I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Piero began to take stock.

"Boss, last month at dinner, that director of the Genoa Chamber of Commerce said his ship was like a bathtub."

"...He said so himself." Mercury curled his lip, denying it.

"But he said, 'You said no.'"

"He laughed when I said that," Mercury said, waving his hand.

"Alright, it can't be him. He doesn't have that ability."

"That...the foreman at the dock?"

"I just found a job for his son last month."

"That……"

Piero went through everything he could remember from the past two years, but by the end he had lost confidence.

Then he suddenly raised his head.

"Boss, could the person you cursed in your dream last month be...?"

Mercury's hand, which was about to reach for the coffee, stopped.

The office was quiet for a long time. Then a delivery cart creaked and groaned past downstairs, its wheels rolling over the stone slabs all the way to the street corner.

"...That person wouldn't do such a thing."

He put the cup down.

"Why not, boss?"

"Because if that person wants to harm me..."

Mercury's expression also turned serious: "I may never have the chance to sit here and drink coffee again."

"That……"

"but."

He picked up the paper with twelve vertical lines drawn on it and squinted at it in the light from the window.

"Who knows what might happen to the others at that table? Oh right, our people might also target me."

"In that case, we'll ask someone to come and take a look."

Piero didn't understand at all.

:

Mercury didn't care whether his nephew understood or not. He pointed to the corner of the room: "Go get that checkbook from the cabinet, the bottom one."

In the evening, a short message was sent from No. 11 San Lorenzo Street to a recipient north of the Alps.

The letter was very polite, and not a single word mentioned what had happened.

I simply said I'd like to ask that gentleman to come sometime this week, with the schedule to be set by him and all expenses to be borne by us.

The deposit was enclosed, and it was the largest single payment I had made in the past ten years.

On the morning of the fourth day, at 7:50.

Mercury stood by the window with his coffee in hand; he had arrived earlier than the previous few days.

At 7:52, a person walked over from the street corner.

He recognized the man; he was a timber merchant from Trieste.

Last year, I argued with him about the price in this room. We were cursing and swearing, but in the end, I still signed the contract.

The man walked to the door of number eleven and looked up at the second floor.

Then he pushed the door open and came in.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs from the first floor to the second floor, reaching the door where there was a knock three times.

Mercury's heart finally settled down when he heard a knock on the door.

"Please come in!"

He placed the coffee cup on the windowsill and quickly turned around.

The movement was too hasty, and the knee hit the writing table directly, causing the whole table to shake.

The door opened, and the timber merchant looked at Mercury, who was grimacing in pain, with a completely bewildered expression.

"...Sir, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Mercury placed his hand on the chair opposite him. "Very well. I've been waiting for you."

The second floor was bustling all day.

At 10 o'clock, the cotton merchant from Marseille sent a second telegram, saying that his mother was much better and that the week would proceed as planned.

At 11 o'clock, the ship owner from Liwo came to the door in person and apologized as soon as he entered.

Throughout the afternoon, guests arrived in droves.

At 6:30 p.m., Piero saw the last guest downstairs and returned covered in sweat.

:

"Boss, do you want to withdraw the deposit from that gentleman north of the Alps?"

Mercury wiped his sweat, which was entirely due to excitement.

"Since I've already paid, let him come. When he comes, I'll treat him to a meal to maintain our relationship."

In his view, a small financial loss is a minor matter; maintaining his network of relationships is the most important thing.

"Then... how do we tell him?"

Mercury stood by the window for a while.

The sun was setting towards the harbor, bathing the entire San Lorenzo Street in a golden light.

The roller shutter door of the boat equipment shop diagonally across the street was being pulled down, and the old lady on the third floor was starting to pack up basil.

"Just say that someone is playing a prank."

"……mischief?"

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.

"Yes, it was a prank."

Mercury made up his mind; he lowered the blinds of his shop and prepared to close and go home.

"Anyone in this line of work will encounter this a few times in their lifetime."

"What should I do if I encounter this?"

"Make a note of this."

Mercury turned around, his smile exactly the same as when he took off his hat and bowed in farewell in the City of Seven Hills.

"Then wait for him to come to our door."

Back in the capital, Richard was also beginning to review the results.

The coarse salt was still there, the silver mirror stood in its original place, and the frost branch box remained open.

He left these out for three days, but didn't use any of them.

Richard activated the Mirror Condensation Technique and read the bronze seal business card again.

When he made that stroke on the first day, he clearly saw it being wiped off the edge, the cut was very clean.

The next morning, the break had begun to heal.

This morning, the cut was completed on its own, with no visible connection, exactly the same as before he made the cut.

:

Richard put the seal back on the table and leaned back in his chair.

He didn't observe much information during those three days.

The next afternoon, he pressed the still water deeper into the copper seal, hoping to use the seal to find his way to the office across the sea.

He wanted to know how things were going over there, whether no one was really coming anymore.

Just as the still water touched up a little, inspiration began to strike.

Richard immediately stopped drinking the water, realizing that the business card was a two-way street.

Business cards are easy to read because people actually want you to read them.

But as he looked at the business card, he could also look back from there.

The other party was, after all, a seasoned expert. He peered inside with a living business card attached, which was no different from knocking on a window.

In that case, he would have no idea what happened over there, whether the gentleman got angry, or whether he didn't even notice it.

The only proof he had was that the mark he had cut off on the copper seal had grown back on its own within three days.

The procedure did work, but the results weren't ideal. That's all.

You can't exactly call and ask, "Sir, how's business these past three days?"

That's way too much. Richard shook his head, picked up the pen, and started a new page in his notebook.

Section 3: Effective Scope and Self-Healing

He wrote down the first one:

"Same target, same stroke, it will recover on its own about 72 hours after being cut."

The recovery process requires no awareness of the target and no ritual.

He paused after finishing writing, then added half a line:

"The recovery speed is directly proportional to the total amount of traces the target left in this world; the more traces, the faster."

That person left too many traces in this world.

Doorplates, ledgers, shipping schedules, insurance policies, registers of more than a dozen transshipment ports... and the people who pass by every day on the street and are used to seeing that louvered window on the second floor.

He was cutting off a stroke from the business card, but the other person had countless connections to the world.

After you cut it off, the other person will heal on their own, usually within three days.

Richard put down his pen and looked at the bronze seal on the table, now perfectly intact.

:

Genoa... Mercury is actually backed by this entire commercial city.

Richard recalled that night in the city of Seven Hills, when the man took off his wide-brimmed hat, revealing his true face in front of everyone, and then gave them the address of the shop.

The fact that the other party dared to announce their house number in front of these people and distribute all their business cards means they must have something to rely on.

Hecate also received a business card.

With such a business card in hand, a highly skilled psychic would find it much easier to take action than Richard.

Richard picked up his pen again.

Section 4: The Separation of Readability and Functionality

"Anything made for the purpose of being read is the most readable. Business cards, doorplates, seals, and posters all fall into this category."

"But high readability does not equal high usability."

"The reason why such objects are easy to read is precisely because their owners are willing to be read."

Those who are willing to be read by readers often have something to rely on: they are not afraid to be read.

He drew an emphasis line next to this line and added a note: "Choose your target carefully."

Richard also finished the first draft of the paper while waiting for the results.

The final title was "On the Edges of a Mirror: The Feasibility of the Broken Branch Technique on Reflection Carriers".

After finishing the first draft, he read it several times and was quite satisfied with it.

He delivered it to his office that afternoon after he finished writing it, and McFaye flipped through it very quickly.

I paused on the third page, and then paused again on the seventh page.

After flipping through the entire manuscript, he casually slammed it onto the table.

"Rewrite!"

Richard stood across the table, grunted in surprise, not too surprised; after all, how could a thesis be finalized on the first try?

"Professor, where exactly is it...?"

"Nowhere will do." McFee pushed the manuscript back.

"What you wrote is purely your post-operative reflection."

"I wrote the conditions for its establishment in the second section," Richard couldn't help but retort.

"What you wrote was: The small reflection on the glass narrowed the resolution range."

:

McFee turned to the page and jabbed his finger into the paper: "How much smaller exactly is it?"

Richard couldn't answer.

What is the ratio of an object ten meters away shining onto a flat glass plate one-tenth of an inch thick?

What if it were reflected in a bronze mirror? What if it were reflected in a basin of water? What if it were reflected in a polished piece of obsidian?

The white-haired giant lowered his hand.

"Go back tonight and try all four of these. After you're done, give me the specific data."

"...Professor, I don't have any obsidian."

"The Classics Department's archives have them. Last year, the Engineering College sent over two. You can borrow them using my note."

Richard took the manuscript back with him.

In order to write the second draft, he did try all four media.

He read the copper target on the east wall of the training room ten times on each of the four different media, recording the success rate of the strike, the time required to read it, and the ether consumption.

He was somewhat surprised when the numbers came out.

The best one wasn't the silver mirror of Venus, but rather the thin glass covered with yellow powder.

In fact, silver mirrors are made of high-tin bronze. Pure silver mirrors are easily scratched and deformed, and their reflective efficiency is not as good as that of high-tin bronze.

The silver mirror was too clear; when it reflected the image, it would carry an extra layer of ether, blending it with the stroke he was trying to read, making it difficult to distinguish.

Still water is the most unstable, and people need to expend extra energy to maintain it.

Obsidian is the darkest color to read; you have to guess even where the pen begins.

Thin glass is actually the best; it's thin and dirty, and it's nothing to me.

In his second draft, Richard concluded: "The paler the ether of the carrier itself, the purer the reflection."

In this draft, McFee spent much longer looking at the data pages than last time.

"That's enough for this section."

Richard breathed a sigh of relief.

"The latter won't work."

McFee flipped to the back of the manuscript.

"In the fourth section, you wrote about the costs, including the consumption of ether, the backlash from the failed strike, and the tracing back after the target became aware of the attack."

:

"Yes."

"One thing is missing."

Richard stood there waiting.

"Your own."

The office fell silent.

"There's an old saying in the tradition of moon hunting: if you say a name, that name will recognize you."

He pushed the manuscript over to me.

"The same goes for broken branches; every stroke you erase will be recorded as to who made it."

Richard thought for a moment: "I've applied it more than ten times in the past two months, and so far nothing has come up."

The white-haired giant shook his head: "Ten times is too few. Come back and say that to me when you've applied it hundreds of times."

He slapped his knee hard.

"Besides, what did you put on it? A fifty-year-old factory worm, a few cursed items, and a business card that someone sent you."

McFee tapped Richard's hand: "The day you mess with someone who turns around and climbs all over you, you'll know why I said that."

Richard lowered his head and wrote down all of these words.

After taking the manuscript back, Richard first took out another stack of manuscript papers.

While preparing his thesis and waiting for the Theological Salon meeting, he also did something else.

He had been working on a long-term column for the editor-in-chief of Century Review for almost half a year, and he crossed out several of the beginnings he wrote.

He originally intended to write about a loading plant, but after reading it over, he realized it had turned into an accusation.

The editor-in-chief wants long-term columns, not something that makes people slam their fists on the table and then forget about it.

His essay last year proved this once: after satirizing it, the system remains the same, and a different person sits behind the same table and continues to do the same thing.

Later, he deleted all the accusations, leaving only the story. After finishing writing it, he realized it was a good story, but after reading it, nothing was left.

Richard wrote the title at the top of the manuscript: "The Prudent Gentlemen"

This time, he's going to write a comedy.

He spent an entire night working on three characters.

The first one is a minister, who has been in office for eleven days. He is full of enthusiasm and wants to do some great things that will go down in history.

:

This person must genuinely want to do good deeds; doing good deeds is the foundation of the entire story.

When a bad person does something bad, readers will curse him. Once they feel better after cursing, the matter is over.

A good person pushes a good deed forward, and the whole story revolves around it, but in the end, nothing is actually accomplished... This kind of writing will make readers start to think after they close the magazine.

The second is the Permanent Vice Minister, who has a high level of education and 27 years of service.

This person can't be a bad person either, and they can't spend their whole life doing only one thing: ensuring that this department keeps running as usual tomorrow.

In order for the department to operate as usual tomorrow, some things must remain in place today.

The third is the private secretary, responsible for serving tea and filing documents, acting as a lubricant.

He was a classical studies major and originally wanted to stay at the university to do academic research, but he failed the entrance exam and ended up in the Ministry of the Interior.

His duties included serving tea, filing documents, and pointing out when no one needed him to use the wrong allusions.

He was the only one in the whole story who told the truth; everything he said was true, but it didn't change anything.

Richard began writing the main text.

The first story is titled "A Color".

Scene: Top floor of the Ministry of the Interior, an office covered with a thick carpet.

Minister: Open the window, it's too stuffy today.

Secretary: Your Excellency, this window is nailed shut.

Minister: Why were they nailed to the ground?

Secretary: Two years ago, a document flew out from here, landed on the street, and was picked up by someone.

Minister: What does that document say?

Secretary: I don't know, Your Excellency. Even the person who picked it up didn't know, so the next day the newspapers published several guesses.

(At this moment, the Vice Minister arrived at work dressed in a suit and tie.)

Minister: Good morning, Vice Minister. I have read the report from the ash weir. Last month, thirty-seven female workers at the fourth factory fell ill.

Vice Minister: Your Excellency, there are four.

Minister: The number written on this document is thirty-seven.

Vice Minister: The form you have in your hand is from March. We changed the form in April.

Minister: What does changing the form have to do with the number of people?

:

Vice Minister: The new form has changed the "Disease" column to "Diseases attributable to the factory's operations," which must be determined by the factory doctor.

Minister: What about the other thirty-three?

Vice Minister: In the "Other" section, Your Excellency.

Minister: They are not "others", they are human beings!

Vice Minister: Of course, Your Excellency, they are people, but they are registered under "Others," which are not included in the statistics.

Minister: This is playing with words.

Vice Minister: Your Excellency, this is statistics.

(It stopped for a long time)

Minister: Their skin is yellow.

Vice Minister: Your Excellency, the official term is "mild hyperpigmentation".

Minister: The newspapers say it's yellow.

Vice Minister: The newspapers also called them canaries, Your Excellency. This terminology is very welcome at headquarters.

Minister: Welcome?

Vice Minister: It's very touching; it turns a hygiene issue into something moving.

Minister: What's so good about touching things?

Vice Minister: Touching things don't need a budget, Your Excellency.

Secretary: Sir, I checked. Canaries were originally used in mines. Miners took them down the mine because they would fall down before the miners. Once they fell, the miners knew it was time to run.

(silence)

Minister: Secretary.

Secretary: What are your instructions?

Minister: This section should not be included in the minutes.

……

Minister: I don't intend to be the kind of person who's still playing the violin when Rome is on fire.

Secretary: Your Excellency, Nero was not playing a violin. The violin was not invented until 1,400 years later.

Minister: What was he pulling?

:

Secretary: Suetonius wrote for the lyre and said he sang "The Fall of Ilion," but Tacitus said it was just a rumor.

Minister: So did he poop or not?

Secretary: The historical records are unclear, Your Excellency. The only thing we can be certain of is that the fire lasted for six days, and he was outside the city.

Vice Minister: This is very important, Your Excellency.

Minister: What's so important about it?

Vice Minister: It proves that even two thousand years later, people will still debate whether a minister was playing the violin if he was not present at the time of the incident.

Minister: I will not let this happen like the Trojans did, who built a wooden horse and invited disaster into the city.

Secretary: Your Excellency, the Trojan Horse was made by the Greeks; the Trojans were only responsible for bringing it into the city.

Minister: ...What's the difference?

Secretary: The difference is that the Trojans held a meeting on this matter, they discussed it for a whole day, and finally voted to approve it.

Vice Minister: That analogy is much more apt now, Your Excellency. What truly matters is never who built the Trojan Horse, but who signed the document that brought it through the city gates.

Minister: Who usually signs that document?

Under-Secretary-General: By the Minister himself, Your Excellency. The deputy minister is only responsible for countersigning.

Minister: I will sweep this matter out from under the rug, put it on the table, and then bury it once and for all.

Secretary: Your Excellency, one thing cannot be swept out, placed on top, and buried all at the same time.

Minister: Why not?

Secretary: Because there is only one.

Vice-Minister: No, Mr. Secretary, it is possible.

(The minister and his secretary turn their heads together.)

Vice-Minister: As long as it appears in three different documents.

Minister: I want to provide them with masks.

Vice Minister: Your Excellency, this is a proposal of great historical significance.

Minister: Why is it of historical significance?

Vice Minister: The historical significance means that it will be mentioned repeatedly in the future, Your Excellency, especially during investigations.

Minister: How much does a face mask cost?

:

Vice-Minister: one shilling and four pence, but money is not a problem.

Minister: So what is the problem?

Vice-Minister: meaning Your Excellency. Making a mask is tantamount to admitting there's a problem with the air quality in that shed.

Minister: The air in that shed was already problematic!

Vice Minister: That is true, but once it's written into the documents, we also admit that the air in that shed has been problematic for the past fifty years.

Minister: So what?

Vice Minister: Over the past fifty years, a total of eight thousand nine hundred people have worked in that air.

(...)

Vice Minister: Some of them are still alive. Your Excellency, those who are alive will protest and demand compensation.

Vice Minister: I suggest we try it out first.

Minister: In which company should we pilot this program?

Vice Minister: I suggest choosing a factory that needs it the least.

Minister: Why?

Vice Minister: Because if the trial is successful, it means that the measure is unnecessary; if the trial fails, it means that the measure is not feasible.

(...)

Vice Minister: In either case, Your Excellency is no longer responsible for it.

(It stopped for a long time)

Minister: Which one should we choose?

Deputy Officer: Factory No. 7, the girls there do woodworking like making ammunition boxes.

Minister: Carpentry work?

Vice-Minister: Their hands are white, and they look beautiful in photos.

……

(On the day of the inspection, there was enthusiastic applause. The next day's newspaper headline read: "Minister of the Interior visits the workshop and has lunch with female workers.")

On the way back.

Minister: Mr. Vice Minister.

:

Deputy Minister: Your Excellency.

Minister: What will happen to those girls in the future?

Vice Minister: They will be very grateful to you, Your Excellency.

Minister: I was asking about their hands.

(Pauses)

Vice-Minister: That is not within the scope of this department's authority.

Minister: Then within whose jurisdiction is it?

Vice-official: within the scope of authority during the period.

That night, the secretary opened a new file.

On the cover of the file, written in extremely neat handwriting, was the message: "It has received attention."

........................

Richard finished writing the last page, blew on the ink, and read it from beginning to end.

After reading it, he put the manuscript on the table and rested his hands behind his head.

...It's still not quite there.

Of the three people, the secretary is the most difficult to write about.

It's easy to write about a high-ranking official; he says whatever he thinks. It's even easier to write about a vice-official; he never says what he thinks.

The secretary is the only one who's hard to write about. Every sentence he says is correct, yet none of them change anything.

He recalled a drama he had watched in his past life, where the acting of all three actors was impeccable.

The actor who played the vice minister, in particular, could simultaneously display both "completely agree" and "absolutely impossible" expressions on his face.

After speaking, he would slightly tuck his chin in, letting you savor the moment.

And then there was that intermittent, canned laughter.

In film and television, sometimes this kind of canned laughter that is disliked is actually a punctuation mark for viewers who are not paying attention.

Every time laughter rings out, it's a reminder: Pay attention, it's time to laugh here!

When it was written as a serialized text, all of these were gone.

All he could do was write a few pitiful parentheses on the paper:

:

(It stopped for a long time)

(silence)

Richard sighed, recalling that Warren had mentioned in a letter last month: "I'm not coming to the capital."

The letter said that his good friend carried a box of drawing paper to the capital, enrolled as an auditor at an art academy, and made a living by drawing GG signs and trademarks for people.

Hugh actually has some artistic talent; his drawing skills aren't great, but his ability to express himself is pretty good.

This includes the graduation photos he drew for everyone at the end, as well as the photos he drew for people at the train station when he was recruiting soldiers.

Richard thought that those who could read should look at the words, and those who couldn't read should look at the pictures.

Moreover, you forget a sentence as soon as you finish reading it, but you won't forget a face.

If someone were to draw the face of that vice-minister: his eyelids were half-closed, his hands were folded in front of his abdomen, and a hint of impeccable respect hung at the corners of his mouth.

From now on, when readers see any important figure in the newspaper, they will think of this face first.

Let's meet up and talk things over after he takes a break. I'll treat him to roasted chicken legs then.

Once the final draft was completed, Richard showed it to a few people around him.

Sofia and Clara were both there that day.

Sofia snatched the manuscript away, leaned on the table, and laughed as she read it.

"This vice-minister!" she said, pointing to the paper.

"That deputy official is awful!"

"What's wrong with it?"

"He didn't tell a single lie from beginning to end!"

Sofia looked on in disbelief.

"Every word he says is correct, every word he says is for the minister's benefit, yet not a single thing gets done!"

She turned the page of the manuscript.

"I encountered people like that when I was doing record-keeping in the rear."

As she said this, the smile on her face faded a little.

"We submitted three reports requesting the addition of an energy storage device, and the reply stated that the requested device had been included in the overall planning for the next year."

Clara remained silent the entire time.

:

She waited until Sophia put the manuscript down before reaching out to take it.

I read those pages from beginning to end without uttering a sound.

"How is it?"

"I'm counting the people who handled it." She put down the manuscript.

"...What?"

"From your desk to the printed product, it goes through several hands."

She stretched out her finger and started pointing.

"Your hands, the post office, the editorial staff receiving manuscripts, the typesetters, the proofreaders, the editor-in-chief... at least six people."

She pushed the manuscript back: "The most important part here is actually the first one; it's best not to use your own handwriting."

"I can get a different pen."

"Changing the pen won't help," Clara shook her head.

"When the department selects inscriptions for dating, they look at the habits of starting and ending strokes."

When you write 'an', the last stroke always curves outwards.

She reached out her hand.

"I'll copy it for you."

"Senior..."

"I can copy quickly, and everyone in my character set has seen it before. If you've seen it too many times, no one will look at it a second time."

She thought for a moment, then added another sentence.

"Also, don't put the royalties in your own account."

In the afternoon, Richard and Catherine went over their homework in her rented room as usual, and took the opportunity to show her the manuscript as well.

The red-haired girl took the pages and read them from beginning to end without looking up.

After reading it, she put the manuscript on the table and took out her notebook.

I wrote a line, then flipped it over.

I can't laugh.

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

:

"...Where is the problem?"

Catherine turned the page of the notebook.

"It's my fault; there isn't a single bad person in this story."

"right."

She turned the page.

"Therefore, no one can be punished."

She wrote this line with a heavy touch of her pen.

Richard saw the invisible scale above her head tilt to the left, only to be forcefully pulled back by her own efforts.

She turned the notebook over and rewrote it.

"I don't like it."

I paused for a moment, then added another half-line.

"But it's right."

"When I read about that committee, I was reminded of my uncle's disability benefits application."

"It took seven months and three replies."

The first time they said the materials were incomplete, the second time they said the wrong department was responsible, and the third time they said it had been forwarded to the relevant department for review.

Richard remained silent.

Catherine turned to a new page in the notebook.

"But I know that this will make a lot of people laugh."

She finished writing, closed the notebook, and placed her hands on her knees.

After a while, she opened the notebook again and wrote a line.

"Keep writing."

Evelyn lay on the low table in Ashford's living room, finished reading three pages, and looked up with a blank expression.

"They talked so much, but in the end they did nothing."

"right."

"So what is this story about?"

:

"It's saying they did nothing."

Evelyn thought for a long time, then suddenly clapped her hands.

"I understand!"

"What do you know?"

"If this were made into a dessert, it would be meringue."

She made a ball shape with both hands.

"It looks so big and hard from the outside, and the color is nice too, but when you bite into it..."

She clasped her hands together.

"...It's all air."

Richard almost spilled his tea from laughing.

My aunt's portion was delivered to room 314, albeit reluctantly.

Isabella held a red pen in one hand and a manuscript in the other, and didn't smile once from beginning to end.

After reading it, she put the manuscript on the table.

"boring."

"...Where's the boredom?"

"You, as the vice-minister, speak too fluently." She made two dots on the second page with a red pen.

"A true permanent vice minister doesn't just say everything in one sentence."

They'll add two "to some extent" phrases in the middle, then check your expression; if you don't understand, they'll add another "in principle."

Richard changed those two places on the spot.

Isabella looked a little annoyed.

"That's what the guy in the next office said to me when I submitted the application for fieldwork funding for the department last month."

He said: "Associate Professor Ashford, your idea is very bold."

She snorted.

"I was so happy at the time, but it wasn't until I got back that I realized what had happened."

She pushed the manuscript back and twirled the red pen halfway through her hand.

:

"Instead of wasting your time making up jokes, you should finish revising your thesis first."

Professor McFee asked me in the department office last week if I was planning to continue writing that paper until next year.

He didn't say what the deadline would be.

"He didn't mention a deadline because he implicitly assumed it would be three days."

The manuscript was sent out on the fifteenth of August.

Richard walked to the mailbox at the street corner and stuffed the envelope inside.

A gray pigeon was perched on top of the mailbox, tilting its head to look at him.

………………

In Lukang in August, the rain falls patiently.

It rained steadily from seven in the morning until night.

The boats moored on the river were all painted with the flags of neutral countries, painted so new and shiny, as if afraid that the airships in the sky and the submarines underwater would not be able to see them clearly.

There's a tavern behind the pier with a sign that depicts three herrings. The drawing is rather rough, and the middle one only has one eye.

The symbol was drawn because this is a regular meeting place on the mystical side.

The guest who came in had a face covered in stitches and sutures, and even though he was wearing a mask, he still looked quite creepy.

Loki tossed the copper coin onto the table: "Gin, large, please."

There weren't many people sitting in the tavern.

An engineer was mending socks in a corner, while two hunters, whose jobs were unclear, huddled together chatting.

The store manager was in his fifties, bald, and had short, thick fingers.

He always carried a small booklet with a curled-edge cover, where he recorded everything from copper ingots to news.

"Sir, you look unfamiliar," the shop manager said.

"I come from the north."

"The north is difficult to travel now."

"When will it be easier to travel north?"

By the time he had his third drink, Loki started to complain.

He first complained about the weather, then about the port, and finally about his face, saying that he couldn't find any job because of it.

:

The shopkeeper sighed along with him; information brokers are masters at sighing, since sighing is free.

"You people handle everything."

Loki spun the cup halfway around: "Coffee, rubber, copper, machine tools."

"Anything else?" the store manager asked tentatively.

"There are others." Loki's smile wasn't very pleasant.

"So you heard everything."

"We hear a lot, but we understand little."

"Then I'll give you a sentence you'll understand."

He leaned forward and lowered his voice.

The volume was just right; the two hunters at the next table could hear half of it.

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