I loaded the Mysticism panel.

"Crack!"

Li realized that he seemed to have broken off a dry tree branch that had been drying in the sun for a long time.

The giant insect had no mouth and could not make a sound. It had rushed to the funnel-shaped opening behind it and opened it to its limit, but it stopped in mid-air.

The root of the problem has been erased from the edge; it neither exploded nor collapsed, but it just doesn't know what to do next.

The metal shell at the very front came loose on its own and fell to the ground.

Then came the second quarter, the third quarter... This time, the later parts didn't pull them back.

The reason for pulling them back no longer exists.

All the hundreds of arms loosened, and each of them moved automatically a couple of times.

Richard was very familiar with that gesture; he would also move his fingers like that after finishing a paper or assignment.

The person who had worked all night finally lifted their hands off the long table, and the dirty chemical color began to fade, returning to the original color of their hands.

Some of his fingers were still bent at the same angle as when he was holding a bullet casing, and he couldn't straighten them.

Richard could see the bottom of the black hole at the funnel's opening.

Inside were only tens of thousands of matches with their ends facing upwards, a vat of dark purple water, and a long table sprinkled with yellow powder.

Those things stayed quietly in the funnel for a while before dissipating.

The well behind the curtain was closed, the matches were put into the dye vat on the second floor, and the dye vat was put under the long table on this floor tonight.

The roof above my head turned back into a roof, and the ground beneath my feet returned to the ground. The thin sheet metal above my head rattled in the night wind.

The crack is still there, and the wind blows up from below, making it cool. Now it's just an ordinary crack.

Richard retracted his antlers and turned around. He opened his mouth as if to say something.

The curved wall Greer built collapsed with a crash, and miscellaneous industrial parts came loose from their clips and fell back to the ground, scattered all over the floor.

The bearded man stood up from the pile of parts and dusted off his pants.

"...It can last for three more times." He was very satisfied with his creation.

McFee put his hands in his pockets and strolled slowly over from where the cold light had dissipated.

He first looked at the remaining metal shell on the ground, then at the diagonal scratch on the glass.

The white-haired giant reached out and slapped Richard hard on the shoulder, almost knocking him against the glass.

"Alright, that's a wrap!"

:

"professor……"

"By the way, quickly summarize what you just realized."

McFee seemed to suddenly remember something and squatted down next to him.

"……Now?"

"Now, while it's hot."

"After a while, you'll only remember that you won, not how you won."

Richard, supporting his knees, took a couple of breaths.

"The key is that the reflection narrows the range of my reading and parsing."

He pointed to the thin glass covered with yellow powder.

"The bug was only the size of my palm inside the glass, which made it easy for me to see it all at a glance."

"When it was spread out to a distance of tens of meters, I couldn't see that much at once."

"And the glass itself." Richard picked up a shard of glass.

"A piece of glass is the boundary between the inside and the outside."

"I can cut glass as easily as I can cut a stone."

Richard recalled that half a second after the knife fell, and Jing Shui saw it clearly: the reflection in the glass broke, and the giant monster that pounced broke at the same moment, with no time or sequence in between.

"On the other side of the curtain, the reflection and the original are inherently one."

He slowly summarized:

"When we look in the mirror, the image in the mirror is fake, but the real thing is real."

"But when the curtain is turned over, it's all a reflection anyway."

"Therefore, in the mirror tradition, attacking a mirror reflection has the same effect as attacking the original object, or even a better effect."

McFee also picked up the glass shards and examined them, then nodded in satisfaction upon hearing this.

"The way you just did that is something Catherine will never learn in her entire life."

You should have seen the differences between these traditions clearly tonight.

The white-haired giant stood up and slapped his knees.

"Alright, let's get ready."

:

Greer was naturally the first to act, after all, he was a member of the hearth tradition.

As he got up, he cursed, "I really came here just to be a laborer."

They might curse, but they're faster than anyone else at it.

"You probably don't understand the value of this thing." He squatted in the middle of a pile of scrap metal, very excited.

"Old evil artifacts are everywhere. Ancient battlefields, old mills, church cellars... They are exactly the same as they were hundreds of years ago. The academic community has studied them over and over again for hundreds of years and they're worn out."

"This one is different today."

He turned a section of the metal shell over and pointed to the rust on the inner wall.

"It was developed in recent decades, and its outer shell is the roller cover of an assembly line. Before 1880, such a thing did not exist in the world at all."

He dragged the funnel opening over as well, but halfway through he realized he couldn't move it, so he turned around and called out, "Professor, give me a hand."

McFee lifted the funnel with one hand and weighed it in his hand.

The only official website address for this novel is: ".". The website owner has only this one website, and other websites may be discontinued at any time.

"I want half of this."

"What do you need it for?"

"Go back and show this to the students. Having studied this new type of evil spirit will allow them to find the right remedy when they encounter it in the future."

Richard was also picking and choosing, pressing his palm against each item.

For the vast majority of things, the panel remained completely still.

This weakness has only been around for a short time; it has virtually no history.

Even the shed was only built in March of this year. The new items haven't been fully cured by the ether yet. No matter how strange they look, they're just a pile of waste.

The branch office also helped collect what they could, but Richard only managed to pick out a small jar of yellow powder and a piece of conveyor belt leather, the edges of which still bore traces of something gnawing on them.

There were a few shell casings left. The staff at the branch office were going to destroy them all, but McFaye snatched a few from them, saying the college wanted to keep samples.

There are also chemical raw materials, and a small bottle of nitrocellulose solution.

It should have been colorless, but now it has a bit more sediment.

Richard held the bottle up to the light and spun it halfway around; the sediment followed suit.

He also put the bottle of nitrocellulose solution into the frost branch box.

Greer, watching from the side, said, "Why don't you take more? There's still so much on the ground."

:

Richard closed the frost branch box: "Taking it back would just be waste material; it would take up space and require purification."

"Does purification cost money?"

"Purification is deadly."

Greer thought for a moment, then surprisingly nodded, and hugged the two metal shells even tighter to his chest.

The rest and cleanup took much longer than the actual battle, and by the time everything was finished, it was already midnight.

On the other side, the factory manager had just fallen asleep when he was summoned from his home.

The man was in his fifties. He hurriedly put on a suit jacket, but he buttoned it up wrong.

He entered the shed and saw only broken bricks and scrap iron on the ground, and his expression was very strange.

The clerk at the branch office handed over the documents:

"Mr. Factory Manager, we suggest that your factory make some adjustments to its work arrangements."

"First, reduce the night shift quota by one-fifth, temporarily for three months."

"Also, during roll call, you need to say the full name, not the employee number."

"For female factory workers who can't stop working after get off work, arrange for someone to hold their hand and call their name until they stop on their own."

"For the next month, no one is allowed to be alone at the factory at night."

The factory manager frowned and didn't speak for a long while.

"I can do whatever you want from here on out, but I can't say for sure about the amount of ammunition loaded."

"The quota is under the Ministry of Military Supplies. Last month, on the 19th, a general order was issued to increase the quota by 15% at all loading plants nationwide."

"I told them to pack less, and someone will come to check on me tomorrow."

Once they check my spot, it's gone. Someone else will come, and that person will just raise the quota even higher.

His eyelids drooped, and he looked very tired.

"Gentlemen, the front lines are firing 30,000 rounds a day. We're running out of ammunition. What am I supposed to use to keep going?"

The clerk stood there, unsure of what to say.

He really couldn't refute that.

The branch office can indeed close off several streets, stop work for a day, and issue a warning notice to the factory in the name of public health.

But the quota telegram from the Ministry of Military Supplies... he, a clerk in the inspection team, couldn't even retrieve a copy of that telegram.

:

In the current environment, all factories involved in military industry are under government control, and factory directors no longer have absolute authority.

Richard listened from the side.

He suddenly walked over and untied his canvas bag.

"Mr. Factory Manager."

"...Who are you?"

"Department of Classics, Imperial Capital University, Richard Williams."

He spread the notebook out on the table: "I'd like to tell you about a case first."

"What are you going to say?"

"In 1898, there was a match factory north of Bolton."

Greer looked up, lost in thought.

Richard recounted the case with an air of seriousness.

"That factory needs to increase production in the spring."

"The factory manager who signed that quota form started making mistakes in the accounts in March."

As he wrote, a series of numbers gradually became a single number, filling an entire page. He thought he was just tired.

"He woke up in the middle of the night in April and found his right hand moving outside the blanket."

Richard raised his right hand, pinched it very lightly with his thumb and forefinger, released it, and then pinched it again.

"Just like that, exactly the same gesture as dipping phosphorus in the workshop."

He slept on his side, pressing his hand under the covers, but the next morning, his hand was still outside the blanket.

The factory manager's gaze fell on that hand.

"In May, his wife said his nails were turning yellow and he couldn't wash them off no matter what he did."

"One night in June, his wife woke up in the middle of the night and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed..."

Richard paused deliberately.

"The area around his chin was glowing green in the dark."

Greer chimed in from the side.

"You may have seen workers with phosphorus-induced osteonecrosis of the jaw."

:

The factory manager's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

Richard continued, "In July, the factory's accounts didn't match up."

"We produced an extra batch, and those extra ones were made more neatly than anyone else's."

"The factory reported it to their superiors, saying that they had exceeded their targets, and they even gave them a commendation."

He closed the notebook.

"One morning in August, when people found the factory manager, his poisoning symptoms were even worse than those of the most severely affected female workers."

"Sitting behind his desk, his hands were still moving."

The factory manager stood in front of the long table, his eyes darting around.

"...Sir, your story..."

"Don't be so quick to disbelieve."

Richard poured some yellow powder onto a piece of white paper.

The powder that fell onto the paper spread out and began to line up, neatly arranged in two rows.

The factory manager took half a step back.

Richard silently inputted ether, which was originally a mark engraved on the powder, and could be activated with a very small amount of ether.

"This is how your factory arranges its plants."

The factory manager steadied himself against the edge of the table, feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet.

McFee stood to the side and impatiently shoved the clerk next to him.

The clerk was helpless, but still pulled out another piece of paper.

"Mr. Factory Manager, this is the health inspection report we issued."

"The notice states: This factory has a cluster of neurological symptoms caused by chemical dust and continuous nighttime operations. It is recommended to temporarily adjust production, set up shift change checkpoints, and prohibit single-person operations at night."

"It's already stamped by the inspection team."

He handed it over along with the pen.

"Take this paper and report it to your superiors, saying that we forced you to change it."

………………

Just before getting into the car, Richard raised his hand.

:

He spread his index finger and thumb apart and made a square shape in front of his eyes.

"Crack."

The ether that had just returned to the microcirculation was only partially drained.

This time, Richard learned from his mistake and avoided both McFaye and Greer; the footage showed only the dimly lit armory.

On the other side was a pile of broken bricks, scrap iron, and dry powder behind the curtain, with a very faint brushstroke hanging there. He would study this slowly when he got back.

As the group prepared to get in the car and head back, they heard commotion coming from the factory area.

The female workers came out of the changing room one by one, and the hair color of several of them was obviously wrong.

The supervisor stood at the door, holding the roll call book in his hand.

She opened the book and stopped reading out the employee numbers.

"Ada Quinn."

The older woman at the front of the line paused for a moment.

"……arrive."

Dolly Hill.

A thin girl raised her hand.

Her right hand, her thumb and forefinger, was still pinching very lightly.

"arrive."

The supervisor glanced at her, walked over, and reached out to grasp her hand completely.

Dolly Hill.

The girl pressed her hand against her palm twice.

Dolly Hill.

I upvoted it again.

Dolly Hill.

Stopped.

The girl looked up, and her eyes suddenly reddened; she didn't know why.

"...I'm here."

:

"I know you're here."

Three hundred and twenty names were read out, taking a full fifteen minutes.

After they finished reading, the group walked a dozen steps, and someone started to sing a tune.

"She didn't answer the first time, she didn't answer the second time, and she went to knock on another door the third time."

The second one caught up:

"They won't accept wet food, they won't accept cold food, and they won't accept food brought indoors."

By the third sentence, the entire road was covered in it.

They couldn't sing in unison; several of them sang off-key, and someone even tried to beat the last line.

But they were really happy singing.

As the truck drove out of the factory gate, Greer sat on the edge of the truck bed, holding the two sections of the metal shell without saying a word for a long time.

"Williams".

"What's wrong, Associate Professor?"

"That match factory in Bolton that you were just talking about..."

"I made it up," Richard admitted without batting an eye.

The truck bed was quiet for a while.

"...I knew it." Greer shook his head.

"There is no record of the Bolton case in the engineering school's archives."

McFaye laughed out loud in front, and the whole car shook.

"You little rascal, you're a complete liar."

"professor……"

McFee turned around.

"But the effect is indeed quite good."

Greer, holding the metal shell, chimed in.

"...I almost believed it myself just now."

He glanced at Richard, his expression somewhat complicated.

:

"It wasn't like this when you were doing your summer internship, was it?"

Richard leaned against the back of the truck bed, pretending to rest with his eyes closed, and did not answer.

They can control this one family today, but the Ministry of Military Supplies' telegram has been sent to the whole country.

Richard suddenly remembered the stack of manuscripts he had in his drawer.

The editor of Century Review has been planning this long-running column for a long time, and now he has decided to change the first article to this very topic.

My body was swaying in the truck bed, and the two people in my mind started talking on their own.

"Mr. Vice Minister, the front lines need artillery shells. I plan to increase the loading plant's quota by another 20%."

"Your Excellency is wise; this is an extremely courageous decision."

"brave?"

"Being brave means that the newspapers will publish the girls' photos."

"...So what's your suggestion?"

"I propose that a committee be established to conduct a thorough, careful, and comprehensive study on the impact of consecutive night shifts on the physical health of female workers."

Richard didn't know if it would work.

But if I just go back to sleep like this tonight, I won't be able to get over it.

Upon reaching the city, both professors returned to their dormitories at Imperial College, leaving him to be driven back to Ashford House by a longer convoy.

Richard decided to go back to his dormitory to rest as well.

When he took out the Sphinx, he saw that above the forehead of the human face, next to the one that had just closed up, a new one had appeared.

It's very shallow; it's only just begun.

Richard then spread the items he had brought back on the table and placed his palm on each one.

Available points: 3.23...3.31...3.44...

Available points: 3.61.

He was prepared that the weak points would not be exposed for long.

The following afternoon, in the Petrie Building, in McFaye's office.

McFee pulled a piece of paper from behind his desk and slammed it on the table.

"You now owe me a paper—The Fragmentation Technique Using Reflections as a Mediator: Conditions for Establishment, Scope of Validity, and Costs."

:

"You can choose the specific topic yourself."

Richard picked up the paper, nodded, and left the office.

The panel had already lit up in his field of vision.

[Achieved: A piece of knowledge was fully translated from one traditional mode of expression to another, and the translation can function independently within the new tradition.]

At this time last year, he thought: all the major traditions are clearly distinct, how can they be translated into each other and still function?

That was incredibly difficult, but this one was accomplished quietly, and in fact, it was accomplished in real-world practice.

What he lacks now is how to organize it in a systematic way.

Richard brought up the control panel.

[Knowledge Level 4, Progress 97%]

[Knowledge Level 5 - General Knowledge]

[The speed of deciphering and learning previously unseen languages, codes, and inscriptions is increased, the extent of which depends on the existing knowledge base.]

[Knowledge Level 5] will be available in the next couple of days.

Richard went back and wrote a paper, but he quickly got stuck.

He wrote very smoothly, provided examples of the conditions for the conditions to be met, and roughly outlined the scope of validity.

The problem is that there are too few samples, and there's also something that hasn't been verified.

In the factory, he was shaving off the evil things present.

The giant worm was right in front of him, separated only by a pane of glass; its reflection and its actual form were in the same shed.

What if the reflections aren't in the same shed?

Can a person's reflection elsewhere—a business card, a photo, a form, a name—work?

And if you're going to do an experiment, you need to find a target.

It can't be something evil; evil things are too unstable, and the results won't be included in the paper. It would also be troublesome to find weaknesses in the paper.

It couldn't be a living person either, because he was afraid of actually killing them.

Ideally, it should be something that belongs to a living person, but is not the living person's physical form.

And the living person needs to be far enough away.

After he cuts off a portion, that person won't die, won't be crippled, won't lose their job... at most, they'll just have a couple of unpleasant days.

:

Richard put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and thought for about three minutes before a brilliant idea suddenly popped into his head.

Hey, I've got it!

He reached into the side pocket of the canvas bag and pulled out a copper stamp.

Genoa, 2nd floor of 11 Via San Lorenzo, visitors enter with this number.

"...I'm sorry, Senior Mercury."

He placed the bronze seal in the center of the table, and after he finished, he couldn't hold back anymore.

In the pursuit of knowledge, someone always has to be the first to be boiled like a frog.

Richard had made the necessary preparations.

He sprinkled two rings of coarse salt around the bronze seal, a step that would probably never be needed, but Donald's words, "The worst thing in our line of work is being greedy for small gains," had been echoing in his ears for the past two days.

Then place the silver mirror of Venus opposite the bronze seal.

Finally, he placed the frost branch box open on his right-hand side, just in case he had to seal it immediately.

After completing the preparations, he suppressed the condensation technique.

80%, 70%, 60%, 50%... 30%.

Mercury's business card reveals layers in his watery landscape.

The outermost layer is copper itself, which is not very old, only about twenty years old.

The wear is concentrated on the edges and corners, probably caused by being rubbed together with metal objects in someone's pocket.

Given Mercury's personality, he probably mixed this thing in with the coins in his pocket.

Richard pressed the still water further inside.

He himself was somewhat surprised by this post; he knew it all too well.

He could almost smell the other person's office on the second floor: ink, old carpet, and a hint of tar from the harbor.

"...So easy to read."

He sat at the table and thought for a while before he understood.

This seal was originally taken out by that person for others to read.

The whole purpose of a business card is to be seen and remembered on behalf of its owner so that people can come to do business with them.

Richard finished reading, pondered for a moment, and then began to write.

:

The first stroke is the thickest, and it's written in one continuous stroke from beginning to end: "运运" (yùn yùn).

Goods travel from here to there, via ships, cargo holds, warehouses, and transshipment ports.

The second one is more detailed, but also the most profound: a guarantee.

If I say this batch of goods is genuine, then it is genuine.

The third stroke is the shallowest and shortest: to attract.

That is, to make people walking on San Lorenzo Street look up at the second floor when they reach the door of number 11.

Richard thought about it and decided to make his move at the last minute.

The moment the first cut was made, the dozen or so trade routes that person controlled were thrown into chaos.

Cutting the second piece of the pie would be even worse. This was the most valuable thing that person had accumulated over the years, and a good business reputation was more important than any goods.

"……Um."

Richard took out the antlers, weighed them in his hand, and then put them back.

This thing is too rude; he wanted to cut it lightly.

He took one out of the silver needle box.

The needle tip touched the silver mirror and traced a slanted line down along the shallowest part of the stroke.

"Clang!"

Richard took the still water.

The bronze seal was placed in the center of the table, and nothing changed.

………………

No. 11, Via San Lorenzo, Genoa.

In August, the Mediterranean sun scorched the entire street like an iron plate, yet people still stood on the steps, taking off their hats to fan themselves.

The blinds in the office on the second floor were half-closed.

Mercury... Of course, no one in Genoa calls him that; people here just call him "boss."

He sat behind the writing desk and finished reading the day's shipping schedule.

After looking at the clock, he put it down and looked up at the wall clock.

11:40.

:

"...Piero!"

"Uncle... no, boss, what are your orders?"

The waiter peeked halfway in from the outer room; this was his relative, the hunter who had just finished signing his name.

The young man is only nineteen years old. He has a freckle on his nose that hasn't completely faded, and he always seems unsure of what to do with his hands when he's standing.

"How many people came up this morning?"

Piero thought for a moment.

"...Does it count as the one who delivers the letter?"

"Not really."

"Then that's all."

Mercury grunted and closed the shipping schedule.

"It's probably because it's too hot. When it's over 30 degrees Celsius, people don't like climbing stairs."

The waiter nodded repeatedly, saying, "Yes, you're right."

"It should be available this afternoon," Mercury said, trying to stay calm.

No one came to the door in the afternoon either.

The next morning, two telegrams were delivered one after the other.

The first letter was from a cotton merchant in Marseille, saying that his elderly mother had suddenly fallen ill and the meeting scheduled for this week had been rescheduled for next month.

The second letter was from a ship owner in Livorno, saying that the sailing schedule had been changed at the last minute, and he had personally gone to apologize and reschedule the sailing.

Mercury laid the two telegrams side by side on the table, stroking the stubble on his chin.

"Both Piero and Piero have valid reasons."

"Yes, it's perfectly justified."

"So perfect that I can't find any fault with it."

The waiter stood at the door, unsure of what to say.

"Bring me last month's ledger," Mercury said.

That afternoon, he reviewed the previous month's transactions several times and recalculated them all.

After finishing the calculations, he closed the ledger, leaned back in his chair, and felt even more puzzled.

:

The accounts are fine; that's the crucial point.

If there's a problem with the accounts, at least he knows who to turn to.

At seven o'clock on the morning of the third day, Mercury stood by the window with a cup of coffee.

I wake up very early on San Lorenzo Street.

The boat equipment shop diagonally across the street had already rolled up its shutters, while the door to the insurance shop next door was open, and the old lady lending money on the third floor was moving a pot of basil out onto the windowsill.

At 8:15, the first person walked over from the street corner.

The man was wearing a light-colored linen suit and had a briefcase tucked under his arm.

Mercury was pleased with this attire; the gentleman wanted to discuss business!

As a result, the gentleman stopped at the door of number eleven.

He looked up and glanced at the second floor.

Mercury quickly put down his coffee cup.

The man stood at the door for less than five seconds.

Then he switched the briefcase to his other arm, turned around, and went to the insurance company across the street.

Mercury stood by the window, dumbfounded.

"Piero, bring me paper and pen!"

He sat by the window all day counting heads.

The second person paused at the door for three seconds;

The third person stopped the longest, for about eight seconds, and even reached out to touch the door frame;

The fourth person had already stepped onto the first step, but then pulled his foot back.

By 5 p.m., twelve vertical lines had been drawn on the paper.

Each of the twelve people walked to the door and suddenly couldn't remember what they were supposed to do.

The ship fittings shop diagonally across the street sold two winches today;

The insurance shop next door stayed open all afternoon;

The old lady on the third floor has very good basil.

Mercury pushed the paper to the center of the table: "Piero!"

:

The guy came in.

"sit."

"...The boss?"

"I'll let you sit down."

Piero sat down in the chair opposite him, but only sat on one side of his buttocks.

"Tell me, what exactly has been going on these past few days?"

Mercury sighed deeply: "I've been in business for half my life, and what I dislike most is ambiguity."

The waiter raised his hand and said somewhat timidly, "Boss, have you offended anyone recently?"

: