I loaded the Mysticism panel.

In the first round of the graduate student group, there were fewer people in the Iliad Building than on the day of the opening ceremony.

The graduate student group sessions are always like this: most of the attendees are professionals in the field, while laypeople tend to fall asleep within half an hour.

Richard sat down in the seventh row, with Sofia sitting next to him.

She didn't dare to get close to Isabella at that moment, otherwise her mentor would definitely put pressure on her.

I drew number five.

"Then you still have half a day."

Sofia twisted her hands together: "I'd rather go up now; waiting is the most uncomfortable thing."

On stage, the host announced the topic for the first debate.

"First round for graduate students."

Debate Topic: During wartime, should the empire suspend funding for basic sciences that have no direct military benefit?

"For: Reginald Thorpe, School of Political Science and Economics"

"Opposing side: Clara Faffield, Department of Classics."

Sophia, no longer nervous, suddenly revealed a look of anticipation: "...How come it's him?"

Richard recognized him too.

The chubby young man walked up to the podium from the east side and straightened the hem of his coat.

Last year, in this same building, this person used a thick, sturdy wall to push him off the stage.

At that time, Richard knew perfectly well that he had won in words, but lost in the curtain call.

Then last year, this guy also became Clara's defeated opponent, and this year...

"This is his last time registering this year; he'll graduate next year," Richard said.

Sofia grunted, "Then he'll definitely be fighting tooth and nail today."

Thorpe was indeed giving it his all; he spoke for a full six minutes, not wasting a single second.

He began citing: a speech by a minister in Parliament in the 17th century, a discussion by a 19th-century economist on wartime resource allocation, and a question and answer given by a current cabinet member in the House of Commons last winter.

The silver wires embedded under the lectern in the hall began to work.

Richard activated his spiritual vision, and a wall rose up behind the curtain.

Thorpe's performance is much better than last year, so it seems he's not the only one improving.

:

"He's very well prepared this year," Richard said.

Sofia bit the end of her braid: "What about Clara?"

Clara had her hair up today, revealing the faded pinkish-white scar behind her left ear.

"I will only address two points in my opponent's argument."

The moment the girl spoke, she silenced the rustling noises in the hall.

"This section of the minister's speech in 1643 has been abridged. After the minister finished speaking about suspending funding, he added the sentence, 'Except for the theological and legal schools.'"

Someone in the hall looked up.

"Why aren't they included? Because those two houses wrote documents for Parliament back then."

"In other words, what this gentleman is really advocating is: to suspend everything that 'I don't need right now'."

On stage, Thorpe started sweating.

"The economist the other party cited was thirty-one years old when he wrote that book, and when he was seventy, he published a revised edition in which he completely rewrote the chapter on wartime deployment."

After a heated exchange, Clara finally took out a brass tuning fork from the inside pocket of her coat.

Richard frowned... This tuning fork didn't have the dents that come from touching it.

Clara tapped the tuning fork on the edge of the lectern, and the standard pitch hung suspended in the air.

On the other side of the curtain, the wall that Thorpe had built in six minutes, which had been perfectly sealed, now had all its flaws exposed.

"We're done." Clara put the tuning fork away.

There was almost no discussion among the judges.

"The opposing team won the first match in the graduate student group."

Applause broke out, and Richard had only clapped a few times when Sophia, who was standing next to him, had already stood up.

"Clara!"

Richard pulled her back: "Sit down. The party's not over yet."

"I can't control myself."

Sofia sat back down on the bench, still clapping with both hands.

"Did you hear that? My heart was pounding when that sound came out."

"I heard you."

:

"Last night Clara slept in the same bed as me, and when she was asleep she was talking in her sleep that she wasn't ready."

Richard recalled what Clara had said at home that day and nodded in agreement.

"She has been preparing for six years, and she only needs to rely on her instincts to deliver her lectures."

Isabella was twirling a pen on the judges' panel.

Associate Professor Hollis, who was two seats away, leaned over and said, "Congratulations to your research lab, you'll soon have another associate professor."

Croft also squeezed in from behind.

"Ashford, your student's pronunciation is very good."

Thank you.

"I always tell the truth." Croft took a sip of his bitter tea.

"Nine out of ten of those who went on stage this year treated their announcements as simply raising their voices. Clara's announcement alone made the whole hall resonate with its own sound."

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.

Isabella twirled the red pen halfway in her hand, trying her best to keep her lips from turning up in a smile.

"She still has a long way to go."

In the empty teaching and research office at noon, Sophia spread a large basket of sandwiches on the table and grabbed one for herself first.

"Clara, were your hands shaking before you went on stage?"

"It's shaking."

"I can't tell."

Richard remained silent.

After Sophia finished eating half of her sandwich, he pointed to the tuning fork on the table.

"Senior Clara, this..."

Sofia still had a slice of ham in her mouth, and her eyes were darting around.

Clara picked up the tuning fork: "When did you figure that out?"

Richard also took a bite of his sandwich and mumbled, "When you took it out of the inner bag, I noticed that the dent wasn't there on the handle."

"Your eyesight is really good." Clara took a sip of tea and didn't deny it.

She put the teacup back on the tablecloth.

:

"You're right, this is indeed a replica made by my cousin."

"After I left the sanatorium this spring, he measured the original for several days and made a one-to-one replica. Finally, he tuned it until the two tuning forks could not be distinguished in the same room."

Sofia and Richard exchanged a glance, both with ketchup on their lips. They tacitly refrained from asking where Clara had hidden the real item.

Clara frowned as she looked at the wilted lettuce leaves in the sandwich, then casually stuffed them into Sofia's mouth.

Sofia obediently opened her mouth and ate it.

Clara continued the previous topic, adding:

"From now on, no matter where I am or what I do, I will always carry this tuning fork with me when I go out."

Sofia finished eating and licked the ketchup off her lips. "Clara, who else knows about this?"

Clara shook her head: "Not many people. My mentor and uncle know, and then it's just the two of you."

Sofia held the remaining half of the sandwich and suddenly stopped eating.

This girl is carefree all year round, but now she's sitting up straight.

Richard sat to one side, but his mind was elsewhere.

"What are you thinking about?" Clara asked.

"I'm thinking about my own signature items."

The Sphinx lamp was kept close at hand, from Briston to the capital, from the cellars of Whitcomb to that night in the City of Seven Hills.

My aunt said at the hostel last year: "Little Master wants to completely transfer his spirit into his signature object, the kind that can't be taken back."

If her scroll of Alexandrian parchment is destroyed, being in a vegetative state will be the best outcome.

"Senior, you're probably not the only one doing this, right?"

Clara nodded.

"Yes, this is a well-known unspoken rule in the industry."

"Even if an item signed during the practitioner stage is destroyed, there is still an opportunity to spend a lot of money to choose a new item with a different signature."

Once you reach a basic level of proficiency, the situation is completely different; you should prepare an extra layer for yourself.

She held up two fingers.

"A fake for outsiders: identical in shape, pronunciation, and form, can withstand authentication in most cases."

"The true signature is something that no one but yourself knows where it is hidden."

:

………………

On the other hand, Khalaf has been sitting and watching for the past two days, without making any rash moves or probing attempts.

Before arriving, the intelligence gathered by my subordinates consisted of only these few points: at the Greek table, two people were most likely academics working in the field, based in the capital.

Both of these individuals have terrifying backgrounds, especially Hermes, whom he considers a prime suspect.

Only with the help of an expert can one snatch chestnuts from the fire, obtain the true name of the Black Soil River expert, and then make a deal with the hunter to escape unscathed—a completely closed logical loop.

As for why someone with a powerful backer wouldn't give their real name to another expert on his side, and would instead make a deal with the Hunter, that's not a question he should be thinking about.

His first step was to eliminate those whose ranks didn't match, and of course, all the judges had to be removed from the panel.

Sir John Muller, Mortimer, and McFee, three great masters, could not possibly achieve this.

The row of associate professors below were all minor experts, and none of them met the requirements. He hadn't even left a place for them in his notebook.

Then we looked among students, practitioners, scholars, people from Beijing, those involved in rhetoric or balance.

If the person who gave the fragment of the real name of the Black Soil River expert were to compete here, he would definitely not be an ordinary person.

An ordinary person in that position would have been swallowed up long ago, so this person must have shown strengths beyond their peers in some way.

He focuses on graduate students.

After forcing myself to stay awake for a while, I started to lose interest.

It wasn't until the young woman with brown hair came on stage, and her striking outfit—considered quite eye-catching for someone in the industry—that he perked up a little.

Khalaf initially watched with interest as Clara dismantled her opponent's citations, until the tuning fork rang.

He immediately picked up a pencil and began scribbling in his notebook.

Isabella, who was sitting not far away, felt uneasy for some reason when she saw the visiting professor start taking notes.

Khalaf listed Clara's basic information in his notebook, and then wrote down a chain of deductions below:

Tuning fork → Calibration → Balance.

He read it for a while after he finished writing it.

He was weighing the entire Black Soil River from beginning to end, and he was very familiar with these things.

Using a tuning fork to set the standard pitch and using a balance scale to determine the balance are essentially the same thing.

So, Clara is Nemesis?

Khalaf was almost convinced until he began to carefully discern the sound Clara had struck.

:

This sound is too clean; a genuine signed item wouldn't produce such a sound.

Khalaf looked up and stared intently at the tuning fork in Clara's hand.

He discovered that despite the sophisticated aging techniques and camouflage, the empty ethereal structure inside could not be hidden from the eyes of a highly knowledgeable scholar.

"...It's a fake."

He felt no emotion whatsoever.

This is nothing new. From childhood to adulthood, a signed item is half a life. Who wouldn't keep it?

The old lady in Cairo who managed the trade routes only had her real signature found at the bottom of a well in her own yard after she passed away.

The sealer in Alexandria used four different short swords in public.

In the past thirty years, no more than two people have seen his own signed item.

If someone crosses that threshold and still tries to pull out genuine signed items, the first laughingstock will be their competitors.

So the brown-haired girl did the right thing.

It was precisely because the tuning fork was a fake that Khalaf blacked out all his guesses about Clara's identity in his notebook.

"This person is not bound by the obligation to even things out."

This is the crux of the matter: Nemesis controls retribution.

Those who go too far will be punished; all those who engage in empty rhetoric, false accounting, or pretense will be brought to a close.

The intelligence records contain only a few scattered entries about the holder of the name of the god Nemesis on the Greek table, and each one points to the same thing: that person was forced by his own divine name to not owe even a penny.

Now, let's put someone like that in this building.

The silver threads buried beneath the Iliad Tower are not just for show; they amplify every word the contestants say on stage behind the curtain.

Normally she can do whatever she wants, but standing here using a forged signature to make a declaration and pose behind a veil, the power of Nemesis will punish her first.

This is an ironclad rule, taking precedence over all other derivation conditions.

Khalaf realized this, which is why he crossed out the name.

He suddenly realized that he had wasted the last two days sitting in the audience.

I've been waiting for that person to shine, but what if they all hide away?

"...Let's try a different approach."

The undergraduate group's competition was scheduled for the afternoon.

:

Richard's debate topic was: Should an empire impose a naval blockade on neutral countries during wartime?

He played very conservatively, without deviating from the rules at all, and won by 1.8 points.

The second round was scheduled for the morning, and the topic was the boundary between wartime requisition of supplies and private property rights.

He played the same way and won by 2.1 points.

On the judging panel, one associate professor used only two words in his commentary: steady and solid.

Richard actually has seven or eight different playing styles in mind, all of which would look great on stage, so great that many judges would immediately look up.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just the judges who raised their heads.

Therefore, he kept a secret.

The crowd dispersed to both sides at the bottom of the steps, and Richard glanced at the exit in the audience area.

Phillips came out, carrying the jug, and walked with the crowd toward the main road.

Richard was about to raise his hand to call him.

He lowered his hand halfway up, and Phillips' brow was furrowed.

The last time I saw him with such an expression was at his father's funeral.

Montagu, standing nearby, asked, "Didn't you say you were going to treat him to dinner?"

"In a couple of days."

"He doesn't seem to see you."

After the event, Khalaf went directly to the department office at Imperial University.

"Professor," Pendleton said, standing up from behind the counter.

Khalaf got straight to the point:

"Excuse me, could you please provide a copy of the list of this year's participants, as well as the publicly available list of students currently enrolled?"

Pendleton quickly bowed: "This doesn't need to be registered, I'll copy it for you right away. Professor, are you going to attach it to your travel report?"

"Academic Exchange Records"

"Then I'll copy down the supervisor's information for you too, so your report will be easier to write."

"Thank you for your help."

Pendleton chatted as he copied.

:

This veteran clerk has been in this position for many years, knows a little about everything, and likes to talk about everything.

"There are fewer people in the graduate student group this year, including professors."

Why?

"They've gone to the front lines."

The pen tip scratches across the paper.

"...That Ms. Fafell from earlier is still applying for the Junior Proficiency Certificate this year."

Khalaf responded with an "oh".

"declare?"

"It was submitted last month and has already been approved at the department meeting."

Pendleton said he was very interested.

"A new rule has been added this year: For all those applying for promotion this year, the score in this section during the debate week can be used as empirical reference for the second path."

Khalaf thought to himself, "I've really gained something."

Those applying for promotion this year... well, the department has a list, it's all young scholars who are striving for minor expertise this year.

If the person he's looking for is really in this school, then the chances of him standing at the threshold of the Junior Mastery program right now are much greater than if he were standing somewhere else.

"Could I take a look at that application document?"

He said it was very casual.

"I'd like to see how this new rule is calculated."

Pendleton's face remained warm, but his hands stopped moving.

"I'm sorry, Professor."

"Promotion applications are a bit different in nature."

Pendleton raised his eyes, his expression unchanged in its respect.

"You write a request to access the materials, specifying the purpose, and register it with me; then take it to Professor Mortimer for his signature."

"You can see it on the same day after you sign it. I'll arrange for you to stay in the inner room, and I'll also make you some tea."

He smiled ingratiatingly again.

"How about I write the note for you now? Professor Mortimer happens to be here these days."

:

Khalaf looked down at the paper bag.

As the note was written, a new line appeared in the register: On a certain day of a certain month of a certain year, Visiting Professor Khalaf reviewed this year's promotion application documents for a certain purpose.

Mortimer, that old man, isn't really senile.

The reason Apophis has been able to walk this path of the abyss unscathed to this day is that he must have avoided leaving behind his intentions.

"No."

"professor?"

"Since the conversion method is posted on the notice board, I'll just go see it myself."

Khalaf withdrew his hand from the counter and smiled, "I wouldn't dare trouble the old professor."

"Should I copy all the publicly available information from the department for you?"

"Excuse me."

The copy delivered to him was just a small piece of paper, barely the size of a palm, with only a few lines of text on it.

Applicant: Clara Farfield.

Tutor: Associate Professor Isabella Ashford, with a minor expertise in classical traditions.

Pre-selected tradition: Classical tradition.

Group: Graduate students.

Submission date: September 17th.

Departmental meeting record number: 1147.

The bottom is largely blank, with the department meeting's seal printed across the seam.

Halaf stopped at the "Isabella Ashford" line.

He had seen the surname Ashford far too many times recently; the story of the Northern Region had spread throughout the entire Empire.

He kept this in mind for the time being and didn't do anything about it.

Next, we select the tradition: the tradition of classical texts.

The intelligence report clearly states that behind Nemesis stands a highly accomplished scholar with a deep understanding of the lunar hunting tradition.

Classical texts, hunting the moon—they don't match.

"By the way, did this graduate student named Fafield ever manage the accounts for her advisor?"

:

"I managed research funding for three years."

Pendleton casually remarked, "I handled the accounts for those three years once, and every penny matched."

Khalaf smiled, thanked him, and left.

"...Unfortunately, you are not."

He said to that name in his heart, "Farfield, you really do look like him."

Clara, who was on her way to the cafeteria, suddenly felt a prick on the top of her head, and stood there holding her forehead for a long time without moving.

This is a warning sign of a fleeting inspiration.

"hiss……"

"Clara, what's wrong!" Sophia rushed over, her face full of concern.

"It's nothing, it's just that I felt like I just missed something..."

Clara opened her large, deep brown eyes and muttered to herself in a somewhat bewildered manner.

………………

Across the street from the Apollo Theatre is a teahouse with a signboard depicting a hand holding a teapot. The artist's skill is mediocre; the hand looks more like it's holding a torch.

On the afternoon of October 4th, the table by the window was reserved.

Barnaby arrived first and asked the proprietress for a pot of Assam tea. After asking, he changed his mind and said, "Change it to a pot of Darjeeling. The guest is from abroad."

Phillips followed him in, carrying his own jug in his arms.

"Sir, you seem nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You buttoned your coat wrong just now."

Barnaby glanced down, then unbuttoned and rebuttoned it.

Phillips picked up his teacup and took a sip.

"Sir, I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"If it's a tradition of the Abyss, how could the Empire...?"

Barnaby chuckled: "Because he's fighting the Abyss."

:

"Anyone who wants to investigate pollution should consult him first, and learn how to send him an invitation every year."

Sir John Müller invited him this year, ostensibly to arbitrate the research rights for those artifacts from the Black Earth River.

"But within the Empire, any case involving the pollution of the abyss, whether it's the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the General Administration, or a branch office in any prefecture, must be handled by the relevant authorities."

When it came time to report it to higher authorities, half of the disposal plan attached to the file was his suggestion.

"You've heard about the 'Echo Meeting,' haven't you?"

Phillips looked up: "My father handled it."

"Then you should know how difficult this is." Barnaby lifted the teapot lid and then put it back on.

"He wrote the procedures for tracking down these cult members."

Phillips remained silent.

"His most important contribution to the mystical side is that he is the primary authority in the current era for the restoration and execution of the 'Down with Apophis' ritual."

"This is officially recognized by the Empire and is listed in the academic society's directory."

"Defeat Apophis..." Phillips murmured.

"So you draw a snake on papyrus, write its name on it, and then stab, stomp on, and burn it?"

"Yes, I heard that this needs to be done every day."

The proprietress brought out the Darjeeling tea, and Barnaby poured it for both of them, turning the spout towards the door.

"Kid, listen carefully to this next sentence."

Phillips sat up straight.

"This ritual is the core of why he has been able to persist in the traditions of the Abyss for so long."

Barnaby picked up his cup of tea: "I've personally witnessed one person who has made it that far down this path."

Phillips realized that his mentor's words were more of an expression of admiration than fear.

Speaking of Apophis, a ceramic coin was delivered to his home two years ago.

He didn't even look at it as required and handed it directly to his father.

Afterwards, his father told him some related information.

Barnaby suddenly said, "Your father must have mentioned those tables where people are seated in the names of the Old Gods to you back then."

"I mentioned it briefly."

:

"The person who came today..." Barnaby stopped speaking and glanced towards the door.

The door opened, and Professor Khalaf was carrying only a very flat briefcase.

Barnaby.

"Professor," Barnaby stood up to greet him.

The three of them drank half a pot of tea.

Khalaf asked casually about the theater's business in recent years, the coal prices in the capital, and the old scar on Barnaby's hand.

When asked a certain question, he changed the subject.

"How are the young people in Beijing this year?"

"Does the professor want to hear the truth or just polite words?"

"The truth."

"The truth is, things are getting worse every year."

"All the good talents have been taken to the front lines, leaving only a handful who are capable of standing on the stage."

He held up his fingers and counted them one by one.

"That young man from the Montague family is a traditional Sun-loving person; he knows a little bit of everything and never makes a mistake."

This kind of person will eventually end up in the Imperial Household Department, but he may never actually cross that threshold in his lifetime…

Khalaf grunted in response but didn't interrupt.

Barnaby picked up his tea, took a sip, and casually continued.

"Also, there's a red-haired girl from the highlands who'd be good at following our path."

Phillips tried his best to control his facial expression as he bowed his head and poured tea for the two elders.

"What a pity." Barnaby shook his head.

"They already have a highly skilled professor who is an expert in moon hunting as their mentor. With someone like that leading the way, who would bother to look in our direction?"

Phillips sat there and finished the rest of his tea.

He couldn't do anything, not even let the smile on his face fade.

The person sitting opposite him was his own mentor; the one sitting diagonally opposite him was an even greater expert.

In this situation, directly changing the subject would seem too insecure.

:

"Sir," Phillips said, lifting his jug from his feet, "I'll get you both a new jug."

"Change to what?"

"The contents of this pot."

Barnaby nodded toward Khalaf: "Professor, the kid's signature item is a teapot."

"Oh?"

Phillips emptied the remaining tea from the two cups and picked up his old teapot with its spout patched up.

"What kind of tea would the professor like?"

"random."

When the spout is tilted, the tea soup that flows out is so dark it's almost black, and the steam carries a hint of spice.

Khalaf picked up the cup and smelled it.

He took a sip and put the cup down.

"The last time I tasted this flavor was in a shop in Luxor, where the owner had been dead for several years."

"Professor, I just poured this out casually."

Khalaf turned the cup halfway around: "This pot of yours is the one that tastes like what you want."

Phillips' smile froze for less than half a second.

"...Professor, you have a good eye."

A signed item was read and understood by someone just by taking a sip.

Barnaby tried to smooth things over, saying that the kid would make a fortune from this pot in the future, and then he laughed first.

Phillips laughed along.

That night, Khalaf crossed out the graduate student group.

"The great master of moon hunting serves as my mentor."

That sentence drifted over from the teahouse across the street during the day, and the person who spoke it forgot about it as soon as they turned their head.

Khalaf flipped the roster back to the front.

Catherine Blackwood.

She progressed to the second year of preparatory studies at Cheltenham Girls' College.

:

Mentor: Hector McFee.

He flipped the roster to the next page of the student records.

One fieldwork record in June, start and end dates not filled in, note "Approved by department, details not recorded".

A whole month of blank space.

He circled "Catherine Blackwood" on that list.

………………

In the morning, Richard was summoned to the second-floor meeting room of the Petrie Building.

Upon entering, Sir John Muller sat in the high-backed chair by the window, while Mortimer sat on the other side.

Sir William said, "Williams, sit down."

Richard sat down opposite him.

"Professor Khalaf has other important business to attend to besides debate week."

"The department and the theological seminary have been arbitrarily debating the right to study the artifacts from the Black Soil River for a year and a half."

Before arbitration, the inscriptions on those artifacts were completely transcribed.

"He needs a local student assistant."

Sir John Muller smiled and said, "You graduated early this year and ranked first in the first-year undergraduate group, so you're a perfect representative of our outstanding scholars."

"Where are the graduate students?"

"He doesn't want graduate students," Mortimer said slowly from the side.

"The worst thing about transcription is when the person copying it knows too much."

The old professor picked up his teacup and took a sip.

"You understand, but not much, which is just right."

"You don't have a match tomorrow afternoon, so go to the tea house across from the theater at four o'clock."

"Let's talk first, and the official start date is the day after tomorrow."

: