I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 521 Lamp Oil

"After I arrive in the New World, I will take a train westward to the last station that the railway can reach, where I will meet up with the joint scientific expedition team from the inland."

"An expedition team?" Professor Mortimer frowned.

"You're blind, and you're going to go into the mountains with the research team?"

Minerva smiled.

"The research team specifically wants someone like me."

"This team was formed with funding from Harvard, the University of Buenos Aires, and several shipping companies. It recruited a dozen or so people, all of whom were at least junior experts."

Everyone had already made a will before signing the contract, and they specifically went to the area west of the central mountains of the New World, a place that was still blank on the map.

Mortimer recalled for a moment.

"West of the Central Mountains... I've heard from some students who came back from field missions what's going on there. It's countless times more dangerous than our weak points here."

Minerva nodded in agreement.

"The veil of the Old World was relatively stable, although it is not so stable now due to the war. But the evil spirits and the dead here still need to find a weak point to barely get through."

"Once you reach the western part of the central mountains of the New World, the veil there is almost as thin as a veil, and the mystical side has been integrated into every aspect of people's daily lives."

"The local indigenous people learned to live with the world behind the veil thousands of years ago. The city-states are half in the material world and half behind the veil, and have even formed a group of underworld city-states."

"When the colonists built railways, the survey stakes they hammered in during the day would all move by themselves before the next morning."

They originally wanted to set up a telegraph line, but many of the telegrams they received were from dead people.

Therefore, for hundreds of years, human exploration has only reached the foot of the central mountain range and then stopped there.

"No star catalog in the Old World has ever recorded the stars behind the veil."

People look up at the sky, unable to count the number of stars, and those who miscount get lost and never return.

Minerva stated his goal.

"My purpose in going to the New World this time is to compile a new star catalog."

"I can no longer see them; the stars behind the curtain cannot deceive me."

Professor Mortimer smiled faintly. "Madam, you make sending someone to their death sound as casual as going on a business trip."

Minerva covered her mouth and chuckled softly. She seemed to exude a strong aura of confidence as she calmly replied.

"I actually calculated my chances of survival. If I went west of the Central Mountain Range, the probability of me coming back alive was 23%."

But if you stay in Turin and work in astronomy until retirement, doing only what others have already done, the chances of getting promoted are zero.

At this point, she added another compliment.

"Actually, I've also considered that you have a greater chance of advancement in the Old World than I do."

Just then, the sound of a train whistle came from the fog, and the train conductor called for passengers to board from the other end of the station.

Minerva gave a slight bow in this direction, then turned and walked towards the steps to his car door.

She didn't hold onto the railing when she went up the steps, but she stepped steadily and firmly.

Richard stroked his chin.

It seems that with the star chart tradition reaching this level, whether or not one has eyes has little impact on daily life.

Or perhaps losing her normal eyesight actually helped her observe the world better—that's probably what they call "inner vision." The train started moving first in Minerva, its wheels clanging over the switches, and soon it disappeared into the distance.

"The tradition that the eldest lady belongs to, like our classic texts, has also come to an end."

From the time the Chaldeans inscribed the first star mark on their clay tablets to the present day, astronomy has developed for thousands of years.

The Greenwich Astronomical Society and the Paris Astronomical Society argued for 200 years over who numbered the stars first, resulting in a 200-year hiatus in the star chart tradition without producing any new masters.

When Minerva was the Dean of Astronomy, she was the youngest full professor in the country, and she was in charge of the entire star catalog of the Apennine Peninsula.

But the team's defeat that night actually pushed him out of his comfort zone completely.

Professor Mortimer suddenly started wiping the window again, continuing to talk as he did so.

"According to the information I have received, Ms. Chang had already arranged everything before resigning, and she even scheduled the observation period until 1925."

I heard that on his first day in office, the new leader read through all 100-plus notes left by the former leader.

Then I sat in the office all morning, lost in thought, not knowing what else I could do.

Five minutes later, the train that Richard and Mortimer were on was also about to depart.

The old professor closed his notebook and rolled up the car window. The white-haired old lady next to him untangled the ball of yarn on her body, and the salesman opened his eyes; they only felt that they had been in a daze for a while.

No one spoke in the compartment for a long time, and the fog on the car window fogged up again, covering the spot that the old professor had wiped with his sleeve.

The train began to climb the hill, and the hills outside the window became increasingly steep.

As the train emerged from the last tunnel of the Giovi Mountains, Genoa rushed toward them from the bottom up.

First, there were the rooftops that stretched all the way to the sea, and then the row of cranes at the port, their iron arms hanging in the rain.

Finally, a leaden-gray sea surface lifted the entire city up.

The rain started in the afternoon and hasn't stopped.

After leaving the station, the two squeezed into a horse-drawn carriage. The driver pulled down the rain curtain, shook the reins, and headed into the old town.

The alleys here are also ridiculously narrow, with buildings crammed together on both sides, and you can only see a sliver of sky when you look up.

Mortimer shook the water off his hat and sighed.

"This place is even more uncomfortable than Milan."

The hostel was in the second alley behind Galicamento Square. The landlady was a widow, and her husband's photo hung on the counter, draped in black gauze. As she took out the keys, she arranged rooms for the two of them, mentioning that there were rooms upstairs facing the sea, and another room facing the alley, which wouldn't see the sun during the day.

"Then I'll go to the one in the alley," Richard said.

Mortimer, leaning on his cane, didn't bother with formalities and went straight upstairs.

Dinner was in the dining room downstairs.

The proprietress brought out a plate of thin noodles mixed with pesto, the garlic and basil flavors were particularly strong, and there was also a small plate of fried anchovies.

Richard had already finished the bag of focaccia that Lucas had given them on the way.

Mortimer lifted the lid of the teapot to take a look, then closed it again.

"Isn't this still dishwater?"

"Sir, this is the best tea in our shop."

The proprietress couldn't understand Albion, but she could see the disdain in the old professor's eyes.

Richard quickly came over with a smile and said something to smooth things over, and the proprietress tactfully walked away.

Halfway through the meal, Richard took out the copy of the Mahabharata that the master had given him. "Professor, I'd like to ask you to take a look at this."

Mortimer put down his fork, raised his hand, and an isolation array enveloped the entire dining room.

Richard pulled the palm leaf out:

"The administrator said that this is how the spell's pronunciation is determined; on the other side of the subcontinent, it's called..."

He tried to imitate the Sanskrit word with difficulty, though of course he didn't pronounce it very accurately.

"The administrator said that I don't understand those slips of paper that I can't try anyway, so there's no need to worry too much."

Mortimer reached out his hand, his fingertips touched the teak plank, and then silently withdrew it.

Did he say how long he would lend it to you?

Richard also took out the library card and showed it to the professor.

"It's tentatively set for one month, but He also said that once a new story is finished, it can be extended by another month."

The old professor took the library card under the lamp and looked at it again.

The pencil writing was neat and tidy, indeed identical to the handwriting of the forty-something gentleman he had attracted by burning the books. "Little Richard, this isn't a library card at all; it's a lease agreement."

Richard smiled again; ever since he met that master yesterday, he couldn't help but smile.

"That administrator was a really nice guy. He actually picked up all the drafts I had thrown away and numbered each one."

"The administrator said my friend's lines were too rough, and actually wanted to introduce me to a master artist to contribute artwork. He also said..."

This is the fourth time.

"What?"

These cold, hard words were thrown out, and Richard's eagerness to share was immediately choked up.

Mortimer remained expressionless, picked up a piece of anchovy with his fork, and held it in his hand without moving it.

"From just now until now, you've said 'the administrator said' four times in total."

Richard's smile vanished instantly; he realized that something was wrong with his mindset.

The lights in the dining room flickered on and off, and the sound of a ship's horn from the harbor cut through the rain.

Not far away, the proprietress was still humming a tune with indistinct lyrics in the kitchen. "Sorry, I got a little carried away."

Richard took a sip of water from his glass, and his expression returned to calm.

Mortimer's tone softened as well.

"It's normal for you to be proud; you're only 18 and you can already borrow books from a master."

If you're not happy at all, then there's something wrong with you.

He stuffed the anchovy into his mouth, ate it, and then continued speaking.

"What I'm worried about is actually something else."

Richard remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"You just said... the administrator is a nice person?"

Upon hearing this, Richard vaguely grasped something.

Mortimer wiped his mouth, took out his briefcase, and pushed all the plates and bowls on the table aside.

"Little Richard, the old man you saw in the library atrium isn't actually Him." "What do you mean?"

"To give an example, it should be like one of His fingers that He extended."

Or more precisely, it was a tentacle.

Richard felt a chill run down his spine upon hearing this description.

Mortimer said, "The person on duty behind the counter on the third floor of Imperial College, the person who helped me find fault in Dublin, and the person who adjusted the lights for me on the third basement level in Prague could all be a tendril extended by the administrator."

When you were in high school, following Hutton's directions, you wandered around the bookshelves on the third floor of Greenwood. The person who walked past you back then might have been a tendril of the librarian.

Richard asked, "Professor, how many tentacles does the administrator have in total?"

Mortimer shook his head: "I don't know, I guess even the administrators themselves can't count them."

After finishing his sentence, Mortimer suddenly changed the subject:

"When you were studying last June, you recited Cicero's famous quote at a tea party at the Classical Society, saying that lineage and ancestors are not earned by oneself, so they cannot be considered one's own."

Your aunt has told you about memorizing famous quotes countless times in the department, and she's always very proud of it.

"Since we're talking about the administrator granting you borrowing privileges, I'd like to tell you a story about Cicero." Richard sat across from him, listening quietly.

Mortimer cleared his throat and began to speak:

"In March of the forty-fourth year of the Gregorian calendar, Caesar was assassinated at the theater of Pompeii."

After Caesar's death, Cicero delivered fourteen speeches in the Senate and the forum, vehemently denouncing Antony. These fourteen speeches were later collectively known as the "Anti-Philippines."

Cicero also intervened on behalf of Caesar's adopted son Octavian, obtaining troops, official positions, and money from the Senate.

Octavian was eighteen years old then, the same age as you are this year.

When Octavian's age was mentioned, Mortimer chuckled at Richard before continuing:

Cicero joked with his friends that David should be praised and rewarded for his hut, but should be kicked aside once he was done with it.

The following year, Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus sat down together to discuss who should be executed.

Octavian argued for Cicero for two days, and on the third day he relented and agreed to put Cicero on the execution list in exchange for Antony agreeing to include his own uncle, Lucius Caesar, on the list as well.

Later, soldiers cut off Cicero's head. Antony's wife, Fulvia, held Cicero's head in her hands and pierced his tongue with a hairpin. The most eloquent mouth in Rome was finally silenced.

The only sound in the dining room was the sound of rain outside the window. Mortimer's wrinkled old face suddenly turned cold: "Richard Williams, do you think you can rest easy with a master as your backer?"

Remember this: a person is most valuable when they are being fawned over by others.

Mortimer paused, then asked Richard:

"Back then, Hutton came to my office for four consecutive days to ask me to write you a letter of recommendation. Do you know why I only agreed on the fourth day?"

Richard gave a wry smile. He had always thought that Professor Mortimer had only agreed to write the letter of recommendation because he was annoyed by Mr. Hutton's persistent pestering.

Mortimer chuckled:

"It seems you've figured it out now. On the third day, Hutton brought the draft of your empirical text."

I only decided to agree when I read through groups seven through eleven.

Mortimer stared directly into Richard's eyes, his gaze completely clear.

"So let me make this clear today: if your draft is as mediocre as the drafts of the other kids in the department."

Even if Hutton comes to me a hundred times, I still won't write you a letter of recommendation.

Raindrops were still streaming down the windowpane. Mortimer tapped the table with his finger and continued, "Why did the Hunter give you the token and the title? Why was Matthew willing to make a special trip all the way from the New World?"

Why did Marie Viktoria leave a mark on your ring?

"As you've come this far, there have been people who opened doors for you, people who covered for you, and people who stayed up all night grading your papers."

Think about it carefully, why are all these people willing to be nice to you?

Richard picked up the blank card and twirled it halfway through his hand:

"Professor, I'd like to ask you a question."

"Ask me anything."

Richard laid the blank card flat on the table:

"If I woke up tomorrow morning to find myself useless: the artifact I'd acquired was shattered, my microcirculation was disrupted, and all the knowledge I'd learned was gone, leaving me just an ordinary eighteen-year-old who knows nothing, what would you do?"

Mortimer took off his reading glasses, wiped the lenses with his sleeve, and spoke in a very calm tone:

"I will have the department handle the compensation process for you."

Your registered status on the roster is that of a research fellow, which entitles you to a fixed pension. I will handle the paperwork for you and have Pendleton submit the application documents as soon as possible.

Richard asked, "And then what?"

"After the formalities are completed, I will take back the letter of recommendation I wrote for you."

"After that, I will look for the next good prospect."

Every year, more than a hundred new scholars complete their signatures throughout the empire, and one or two of them can always be selected as decent ones.

I'm 123 years old; I don't have time to waste on a useless person.

Richard looked at Mortimer, smiled, and said nothing.

Mortimer picked up his teacup, found it was empty, put it back on the table, and remained silent for a moment before speaking:

"Before we go through the compensation process, I'll probably try to think of a solution for you."

Richard remained silent.

Mortimer continued:

"I know a few people in the Solar Tradition. The Solar Tradition's healing methods are very painful when they involve burning, but they're very effective at fixing broken circuits." The rain continued to fall outside the window, and Mortimer's voice grew softer and softer.

"There's a cataloging job in the archives. You can do it sitting down, six hours a day. As long as you're not blind, you can do it. I can talk to Pendleton and reserve the cataloging position for you."

If you can't even do cataloging, then someone has to look after the books I've collected in my study that I've kept for a hundred years.

Richard couldn't help but exclaim after hearing this: "...Professor."

Mortimer glared at Richard: "Don't get so emotional yet."

He slammed his hand on the table.

"Alright, I admit that what I said earlier about going through the compensation process, taking back the recommendation letter, and finding the next good candidate was just to scare you."

Richard nodded: "I know you're just trying to scare me."

"You know nothing!"

Professor Mortimer rarely swore.

"Little Richard, let me finish telling you the rest."

"I will definitely try to find a way. In the first year, I'll probably visit you once a month. I'll bring two fish and tell you about the mess in the department, which associate professor is arguing with someone in the department office about funding."

"In the second year, it will come once every three months."

"In the third year, I'll start making excuses: I have to finish my manuscript this month, I'm not feeling well next month, and the month after that, I'll say I'll go when it's warmer."

He put his reading glasses on the table.

"In the fourth year, I will start avoiding you."

"...Why?"

"Because every time I go there, I see this student again, the one I couldn't save."

Mortimer spoke very slowly.

"A person's patience is like lamp oil; you never know how much is left, and you don't feel it running out as it burns."

"But it will definitely burn out one day, and you won't even realize it has."

In the dining room, the light suddenly flickered and blew.

Richard sighed softly. Evelyn was arguing with someone in the street about how her brother had gone to so much trouble to memorize all those achievements: second place in the Cicero Cup, first place in the Debate Week, and second place in the Summer Internship.

My maternal grandfather signed his will in his study, saying that someone would have to support the family from now on.

That day, my aunt slammed her hand on the table at the Red Elm Tree Restaurant, saying that she had mastered three subjects in one subject, something that no department in the entire Classical Studies Department had achieved in decades.

They did love him, but they also had expectations of him.

"Professor, we'll go to San Lorenzo Street tomorrow morning."

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

Richard gathered the palm leaves from the table back into the center of the teak board and tied a very tight knot with cotton rope.

………………

Richard ducked to avoid a puddle and saw the manhole cover at his feet.

On the cast iron surface is a cross with four arms of equal length, surrounded by a circle of words that reads the name of the city.

He recalled the note the tall guy in Padua had handed him: "Professor, the manhole covers in Genoa don't have 'GG' printed on them, they have 'Cross' printed on them."

"That's St. George's Cross," Mortimer said, walking ahead with his cane.

"In the 12th century, our empire's ships could only avoid being robbed by flying their flag in the Mediterranean, and we had to pay protection money every year."

"Really?"

"I'm not quite sure," the old professor shook his head.

"But the Genoese have been telling this story for seven hundred years. It happened seven hundred years ago, so whether it's true or not is no longer important."

At the end of the alley, the view suddenly opened up, and the Cathedral of San Lorenzo stood in the rain.

Black and white marble stripes stretched from the steps all the way to the gable wall. Several people were squatting on the steps, taking shelter from the rain. One of them, a young man carrying a mailbag, was counting the letters in his hand.

Turn into San Lorenzo Street from the side of the church; number 11 is in a prime location in the middle section.

The brass plaque above the door was polished to a high shine, but there was nothing written on it.

Mortimer didn't go that way; he stopped under the eaves of the tobacco shop at the street corner.

"I'll wait for you here." Richard turned around: "Professor?"

The old man leaned his cane against the wall, took out a list and a bulging money bag from his pocket, and handed them over.

"Here's the money, you go and negotiate for me."

Richard took the money bag and weighed it in his hand; it was much heavier than he had expected.

Aren't you going in?

"If I go in, the deal will lose its meaning."

"If you want to leave something behind on this street, you have to sit face to face with people and negotiate the price down little by little."

"The moment I step through that door, you become my errand boy, and all he'll remember from now on is me."

The old professor reached out and took the newspaper from the tobacco shop owner, unfolded it, glanced at the shipping schedule to the New World, and pondered which ship Minerva was on.

Richard put the list into his inner bag.

"What if I mess up the deal?"

"If the negotiations fall through, we'll go back to the capital and spend more money at the auction house." Mortimer turned a page of the newspaper and found the ship to Boston.

"Anyway, the department paid for it, so I don't mind."

Richard nodded knowingly, understanding the situation.

The old professor held the newspaper up higher to shield himself from the oncoming rain.

"If you don't come down in two hours, I'll come up."

"I've got it."

"besides……"

Richard had taken two steps, then stopped.

Mortimer peeked out from behind the newspaper, revealing half his face.

"Buy whatever you want, it's up to you. I'll take care of whatever money is left in my purse, consider it a delivery fee."

"So whatever price you can cut, that's how much you'll get."

Richard stood in the rain, looking at that wrinkled old face. The words from last night, "Patience is the oil for a lamp," still echoed in his ears.

"thank you."

"Hmm," Mortimer mumbled, unfolding the newspaper again.

Upon entering the store, the first floor is an entrance hall, with a narrow table across the stairwell and a registration book on it.

Richard closed the umbrella and tapped the water out of the bucket.

Footsteps came down the stairs, and a young man of eighteen or nineteen years old came down.

Black hair, a patch of freckles on the bridge of her nose that hadn't completely faded, and she didn't know where to put her hands.

"Sir, who are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for the store manager here."

The young man was very polite: "Then please register first."

Richard picked up a pencil and wrote only the surname Williams, since Williams is a very common surname anyway.

Then, regarding his nationality, there was no point in hiding it—he listed the Albion Empire. As for the reason for his visit… he hesitated at this point.

After a moment's thought, Richard wrote down: Appraisal and Procurement.

After we finish shopping, there might be opportunities for cooperation.

The young man turned the book around and glanced at it; the surnames on it were clearly not on the list of people his uncle had instructed him to treat with special care.

"The second room on the right on the second floor, please knock on the door before you go up."

The second-floor corridor was particularly old, with several nautical charts hanging on the walls. The oldest chart was completely yellowed, and it even had several sea monsters drawn on it.

The second door was ajar, and Richard knocked three times.

"Please come in."

The room wasn't big; there was a writing desk by the window and a row of cabinets on the wall.

Two wicker baskets were placed in the corner, one labeled "Pending Inspection" and the other "Scrap Copper".

The person behind the writing looked up.

He was slightly thinner than Richard remembered, his hair was casually combed, and the smile on his face was exactly the same as the one on the Seven Hills who removed his hat and bowed. "Please sit down."

Richard sat down in the chair opposite him and placed his canvas bag at his feet.

"Piero!" Mercury called out towards the door.

"Serve coffee to the guests."

"No need for that."

"No trouble at all, a cup of coffee is nothing in Genoa."

The gentleman tidied up the table a little.

"Where do you come from, sir?"

"Milan, arrived by train yesterday afternoon."

"Is everything settled with the committee?"

Richard suddenly raised his head.

"Genoa has excellent information network, doesn't it?" Mercury smiled and explained naturally:

"In the past two weeks, eight out of ten travelers from Milan who are connected to the mystical side have come because of those boxes."

He took the list Richard handed him, his brows furrowing.

"Bark paper, knotted rope, cochineal insects—for which gentleman are you buying these on behalf of?"

"It's my list of advisors."

"Which mentor?"

"He doesn't want me to give my name."

"I understand."

Mercury nodded, seemingly used to such answers.

Piero brought in coffee; the cup was frighteningly small.

Richard picked it up, took a sip, and squinted his eyes because of the bitterness.

"The sugar is all in the army's hands this year. If you're not used to it, I'll have him get you a cup of hot water instead." "No need."

"That's good."

He picked up the list again and quoted several prices.

Richard wasn't quite satisfied with either of them. After some haggling, Mercury looked up at the clock on the wall.

"If you think it's too expensive, you can go to the dock and ask."

"I'm not the only one doing this on this street; there are two other shops behind Sant'Ambrogio, and their prices are a bit lower than mine."

But most of the products from the two lower-priced stores were fake, a fact he didn't explicitly state.

Richard put the coffee cup back on the saucer.

"I have something I'd like to ask you to take a look at."

He reached into his coat pocket and displayed the bronze seal.

Richard was looking out the window when the bronze seal was placed on the table.

So he didn't see Mercury's face, only heard the chair creak as it moved backward. The other person walked around the writing area, went to the door, closed it, and then locked the latch.

On the way back, I took a tin can from the cabinet and went to the charcoal stove to boil water.

"Piero!" he called out to the small door on the other side.

"The coffee has been removed; that's not for the guests."

"...Uncle, didn't you say that coffee isn't anything special in Genoa?"

"That's coffee for passersby! This is for a distinguished guest!"