I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The re-inspection was scheduled for the afternoon of September 27th, and the location was changed to the materials laboratory of the School of Engineering.

Two rows of lights hang from the roof, and the experimental platform in the center is made of a single piece of granite with a brass ring embedded in it. These are devices that combine the mystical and industrial aspects and are rarely seen by outsiders.

Greer was standing behind the platform, lifting a machine onto the platform.

The machine was about half a person's height, with a cast iron casing, a row of scale windows on the side, and a total of seventeen pointers inserted at the back.

"What is this big thing?" Pendleton asked, peering into the doorway.

"This is called a continuous spectrum analyzer." Greer tightened the bolts, straightened up, and began to explain.

"The school doctor's machine is used to measure the ether reserves of living people; it only requires one needle."

"This device, which our engineering school used to determine the composition of the alloy, has a total of seventeen needles, allowing for a clearer view. This is one of the fascinating aspects of engineering."

He gave a thumbs-up as he spoke, but no one present except Richard reacted, which made him feel a little bored.

Croft followed Pendleton in: "Greece, why are you so enthusiastic today?"

The bearded man pulled the vernier caliper out of his pocket and raised an eyebrow.

"Actually, I've been nice to that kid for a long time."

Professor Wyndham was the last to arrive, and before entering, he asked, "Has Williams arrived yet?"

"Professor, I'm here."

Richard stepped out from behind Greer, completely blocking the way of the bearded associate professor.

As Mortimer had instructed beforehand, he left the Sphinx lamp in his dorm room today, and locked the silver ring and the eagle hook in a secret compartment as well.

He only retained the most essential [Perception and Reflexes], blocking his core trump card.

"Sit down." Greer pointed to the tall stool in front of the lab bench.

"Put both hands inside the brass rings, but don't touch the edges."

Richard sat down as instructed and placed his hands inside.

He felt a chill run down his spine, as if he were being put on an electric chair.

Greer pulled the lever, and the gears inside the machine immediately began to whir, and all seventeen needles fell to the bottom.

"Alright, let's begin."

The first needle was lifted, steadily and slowly, and then stopped completely in the middle.

Greer glanced at it: "His initial breathing technique was the Golden Path, the framework of the fourfold breathing."

:

Wyndham stood to the side of the platform and nodded.

"That's normal. Nine out of ten scholars in the empire start their studies here."

The second needle also lifted up, trembling quite badly.

"This..." Greer brought his face closer to the scale window.

"The waveform shows fluctuations."

"It's humid breathing," Pendleton said, flipping through his notebook.

"He reported it when he was promoted to a practitioner last year. It's a general advanced breathing technique, an old Ashford family heirloom."

"Compliance." Wyndham nodded.

When the third needle is lifted, the movement is more stable than the first two.

Once it's in position, it stays still, without wobbling at all.

"The Mirroring Technique," Croft added.

"The information he obtained from his aunt this year has been filed with the department."

"It's compliant too." But Wyndham's brows were already furrowed.

"That's three strands; most people only have two."

The fourth needle brush lifted up crisply, completely unlike the previous three.

Greer stared at it for a long time: "This part... doesn't look like breathing techniques."

He turned the knob one notch, and the needle wobbled before settling down.

"These are marks left by the spell; it should be from the Moon Hunting Technique."

Richard sat on a high stool, his hands still inside the brass rings.

He had already prepared his answer in his mind and immediately replied:

"Professor McFee took me on a field trip this May, and when we came back he assigned me an assignment."

"What homework?"

"Branch-cutting technique".

Wyndham's expression changed slightly.

"Did he teach you that?"

:

"Yes, I wrote five drafts of the paper, and the fifth draft was just approved by him last week."

Pendleton looked down and flipped through the booklet.

"...The manuscript was received on August 26th. Professor McFee personally delivered it to the department, but the specific materials were signed off and sealed by him and Professor Mortimer."

Wyndham didn't ask any more questions.

The fifth needle was also raised, very slowly.

Greer thought it was broken and reached out and tapped the metal casing.

"This section is silk, very fine, with many strands intertwined."

He moved his face away from the scale window.

"Weaving a net."

Pendleton started flipping through the booklet again.

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.

"Mr. Williams has a very active staff at the Briston branch office since 1913."

Whitcomb, the western mining area, and Black Gully: the recorder and accompanying scholar for three seal maintenance missions.

"His clairvoyance and stone reading were taught to him by a coroner under Marie Viktoria, and this was also reported."

"...That makes sense too," Pollock whispered at the doorway.

The relaxation in the lab lasted for less than ten seconds.

The sixth needle also rose, and as soon as it rose, the first five needles began to shake simultaneously.

Greer patted the machine with his large hand.

"This one is wrong; it's not on the scale."

The bearded man turned the knob from the first setting to the third setting, and then back again.

But no matter which setting the sixth needle is turned to, it always stops at the position between the two settings.

"The seventeen needles of this machine correspond to seventeen known modes of ether operation."

Greer pulled his hand back from the knob.

"But the trace of ether that pointer represents is not in our database."

Wyndham walked to the front of the platform.

:

"Can't the machines in the engineering school detect any trace of ether in a practitioner?"

Richard blinked, guessing that this was probably a manifestation of a series of traditional changes, such as "Shadow Reversal".

Mirrors and star charts are existing minor traditions, and each will most likely occupy one square.

The changing tradition is their common source, falling precisely between the two.

In addition, the Stone Armor → Shadow Armor, Moon Nail → Reflection, Silence → Unsealing, Mask → Reversal of Fortune are all its products, so when the sixth needle was raised, the first five needles trembled at the same time.

I just don't know why the "Recorder's Pen" wasn't detected.

While Richard was still lost in thought, the machine had already automatically printed out the test results tape, which recorded the running trajectories of six ether traces.

Wyndham leaned over and looked for a long time, then shook his head.

"Gentlemen, this is the old Hutton's way."

"I still remember the school doctor's assessment of him to this day: three sources running in parallel, none yielding to one another."

"His ethereal body was like three ropes twisted together, none of them willing to give way, and the tighter the twist, the less he could go up."

"This child has a total of six genitals!"

After saying that, he sighed. The professor actually didn't have any hostility towards Richard.

He was indeed feeling sorry for him, thinking that such a promising scholar had now fallen short of even a basic level of expertise...

As Wyndham lowered his head in regret, Richard, sitting on a high stool, winked at Croft.

Croft made an "K" sign with his hand, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

"Professor Wyndham."

"Um?"

"I just looked at Hutton's curve yesterday."

Croft pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it next to Richard's test results.

"Everyone can compare them."

The old report had three ink lines that were vying with each other from the very beginning, until finally the three lines were completely tangled into a knot.

The six lines on Richard's report were intertwined from the very beginning.

The six lines wound all the way to the end of the paper strip, becoming so dense that they were almost impossible to tell that there were six lines.

"Hutton's three forces were in conflict with each other, while his student's were intertwined with each other."

:

Greer tossed the vernier caliper in his hand and then suddenly spoke.

"I think the older generation tends to see the mixing of etheric traces as impurities, but things still need to be analyzed on a case-by-case basis."

"To use an example from our engineering school, pure iron is very soft; it can only become steel when carbon is added."

"Add manganese, chromium, and tungsten, and the mixture becomes increasingly mixed."

He slammed the calipers onto the test bench.

"The steel rails beneath your feet, the beams on the bridges, and the cannon barrels on the front lines that can't be broken by rifling... they simply can't be made of pure iron."

The bearded man reached out and patted Richard hard on the shoulder.

"So what's on this kid isn't impurities at all, it's an alloy!"

Wyndham was somewhat surprised to see that both of the two associate professors, one muscular and one thin, were firmly on Richard's side.

He opened his mouth, about to say something, when a hunchbacked figure sauntered in.

Professor Mortimer held his chipped teacup, a smile playing on his lips.

"Am I late?"

"Professor," Pendleton said, quickly standing up.

The old professor waved his hand and slowly began to speak.

"In the past, everyone talked about the need for single-depth resonance. The old gentleman who set this standard never went far from home and spent his entire life in the monastery library."

"Everyone he met was someone who was determined to go down a dead-end path."

The old professor raised his eyes and scanned the group of people present.

"He was not born in this new era, and his views may not be accurately applicable to today's situation."

Wyndham stood directly in front of the platform with his hands behind his back.

"...Senior Mortimer, are you going to vouch for him?"

"I won't vouch for you." The old professor picked up his teacup again.

"Being a guarantor is taking responsibility for his future, but I know nothing about the future."

"I'll only talk about what's in front of me..."

Mortimer turned his head and glanced at Richard.

"This child has done quite a few things for others recently, but I can't go into details."

:

"But he didn't make a single mistake at a crucial moment throughout the year."

The two rows of lights in the laboratory were still humming.

Wyndham lowered his head, glanced again at the two strips of paper that were side by side but completely different, and then turned and left.

Before leaving, he said, "I've approved the recorder."

Pendleton breathed a sigh of relief, his pen flying across the paper.

"However, I still have reservations about his future..."

After he finished speaking, the door closed behind him.

………………

Clara's promotion venue was set at the weak point of the curtain behind the narrow artificial door inlaid with silver lines in the basement of the Petrie Building, which was the most stable place (the place where she met the Hunter Lord in the beginning to exchange Gerald's list).

Mortimer led a team down to carry out preliminary reinforcement work.

Richard followed him through the passage again, and this time, standing inside the door, he saw a completely different scene than before.

Last time he was only focused on reciting the honored name, but this time he had the leisure to take a picture of the entire shallow beach.

Imperial Capital University was built on an etherically active zone; in other words, this area existed first, and the university came later.

On the other side of the mudflats, Greer had already opened his toolbox.

The old master engraver squatted on the boundary line, meticulously drawing stroke by stroke with an extremely fine chisel.

Pendleton was holding up a light nearby, his hands trembling.

The two associate professors, whom Richard wasn't very familiar with, stood to the side waiting. With nothing to do, they started chatting.

"This place is still stable."

One of them said, "Last year, I looked for a venue for a friend outside the college, and I went to seven places, but none of them dared to use it."

"Where's that pillar on Flower Moon Street?"

"That pillar is good; the fire has never gone out all these years."

The associate professor chuckled.

"But without that person's approval, it's simply impossible to use it."

"That place in the western suburbs of Briston."

"Shouldn't we be scammed?"

:

"right."

"That's the territory of the branch office. They patrol twice a year, in spring and autumn. Anyone who enters without registration will be removed on the spot."

"Moreover, it was infiltrated once in March of this year, and we haven't dared to open it since."

"What about those twelve poles in Yanhuo Village? I heard they were reinforced this May."

"That's from Professor McFee's family, and their application for promotion is rather lacking."

"What about the old ancestral halls of each family?"

"The Montague family's place is good enough."

The associate professor shrugged.

"But once we borrowed their land, we became completely at their mercy."

Let alone experts, even the highly skilled scholars kept in the homes of these hereditary nobles were no pushovers.

"However, we scholars don't need to worry about this. We have academies and mentors to back us up, so we don't need to search for advancement like those hunters and hermits outside."

Richard stood on the mudflats listening; it seemed that all the places within the empire where such ceremonies could be performed were owned.

In this tightly-knit, modern mystical system, there seems to be no fertile ground for "unaffiliated cultivators" to survive; all advancement channels are tightly controlled by major nations and elite families.

Mortimer strolled up to him at some point.

"What are you thinking about?"

"...I'm thinking, all these relatively stable weak points have owners."

"right."

"Are there any that don't have owners?"

The old professor tapped the ground with his cane: "Yes, but none of the people who performed the ceremony there came back."

On the other hand, Clara hasn't finalized the most important declaration for her promotion yet.

Isabella gave no hints, only showed her a draft of her manifesto from years ago, and then put it away.

Clara wrote six drafts, all of which were rejected, and the rejections came faster each time.

"So beautiful."

"These are my words."

"This is a quote from Haldane."

:

"This is true, but it's not the most important thing you've ever said."

Fifth draft: "Empty".

For the sixth draft, Isabella didn't even pick up a red pen this time; she simply pushed the draft back.

"You're afraid."

Clara stood in front of the writing desk, her hands hanging at her sides, her face deathly pale.

"...I can't change it anymore."

Isabella put the red pen back in the pen slot.

"Clara, when you were nineteen, I forbade you to sign your name, saying I'd wait until you knew what you wanted to do with it."

She looked up.

"I know you must have said something to my nephew."

Why didn't you write anything today?

Clara stood there for a long time.

She tore the draft into tiny pieces in front of her advisor and clutched them in her hand.

"I'll give it to you tomorrow morning," she said and left.

The seventh draft was written at her own home.

When the maid came the next morning, the living room light was still on, and the coffee grounds in the coffee pot on the table had dried up.

………………

In the first week of October, the capital city finally paid off the endless rains of summer.

The plane tree leaves on the main road in the college district have turned yellow quite a bit.

The list of participants for Debate Week has been posted on the notice board at the entrance of the department office for several days, although the number of participants is higher than last year.

With the nation in crisis, everyone felt a sense of urgency.

Richard also got some inside information from Pendleton, who was putting up notices with glue; that's the use of having good relationships with the staff.

"There's something new this year," Pendleton said, keeping everyone in suspense.

"The head judge invited a special guest."

"Which one?"

:

"I can't say."

"Why can't I say it?"

"Because Sir John Müller said he would save that for the opening ceremony."

Pendleton shrugged. "Anyway, I heard he's a very knowledgeable professor, from abroad."

Richard was busy with other things at the time and just let it go after hearing it.

At that moment, all he could think about was how to persuade Sophia to come down from the windowsill.

The day before, the senior student drew the first round number for the graduate student group. After drawing, she leaned on the windowsill of room 314 and said she wanted to jump.

Isabella, behind her writing desk, completely ignored her and coldly tossed out a remark.

"If you jump from the third floor, you'll at worst break your leg. We'll have Richard push you up in a wheelchair then."

Sophie stepped down from the windowsill.

On the day of the opening ceremony, the halls of the Iliad were darker than in previous years.

The row of stained glass windows facing south was mostly boarded up, a special restriction imposed after the air raid regulations were implemented, and only three lights were lit.

Richard sat down in the fifth row, near the aisle.

Montagu entered through the back door and sat down diagonally to the back.

Edith, holding the plant guide, sat in the seat closest to the window; she had also signed up this year.

Catherine was the last to come in.

Richard glanced up as she walked down the corridor.

The red-haired girl wore a headband and carried her ever-present little notebook as she passed by his seat without stopping. The two of them had been doing this for the past two weeks.

At 8:15, Sir John Muller spoke alone to the players' bench.

"Gentlemen, last month I was stopped by a major general in the corridor of the Army Department."

"He asked me, 'Sir, the front lines fire 30,000 shells a day. What will you get from letting a bunch of kids argue in the building for seven days?'"

No one in the hall made a sound.

I couldn't answer it at the time.

Sir John Müller placed both hands on the podium.

"After I got back, I thought about it for a long time, and today I will tell you all the answer."

:

"We can't manufacture artillery shells, and we didn't build the railways that transported them."

"But every time a seal is reforged on the front lines, the judgment used is written in this building."

"If even half a word is mispronounced during each sleep recitation, the people below will become restless."

"What happens after a disturbance? How many of you have witnessed it firsthand in the field?"

Sofia and some students who had done fieldwork shrank back upon hearing this.

"This year, the empire has produced many things."

"It's in the newspapers, on the posters, and on the train platform."

"Those words were uttered so quickly that no one had time to ask whether they were true or not."

"From now on, anyone who dares to ask this question will only be able to leave this building."

The old man paused for a moment.

"Now let's talk about your own experiences."

"When you're locked in your room writing, you'll read it aloud to yourself when you get to a part that you like, just to make yourself happy."

"But it's different here."

"If it can't stand up, it will collapse, and it will look terrible in front of hundreds of eyes."

"But even if you collapse today, you can fix it up and come back up tomorrow."

"When you all go out on field missions in the future and stand in front of a real weak point, then it won't be the manuscript that collapses."

The old man held the manuscript in his hand and didn't look at it again.

"You will all have to speak up for others someday."

"To speak for the dead, for those who cannot speak, for those whose names have been taken from them."

"Speak up for yourself first today."

After he finished speaking, he paused and waited for a moment, but there was no applause in the hall.

Some people were checking their watches, while others were looking down, calculating the players in their group.

Richard activated his spiritual vision, and only a very thin layer floated up from behind the curtain, not even forming a shape.

Every word the jazz said was correct, but none of them stood up to scrutiny; he was demonstrating this himself.

The old man folded the manuscript and put it into his inner bag.

:

"So we'll do it this year."

Applause finally broke out, but it was sparse and not very effective.

"in addition."

As the applause subsided, Sir John Müller nodded toward the east door.

"This year, we have a distinguished guest who has come from afar."

Richard was still holding his water glass, but inspiration had already begun to strike.

The first thing he did was to flatten the condensation method as much as possible.

Complete concealment leaves traces. If someone lays water one moment and then suddenly wipes it all away the next, it will be very obvious to those of higher rank.

The east door opened, and the person who entered was around forty years old and of medium build.

His skin was the color of decades of sun exposure, and his temples were gray.

He walks silently.

Sir John Mueller introduced, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Professor Yousef Khalaf, the director of the Cairo Museum."

Applause erupted in the hall, much more enthusiastic than before, as everyone was very interested in the unfamiliar foreign professor.

Richard held his water glass, not moving an inch.

He glanced at the judges' panel from left to right out of the corner of his eye.

McFaye sat in the third seat, arms crossed, looking away.

Mortimer's right eyelid was half-drooping, and he hadn't lost a bit of his usual air of feigning ignorance.

Further down, Croft, Hollis, Greer, Auntie… looked at them one by one, and not one of them was surprised.

Richard placed the water glass back on the edge of the bench.

It seems this person was indeed invited by the Empire, and those of high rank, such as associate professors and above, know something about him.

But if this person is the one at the table in the Black Earth River, a master of the Abyss tradition, everyone should be extremely wary of him. Why is he able to stand so openly on this most conspicuous podium?

This question had been lingering in his mind.

On the stage, Professor Khalaf walked to the side of the lectern and bowed slightly towards the hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

His Albionese is excellent, with the old aristocratic accent of the capital, the same accent as the current king.

:

"I am forty-three years old this year, and I first came to your country sixteen years ago."

I spent nineteen days on the ship, vomiting up everything that was in my stomach.

The students in the hall all laughed.

"The first thing I did after getting off the boat was to go to the museum to see things related to our Black Soil River."

His tone suddenly shifted, and the atmosphere instantly soured.

"After watching it, I sat on the steps for an entire afternoon."

The laughter in the hall abruptly stopped.

"I am standing here today at Sir John Müller's invitation, and also at my own request."

"We have an older name for this thing called debate where I'm from."

"The deceased stood before forty-two jurors, answering question by question. After he finished, he was weighed and his answers were recorded."

"This is what I've done my whole life."

He bowed slightly again and stepped off the stage.

The hall erupted in applause again, and Richard clapped twice in response.

On the third clap, the person walked from the aisle toward the judges' table, passing right in front of his row.

That stretch of road was less than six steps, and Richard had never felt that six steps was so long in his life.

His waters reflected nothing but a mediocre and boring file lying on them, waiting to be glanced at and then moved away in annoyance.

That person didn't stop.

Richard looked down at his debate topic number sheet and read the number from beginning to end.

"Williams," Fisher nudged him from the side.

"……Um."

"You look terrible."

I didn't sleep well last night.

Fisher said "Oh," then suddenly leaned closer and lowered his voice: "Let me tell you, I got goosebumps when I saw that professor walk by just now."

Richard's heart sank.

Why?

:

"Because he walks silently." Fisher said seriously.

"I watched him take six steps, but there wasn't a sound."

"……Then what?"

"Then I thought that if he were to play a ghost in the theater someday, he definitely wouldn't need any props."

Richard froze for a moment on the bench, then laughed in agreement.

As the opening ceremony ended, people squeezed towards the two narrow doors.

Richard was walking out with his canvas bag on his back when he was stopped in the lobby.

"Richard!"

Phillips emerged from behind the pillar.

He was wearing a dark coat today, and carrying the repaired teapot in his pocket.

"Why are you here?"

"I've come to watch the fun," Phillips said, lifting the pot up with a grin.

"I'm still not playing this year; I'll just sit in the audience and have some snacks."

"The Royal Academy won't take care of you?"

"They'd love for me not to hang around the school."

Richard reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

Something felt off; his hand was cold when he touched it, and he instinctively wanted to pull his hand away.

Richard lowered his hand, his face completely blank.

"How have you been lately?"

"fine."

Phillips yawned.

"I've helped my older brother with a lot of work, and he's much more enthusiastic about me now than before."

"Where is Constance?"

"Come on Thursday." Phillips switched the pot to his other hand.

"She started learning to tie my bow ties last month, but they're all crooked."

:

"What did you say?"

I said it was fine.

"Lie to her?"

Phillips grinned. "She knows it's wrong, she just wants me to see her learning it."

Richard did not ask any further questions.

Phillips suddenly turned to the side and gestured with his chin toward the foyer.

"By the way, let me introduce you to someone."

Richard followed the gaze.

A man stood under a pillar about twenty paces away. He was not tall, wore a worn-out woolen coat, and had his hands in his pockets. He was looking at the stone carvings on the ceiling of the foyer.

Richard recognized the man's scent immediately; it was the same one emanating from Phillips.

The difference is that the well in Phillips' body is still shallow; this person... Richard only tilted the water surface a little to that side before being swallowed up, without even an echo.

"Mr. Barnaby," Phillips called out in that direction.

The man turned around and nodded politely in their direction.

"He was my mentor, a star actor in the theater, and also the director of the troupe. You should have seen him on stage when you went to see a play last time."

Phillips explained.

The noise in the foyer seemed to fade into the distance to Richard's ears, and he reached out his hand.

"Mr. Barnaby, it's an honor to meet you."

Barnaby shook hands first, with just the right amount of pressure: "You too, Phillips often mentions you."

"What did he mention about me?"

"You have a good appetite."

Richard laughed: "...Then he wasn't wrong."

"And let me mention that penny book you wrote."

Barnaby let go.

"The doorman backstage at our theater bought a copy, and after reading it, no one dared to stand guard alone that night."

Phillips stood beside him, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.

:

Richard stood there, a smile on his face.

The three chatted for a bit, and Barnaby's manners and etiquette were impeccable.

I asked Richard about the debate topic for this year's cohort, how many people were in the undergraduate group, and finally said "I wish you a successful competition" before bowing and taking my leave.

After a while, Barnaby was waiting there, walking out side by side with Professor Halaf, who had just come from the judges' panel.

The two walked and talked, and at one point, Khalaf chuckled.

Richard did not avoid the gaze directed at him from that direction.

"I'm leaving too," Phillips suddenly said from the side.

"Oh, right." Richard looked up.

"I'll treat you to dinner in a couple of days; Montague and Catherine will be there."

Phillips didn't stop.

"Sure, just let me know when the time comes."

Richard stood in the foyer watching him walk away.

He headed towards the stairs, and halfway up, he saw Catherine leaning against the railing at the corner, clutching the little notebook, a lock of her red hair being blown up by the wind.

There are other people here; downstairs on the stairs, two graduate students are arguing over who is this year's favorite to win the championship.

Someone dragged a chair over to the upper floor, the wooden legs scraping against the floor with a creaking sound.

Their eyes met, and everything was understood without a word.

: