I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard bent down to smell, and what he smelled was mud turned up by the plow after the rain, with a slight rusty smell.

The young clerk shrank back, and the other two officers exchanged a glance, but neither of them reached out.

There was no sign of anything happening to the old professor.

Richard carefully chose his words: "Professor, is this a technique?"

"no."

Mortimer pushed his reading glasses up his nose.

"The ritual has a structure, and the ceremony requires a venue."

"What I've done can only be considered a scholar's technique for using ether."

"This technique involves using the historical traces and echoes of special places to give oneself a certain boost, and only highly knowledgeable scholars can use it."

The young clerk swallowed hard and asked something in a very low voice in French.

The lieutenant translated for him: "He asked, 'Is this sand... Milan?'"

Not yet.

Mortimer stretched his hand out in front of him.

"All four of you, come over here and put your fingers on it and try it."

None of the three officers moved first. Richard placed his finger on it; the sand was icy cold.

The lieutenant finally reached out his hand.

The moment his fingertips touched the ground, the sand on the northern side of the plain sank in, creating parallel trenches.

The lieutenant abruptly pulled his hand back, and the trench stopped in place and did not extend any further.

"……Feel sorry."

"No need to apologize." Mortimer didn't even look at him.

"The sand is just a reflection of your impression of Milan."

The young clerk also reached out his hand, and his face turned pale.

A clock tower rises on the eastern side of the plain.

"...My mother's home is there," the clerk said.

The third officer's finger fell, and a pile of boxes grew out of the sand.

:

He chuckled first: "This should be a military supply depot; I'm in charge of these things."

When it was Richard's turn, he also incorporated his own thoughts into the process.

The plain was turned upside down, and the railway tracks ran from north to south, eventually forming the fortress's bastions, which were surrounded by a moat.

Below the bastion is an even older wall, and below that are dozens of conical wooden fortresses surrounded by sharpened wooden stakes.

This perfectly corresponds to Milan's classical and modern periods.

The lieutenant's throat was a little dry: "...Professor, is this a student?"

"They are my students." Mortimer wiped his reading glasses and put them back on his nose.

He stretched out his fingers and smoothed the sandy surface.

All that remained on the table was the plain, and the barren highland in the center of the plain.

Look here.

Mortimer's fingertip touched the high ground.

"The city was originally called Mediolanum."

"What does that mean?"

"In the middle of the plains, there is a place called 'the middle.' Don't you think that's a nice touch?"

He gestured northwards, and the white line along the ridge briefly lit up.

"Go north and you'll see mountains, go south and you'll see rivers, go east and you'll see the sea, and go west and you'll see mountains again."

It sits right in the middle, and everyone has to pass through it to go either way.

So the Romans stationed troops here, the Germanic tribes wintered here, and the Spanish and Austrians took turns collecting taxes here.

"They've been collecting tolls for two thousand years," the lieutenant interjected.

"Yes, it's been two thousand years." Mortimer withdrew his hand.

"But I have something else to say."

He extended his index finger and tapped the center of the hill.

The outline of a small square house emerged from the sand, with two chairs inside.

"In 313 AD, Constantine and Licinius signed the Edict of Milan here, no longer restricting missionary work, and from then on the church officially came out of the shadows."

The old professor put his hand down.

:

"After the Edict of Milan was written, the religious relationships of the entire Western Continent were redefined."

Before that, believing in the wrong god was a death sentence; after that, it became a written, documented matter.

"This was the first great achievement on the land of Milan."

Richard understood why the professor had specifically brought this up.

He then remembered the conditions that had been hanging on the panel for half a year.

[Independently reconstructed the complete operational logic of a lost technique.]

"Professor, what documents did we copy on this trip?"

Mortimer took the paper out of his pocket again and spread it between the two of them.

The Milan section is filled with more than a dozen lines of dense writing, including many unfinished copies with uncertain dates.

The train began to go downhill, and the wheels rattled more loudly on the tracks than before.

The young clerk suddenly raised his hand and asked in broken Albion, "Professor, when...when will the sand be collected?"

Mortimer slapped his hand on the table.

The sand scattered, not a single grain remained.

………………

Milan is much hotter than Beijing, and also drier.

Upon exiting the station, the first thing Richard saw was the blue sky, a far cry from the smog-filled skies of the capital.

It's not just the industrial differences; the climate here is much cleaner.

The carriage traveled along the main road into the city, where all the buildings on both sides of the street were yellow.

There were many pedestrians sitting in the arcade downstairs, each holding a cup of coffee, and some even had croissants in their hands.

The tram clanged through the middle of the street, with propaganda posters for wartime bonds plastered on the outside of the carriages.

The cathedral suddenly appeared at the end of the street, and Richard was craning his neck to look at it.

The church was ridiculously white, with hundreds of spires that seemed to pierce the sky. Each spire was topped with a holy image.

"Professor, how old is this cathedral?"

Professor Mortimer raised his eyelids slightly.

:

"This one, it's over 500 years old, right?"

But actually, the facade was only completed 20 years ago; these kinds of churches will never be finished.

The two stayed at a hotel arranged by the committee. After putting down their luggage, Professor Mortimer took off his coat.

"The meeting isn't until 10 a.m. tomorrow. You can go out and explore on your own today."

"Professor, are you going?"

The old man chuckled and took off his shoes.

"Spare my old bones, I've been on the train for 30 hours, I'm afraid I'll have to sleep until dark."

He pulled his hat over his face, using it as a sunshade.

"Don't stay here... you're disturbing my sleep. Go and see what's different about this place compared to the capital."

At this point, the voice under the hat began to become muffled.

"Write it down after you finish reading it, and tell it to the old man at dinner."

Richard was full of energy at this time, and it was his first time abroad, so he certainly had an inexhaustible sense of novelty.

The first thing he does when he goes out is to find a place to report to; it has become a habit.

In the Empire, he accompanied Mr. Hutton on a trip to Whitcomb, first to the town's branch office;

Wentworth placed the appointment document for trainee inspector on the table when he went to the western mining area.

Even on that night in Black Gully, after the rusty bell rang, everyone who came gave their name, lineage, and whose money they had received.

Compilation, public accounts, reimbursement, and registration—this is a procedural organizational structure.

Following his usual practice, he first went to the city hall, where the clerk very politely led him to the health department.

After looking at his credentials as an investigator, the health officer actually asked him if he was there to register for a cholera outbreak.

When he went to the police station, the officer on duty listened to his story with sympathy and told him that he should ask a priest about this kind of thing.

"Which priest?"

Which parish do you live in?

Richard couldn't answer, but he gradually realized what was going on.

This country was not officially established until 1861.

Before that, the peninsula was home to more than a dozen autonomous cities, principalities, kingdoms, and papal territories, a situation that lasted for eight hundred years.

:

There was nothing he could do but continue shopping.

The street north of the cathedral is lined with shops, each displaying more goods in its windows than those in the capital, and at higher prices.

He walked two blocks before stopping in front of a spice shop on a street corner.

I asked Sophia before leaving, and she said that although the shop owner sells expensive items, he has never sold counterfeit or substandard goods in his decades of business.

As soon as the door was opened, the aroma hit you: pepper, cinnamon, and saffron.

The price was indeed shockingly high, but Richard still bought half an ounce.

The seeds Demeter gives must be based on real objects; otherwise, they are just castles in the air.

If we take this back and study it, we might be able to replicate a batch of saffron.

Besides giving it to my sister and Grey, I might be able to exchange it for some money.

After paying and bagging the food, the shopkeeper picked up a strand of silk with his fingers, dipped it in the clear water in front of Richard, and the water immediately turned yellow.

The shop owner spoke fluent French: "If it's not yellow, or it's reddish-yellow, then someone has mixed something else in."

On his way back, Richard passed by a flower market.

The flower stall was full of chrysanthemums, white and yellow ones piled up like small mountains.

A woman carried away a huge bunch of petals, so big that she couldn't wrap them around her with both arms. After walking a dozen steps, petals fell all the way down the path.

Richard stood at the street corner and saw that the entire road leading to the cemetery was lined with people carrying flowers.

He mentally counted the days; October 30th was Halloween.

It's already the last week of October, and in a few more nights it will be the night for the deceased.

Richard put his hand into his inner pocket; the antler was still there.

The Twelve Nights of Yul, the Three Days of the Four Seasons, Halloween, and Warburg, with Halloween Night being of paramount importance among them.

The wind came from the north, carrying the chill of the mountains.

There was nothing in the sky; the clouds hung low, and not even the cry of a wild goose could be heard.

In the evening, Richard ate his first proper meal since leaving home under the arcade.

The ground is covered with mosaic tiles, and in the center is a bull.

The waiter led him to a seat further inside, and he randomly pointed to the two most beautifully drawn items on the menu.

The first dish served was a plate of yellow rice. Richard scooped up a spoonful, and the aroma immediately filled his nose.

:

"Zaffan," the waiter introduced.

Richard suddenly realized and remembered the taste.

The second plate contained a piece of meat fried to a golden brown, larger than the plate itself, with the bone still attached.

He ate both of them by himself.

The waiter stood two steps away with a subtle expression on his face.

Richard pointed to the plate, then to the menu.

"One more, please."

The waiter raised his eyebrows.

When the second serving was brought out, he finished it all.

This time, the waiter didn't leave; he stood beside him and watched him eat.

He turned around and went into the kitchen halfway through watching, and came out followed by the chef.

The cook was a fat man, and his apron was covered in oil.

He glanced at Richard across the table and said a long string of words.

Richard didn't understand a single word.

He took out his aunt's piece of paper, found the second to last line from top to bottom, and read it aloud.

"Please give me a cup of tea, without sugar."

The cook was stunned.

The waiter was also stunned.

Three seconds later, the fat chef slapped his thigh and laughed, shouting towards the kitchen as he laughed.

The waiter suppressed a laugh and tried his best to explain in Albion.

"Sir, we do not have tea in our shop."

"...The coffee?"

"We have coffee, but we're out of sugar."

Richard sat there, clutching his aunt's piece of paper, and suddenly understood why they were laughing.

When the coffee was served, there wasn't a single piece of sugar in it.

:

He took a sip and frowned at the bitterness.

The cook, watching his expression, nodded with satisfaction and turned to go back to the kitchen.

As the sun began to set, Richard arrived at St. Ambrose Church.

The church was short, made of red brick, with a square courtyard in front, surrounded by arcades on all four sides.

The pillars of the corridor are carved with various monsters, vines, and a person blowing a trumpet.

The carvings are not very neat; the person who carved them clearly cared more about finishing the carving than about making it look good.

The hall was very dark.

The pillar stood on the left side corridor, taller than a person, with a smooth shaft and a bronze snake coiled on top.

The snake's head was raised, and its mouth was half-open.

Richard stopped in front of the pillar, and his control panel reacted.

There were already three people there.

An old lady, a mother, and the child the mother is holding in her arms.

The old lady reached out and touched the pillar, then pressed her hand against her forehead.

The mother lifted the child up a little so that the child's little hands could reach the pillar.

The child reached it and giggled.

After they left, Richard pasted the still water on it.

The moment he applied it, he almost took a half step back.

It was frighteningly thick, only slightly less than the pillar of the fire god temple in Donald's backyard.

But when Richard actually saw the etheric structure of the pillar, his brows furrowed.

The casting method, alloy ratio, orientation of the scales, and the seam around the bottom of the snake's belly indicate that this is an Eastern casting.

It dates back to around a thousand years ago, and the craftsmen who made it probably had no idea what they were doing.

The thousand-year-old ether plastered on it tells another ancient legend: it is the bronze serpent that Moses set up in the wilderness.

Richard stood in front of that pillar for a long time.

A fake has been believed by millions of people for a thousand years: legend has it that on the day of the end of the world, the snake on the pillar will hiss and return to the Valley of Jehoshaphat.

Richard raised an eyebrow and began to discreetly scrutinize the sedimented ether around the pillar, just as he had done with the pillars of the Temple of Fire.

:

The points on the panel also slowly increased.

………………

After Richard left, the hat remained on Mortimer's face for about four more minutes.

Then he suddenly sat up, took off his hat, and sat up.

The sunlight outside the window, around three in the afternoon, was so bright it looked almost white.

The old man sat on the edge of the bed for a while before opening the box.

He hung the dusty old overcoat back on the hook.

He took another dark-colored short jacket from the bottom of the box, shook it open, and the smell of camphor wafted out, making him sneeze.

The last time I wore this outfit was at the funeral of an old colleague.

He put on his coat, walked to the mirror in the wardrobe, and talked to himself in front of the person in the mirror.

"Little Richard, I'm going out for a bit too."

On the other hand, if I really told that kid...

I reckon he'll put down what he's holding, stand up straight, and look at me with that kind of gaze that he himself might not even realize is slowly silencing me, and then ask: Professor, where are you going?

The next question is: What are you going to do?

Then comes that next question... Professor, how confident are you?

Mortimer pulled his hat down over his head; he was visiting a master, and he wasn't really confident at all.

"……never mind."

At the very bottom of the luggage was a tin box and a bundle of paper tied with hemp rope.

The tin box was empty, waiting to be filled with ash.

That paper was something he had been accumulating since he advanced to the level of Minor Proficiency.

Mortimer was thirty-two when he was promoted to minor proficiency, which is considered relatively late.

No one expected that he would become the only one among his fellow disciples to master the skill, and that he would live to this day, more than a hundred years later.

He stuffed the two ceremonial items into his briefcase and went out onto the street.

As the tram passed through the center of the street, newsboys stood under the arcades shouting about the Battle of Isonzo.

Heading north from the flower market, a constant stream of people carrying chrysanthemums could be seen.

:

Mortimer walked slowly, leaning on his cane.

He turned south into a narrow alley, at the end of which was an inconspicuous storefront.

Ambrosia Library.

Three hundred years ago, a cardinal brought out his collection of books so that all literate people could come in and read them. It was one of the earliest public libraries in the Western Continent.

Mortimer handed over the committee's letter.

After looking at the room, the administrator looked up, his expression immediately changing, and asked him in broken French which room he wanted.

"North-facing, the smaller the better, preferably one that no one uses."

His room was on the second floor at the very back, with a brass sign on the wall that read: lnz (Silence).

Once the door was closed, the sound of chiseling outside disappeared.

Mortimer first placed the copper basin he had borrowed from the hostel's kitchen on the floor.

He placed a bet of two lira at the counter for this basin.

Then the rope was untied, and among the eleven notebooks was the first announcement he had written during his promotion to junior proficiency.

He had never shown these to anyone; they were all wrong.

Some of them were later turned into papers and ended up in the archives, lying cleanly on the shelves.

He kept all the original versions that were wrong; he didn't throw away a single page.

This year, on the contrary, he pushed stacks of these original versions onto the table by the window and made an eighteen-year-old copy them one by one.

That kid copied it fast, even more neatly than the copyist.

Occasionally, she would look up and ask why, and before he could answer, she would lower her head and continue writing.

Mortimer squatted in front of the copper basin and opened the first book.

The paper is brittle; it crumbles easily when torn.

It took two strikes for the match to light.

By the time the third book was burned, the room was filled with ashes.

As he burned the paper, he recited names, all of which were highly accomplished scholars who had failed to ascend to the rank of master over the past millennium.

He wasn't qualified to address the master by his full name, so he had to resort to this trick to attract the other party's attention.

One hundred and sixty-three names, not one can be missed.

:

When he read the fiftieth or so, his voice began to become hoarse.

By the time they read the eightieth book, the fire had reached the last one.

When the 163rd person finished reading, the fire in the copper basin went out by itself.

Mortimer poured the ashes onto the table, flattened them into the shape of a sheet of paper with his palm, and then wrote his name on it.

After he finished writing, he sat down and placed his hands on his knees.

Blood trickled from his nose, seeping onto the gray page.

And then nothing more happened. The room was so quiet that you could hear someone pushing a cart of books down the second-floor corridor.

A quarter of an hour, half an hour...

Mortimer folded the handkerchief and put it away. Looking at the gray page on the table, he suddenly felt a sense of relief.

That's good too. When he gets back, he can tell that kid that he slept all afternoon and his back is sore.

If anyone asks him again if there's still a path to follow in the footsteps of classical texts and traditions, he can still push his reading glasses up his nose and say that he's too old to climb stairs.

Thinking about it that way, he felt a little embarrassed.

Mortimer reached for his briefcase.

He turned his head and found someone standing behind his elbow.

: