

Richard immediately thought of his best point: "Can the cost of the Abyss's tradition be reversed?"

According to Mrs. Mary's previous instructions, if he wants to go up this road, he can't avoid it.

As Mrs. Mary herself said, most of those who were promoted the fastest had taken advantage of the system; the only difference was how much they had taken.

If Richard needed an outlet, his first thought would be Shadow.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he nipped it in the bud.

Three wisps of spirit were embedded in the shadow, and the panel clearly stated: If the attached spirit is destroyed, the main body will be severely damaged.

He temporarily abandoned this line of thinking.

The second, and most feasible, approach is to stuff the contents inside.

He had amassed a large collection of empty shells, ranging from the earliest Diocletian bronze coins to the latest hermit's stone bowl, Viking trade beads, and the most important of all—fragments of items bearing the signature of a poison gas master.

As for the divinely crafted weapons on the table in Rome, he has a use for them all, so he won't leave them for now.

Even after removing many items with research and practical value, he still had a large number of empty shells in his possession.

His aunt had told him about the market for empty objects long ago: the seal masters are most afraid that the carrier itself has its own opinions, so they all look for old objects with very little ether left as blanks.

If a blank can be sealed, it can naturally be used to store other things.

Richard wrote a line in his notebook:

"The cost and pollution are poured into the empty shell, and the empty shell becomes... a cursed object?"

Speaking of which, he's been making purification items lately, but in the end, he's started thinking about creating his own.

He paused his writing, thought for a moment, and then continued writing.

"Feasibility and highest priority."

"Solve the following issues: filling method, sealing structure, maximum capacity, and what to do when the container is full."

After he finished writing the last one, he added a question mark next to it.

What happens once it's full? Can I still purify and reuse a cursed object that's been filled with the price I paid for cultivating the Abyss Path?

Or throw it into running water? Dig a hole, bury it, and cover it with salt?

Or should we just seal it up and release it at some crucial moment?

He recalled the stink bomb that Lady Mary had made for her own eyeball; that was indeed an idea.

There's one last approach: find a stand-in to take the blame for him.

Speaking of stand-ins, he was reminded of the Echoing Society once again.

Richard gripped the pen, his palms beginning to sweat.

The technology and knowledge I currently possess seem to give me the potential to develop a cult.

Richard put down his pen and placed his hands behind his head.

After a while, a wicked thought popped out from somewhere inconspicuous.

What if the stand-in is an enemy?

The things that the "Black Soil River expert" has done over the years have made others bear the brunt, suffer the consequences, and act as anchors at the bottom of the pit...

So, isn't it only natural to let it act as a substitute for itself?

But whether it's finding a scapegoat or storing something in an empty shell, it all depends on having the abyss side of the magic.

Mrs. Mary made it clear that she wouldn't teach him the breathing technique, and he had no intention of learning it either.

The only thing he currently has that's somewhat related to this is an excerpt from "The Secrets of the Abyss" sent by his aunt;

The "Critical Studies of the Abyss Tradition" in the Imperial Capital University Library are all about understanding and warning.

There was also an eyeball soaking in a jar, its string cut off.

"...Even a clever cook can't cook without rice." Richard shook his head.