I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 525 Only Hunger Remains in the World

When Heituhe Daren was young, he guarded a tomb in a small mud-brick temple on the west bank of Thebes. When he was bored, he would count the offerings.

A can of barley wine, three loaves of bread, two goose legs, and a bunch of blue lotus flowers...

Later, the man from Heituhe was no longer human, the mud-brick temple collapsed, and the tomb he guarded was dug up by tomb robbers. The habit of counting offerings has continued to this day.

In the past few days, the Black Earth River expert has been counting as usual how many mirrors he lost when he was dragged into the fight by the Wild Hunt, how many riders there were in the Wild Hunt team, and how many times the hunter blew the horn.

They even traced the three syllables back to the museum's closed warehouse, counting every single person who had entered it.

Apophis stood before the mirror, having finished reporting the two messages about the Envoy and the Wild Hunt. The curtain spoke for the Black Earth River Master, his voice as dry as a parched riverbed:

"I've never heard of this so-called 'Your Excellency' before."

Apophis bowed and replied, "I've heard that Your Excellency has established your authority at the banquet of the Norse gods, pointing out the details of the identity of each and every one of the guests in front of everyone."

The expert from Heituhe slowly explained:

"There has never been an envoy before; this envoy has only recently appeared."

Apophis didn't respond to the Black Earth River Master's question, so the Black Earth River Master asked again, "Where does the Wild Hunt's team plan to go down?"

"The Wild Hunt's recruitment notice specifies the meeting point, which is in the Gotthard Mountains."

A fine ripple appeared on the mirror's surface. The Black Earth River expert pondered the news of the envoy and the Wild Hunt. After a while, he suddenly began to speak of the bird catchers in the Black Earth River swamp:

"In the marshes of the Black Soil River, bird catchers use a very old-fashioned net. The two sides of the net are laid flat on the water's edge, with a handful of grain scattered in the middle. The bird catcher squats behind the reeds, holding the rope. When the net is full of birds, he pulls the rope, and the two sides of the net close together."

After the net is closed, the bird catcher doesn't rush to pull it in. Instead, he squats by the net and watches, observing which bird struggles the most and which bird is being protected by the wings of other birds.

Apophis loosened his hands from behind his back:

"You should lay a net like this along the path the hunter takes as he dives, and see who it protects?"

"I'll have someone make a pocket."

The expert from Heituhe corrected him.

"At that time, everyone in the team will fall down. The hunter, that miser, will even calculate the cost of saving people."

Whichever it pulls first is the one it's most reluctant to lose.

"This person I'm most reluctant to lose, even if they're not the one who delivers the syllables, must still have enough value." Apophis paced back and forth in the room.

It must be said that this method is very simple and crude.

But the simpler the strategy, the less likely it is to go wrong; Apophis couldn't find any fault with it anyway.

The only problem is that it's too difficult to implement.

"Priest, please forgive me for asking a few more questions."

"ask."

"The Hunter's team has at least tens of thousands of cavalry. How big of a trap are you planning to make?"

And how can you guarantee your pockets won't be pierced by the hunter's arrow?

This is the key point. If the Black Soil River expert had this ability before, it would have done it long ago.

On the other side of the mirror, she readily admitted it.

"I can't do it myself."

Apophis stopped in his tracks. "But I know a mouth from the abyss."

The mirror dimmed, leaving only the slanting sunlight in the room.

Apophis hung the bronze mirror back on the wall, picked up the cup of coffee on the table that had long since gone cold, and walked to the window.

This November, Cairo was filled with wounded soldiers.

Hospital trains arrived in Alexandria every day, and the ballroom of the Heliopolis (Sun City) Hotel was filled with hundreds of cots, all carrying people from Gallipoli who lay under the crystal chandeliers.

The carousel in Moon Park has stopped, bandages are drying on its back, and tents have been set up under the slide.

Young officers from the mapping department sat on the roof of the Sheffield Hotel, spreading out sketches of Sinai every noon.

They ate ice cream while drawing contour lines on paper. When they got really into it, they would poke at the desert area with a fork and argue about where the well was.

Meanwhile, the Black Soil River expert needs to find someone older and more unreasonable than itself to help.

After arranging the offerings, it turned all the mirrors in the pyramid upside down, leaving only one at its feet to reflect its own image.

Then it began to call out to that one:

"Sinking into the bottomless throat, dwelling with desolation." After reciting the first line, it first lowered its head to check if its shadow was still there.

Inside the pyramid, the black tide formed from the sounds of death fell silent.

These voices of the dead, accumulated over hundreds or thousands of years, have never ceased for a moment.

The Black Soil River streamer himself had gotten used to it being used as background noise, but now it's suddenly gone.

"He who once swallowed a kingdom whole in one gulp."

After reading the second sentence, it looked down again.

The shadow is still there, but it has collapsed downwards.

The expert from the Black Earth River recalled a broken stele he had read in Thebes when he was young.

The inscription reads, "Many people came from the sea, the Hittites are gone, Arachia is gone, and Ugarit's letter was only half-written."

That was the collapse of the Bronze Age.

"The tongue has departed, the stomach has become an abyss, only hunger remains forever in the world."

The third sentence was finished. There was no wind or light in the deep realm, but the Black Earth River Master could feel that everything around him had stopped.

The pyramid slid down along with itself.

The mirrors hidden in its deepest folds reflected all their images as they slid down to the bottom edge of the frame, crowding together.

That one didn't come; he simply placed his mouth at the entrance of the pyramid.

Within the confines of that mouth, every upward movement needs a reason, while every downward movement no longer does.

In the south of Cairo, Apophis was stirring his coffee with a small silver spoon when the spoon suddenly slipped from his fingers.

It slid down the side of the cup and landed on the ground with a clink.

He reached out to grab it, but couldn't lift his hand.

Apophis couldn't find a reason to raise his hand, which was more terrifying than simply having his hand pressed down or sucked in.

Why are you scooping up the spoon? The spoon is perfectly fine sitting on the ground.

Isn't it more comfortable to fall down than to climb up?

Apophis had barely entertained the thought when he immediately snapped back to reality. Outside the window, at this time of day, flocks of pigeons would circle the dome of the mosque in the north of the city.

Today, they were flying along when they suddenly fell from the sky.

The pigeon's wings were still flapping, but it just couldn't fly.

The steps were soon covered with a grayish-white expanse, with wings everywhere, none of them able to lift an inch off the ground.

An old man selling water on the street carried a sheepskin bag, the copper spout of which drooped down by itself, spilling water all over the ground.

He stood there with his mouth agape, unable to raise his hands.

At the alley entrance, a child's kite got caught in the neighbor's clothesline.

Then, the call to prayer rang out from the minaret.

"God is the greatest..."

The whole city was falling, but the calls for rites were rising.

Apophis observed this scene from afar.

Most academics have no faith. He said this many times in class: those who shout to the sky never get an answer; the sky is deafer than a well.

The students below laughed, and he laughed along with them, then continued explaining the structure of the other side of the curtain until the end of get out of class.

At that moment, Apophis found himself bowing his head toward the tower, feeling awe for the faith he had always looked down upon.

A dozen seconds later, the mouth closed.

The pigeons all took flight from the steps in a flurry. The old man selling water cursed something and slung his water bag back onto his back.

Apophis was able to lift his hand.

He raised his hand and found that he was holding a piece of paper.

The paper was written in his own handwriting, containing a passage he would never have written himself.

What did he sign in those ten seconds, and he almost finished?

Apophis quickly stood up, took the paper and burned it by the fire, then picked up the silver spoon from the ground.

After that person left, the first thing the Black Soil River expert did was to count the shadows.

It has seventy-two shadows, each of which it took a great deal of effort to swallow: the artisan painting tombs in Medina, the hermit practicing asceticism in the dry valleys of the Salt Lake, the wife of a tax farmer during the Mamluk era, the Franco scholar who came with Napoleon...

One, two, three... It counted to seventy-one and realized it was missing one.

It couldn't remember what was missing.

But an empty space remains, just like the cavity left in the gum after a tooth is extracted.

The expert on the Abyss tradition that I had gone to great lengths to invite not only took a bunch of benefits from it for free, but also took a cut from it.

The expert from Heituhe felt helpless, believing he was drinking poison to quench his thirst.

But it had no choice; the hunter held the three syllables of its true name in his hands.

Every time that guy blows a horn and produces even a half-note, it hurts for a long time.

If one day the other party finds out its full real name... it doesn't even dare to imagine what its fate will be.

"Priest?"

Apophis had probably just gotten up from his chair.

"How's it going on your end?" the expert from the Black Earth River asked. From the other side of the mirror, only the faint sound of porcelain clinking could be heard.

"...My spoon fell to the bottom of the cup."

That was the last thing he said.

"Um."

He didn't intend to ask further questions, nor did he intend to elaborate.

"Then it's settled. The date is the winter solstice, Wednesday, December 22nd."

The mirror darkened, and Apophis hung the bronze mirror back on the wall.

He took off his hat, put it on, and pushed open the door.

Horus stood outside the door, his face wrapped in bandages, revealing only his eyes and mouth, with a sunken area around his nose.

The peregrine falcon perched on his left shoulder, burying its head under its wing.

Apophis glanced at the bandage around his face.

"You don't need to guard today, go get your face treated." "If you stand at my door like this, people will think I'm holding a funeral."

The brown-skinned professor walked into the alley. The sun was setting, and a child selling dates was squatting at the alley entrance.

The child looked up at him.

"Sir, why are you sweating?"

Apophis raised his hand and touched his forehead; his hand was covered in sweat.

………………

The old town's coppersmith street is filled with the sound of hammers from morning till night; you have to shout to be heard when you walk down the street.

The old man who sets bones lives behind a green door in the middle of the street.

The old man was blind in his left eye. He removed the bandage from Horus's face and examined his good eye closely for a long time.

"Who hit him?"

"A big guy."

"How big?" Horus thought for a moment, then gestured with his hand: "Only a little shorter than a camel."

The old man exclaimed, "Then why did you fight him?"

"I won. Both of them fell down, but I was the first to get up."

The old man laughed heartily, then reached out and shoved his hand hard against the man's face.

Horus immediately shut up, his forehead veins bulging from the pain.

After the treatment was finished, Horus took out a coin from his pocket and tossed it over.

The old man went inside to prepare the plaster, while Horus sat in the courtyard waiting, his mind racing.

He heard everything while standing outside Apophis's door.

In the corner of the yard, there was a bundle of old paper used for making plasters, with the word "medicine" printed on it in French.

Horus reached out and grabbed a page, then used his fingernail to carve the words out of the GG page:

"Winter Solstice, Saint Gotthard, do not let your people approach the mountain pass."

After he finished writing, he folded the paper to the size of a fingernail and clutched it in his palm. Outside the green gate, a Greek man carrying a canvas passed by.

The man traded canvas between Alexandria and Cairo, selling it to the quartermaster at the Mena camp outside the city to make tents; half the old city knew him.

He greeted people as he walked, his voice louder than the sound of a hammer.

Horus beckoned to him.

The Greek man walked into the courtyard, saw his face covered in plaster, and smacked his lips.

"Dude, did a roof beam hit you in the face?"

"Deliver something for me."

Horus handed over the folded paper along with two coins.

"Send it to Marseille, to the same place in Grasse that sells lavender."

The Greek man weighed the piece of paper in his hand: "A love letter?"

"bill."

"Then hurry." The Greek stuffed the paper into the canvas roll.

"If a love letter arrives half a month late, the girl will at most cry once."

"A bill arriving two weeks late could be fatal."

He carried the canvas away, but turned back at the door.

"Is your face also a result of someone owing you money?"

Horus ignored him.

The paper was delivered very smoothly, with Apophis even escorting it along the way.

He even subtly hinted at it to the others at the table, then encouraged them to spread the news as well.

Horus's paper eventually ended up in Hecate's hands; it smelled of copper shavings and moldy hay, and had a little bit of bird feather dust on it.

This could be the truth, or it could be bait.

Those who lead her to the mountain pass, or those who lead her to avoid the mountain pass.

She pulled a thread from each of the two possibilities onto the loom to see which way they would go. Neither moved, so Hecate had no choice but to let the other six people at her table decide for themselves.

That night, six messengers set off from the house by the sea, heading in six different directions.

On the other side, Catherine sat on the second floor of the inn, her ten fingers wrapped in cloth.

The night before last, she went with a Serbian priest to a village on the upper reaches of the Vardar River.

The snow froze an entire group of people who had retreated from the north to death. After they froze to death by the roadside, they couldn't lie down after daybreak and stood one by one, looking north.

The old Greek woman in the village called this evil creature "the incorruptible one," so Catherine whipped it all night.

The whip lashed down, and those who were standing fell to the ground, their faces bearing the look of the dead.

When she returned at daybreak, her fingers were frozen purple, and her palms had a strange feeling.

Empty-handed, yet it felt as if I were holding something.

She couldn't help but use her forearm to measure the table, the door frame, and the book that Professor McFee always carried with him.

Finally, the white-haired giant frowned as he measured her. If it weren't for the fact that she was a girl, he would have slapped her across the face long ago.

McFee just returned from Mount Athos today. There are twenty monasteries on the peninsula that have forbidden women from going ashore for a thousand years, not even keeping hens.

When they arrived at the dock, the monks politely ushered Catherine onto the ship.

She wrote several pages of protest on the ship, which McFaye read page by page, folded, and returned to her.

"The female cat seems to be able to," the white-haired giant said at the time.

Catherine wrote in her notebook: "Then I'll dress up as a cat."

In the end, she failed to impersonate the professor, who had to stay on the mountain alone for half a month, bringing back a large box of Byzantine manuscripts, along with a body full of fleas.

At that moment, McFaye was sitting at the other end of the room, combing his beard with a small metal comb.

He glanced at the comb teeth after each stroke, his expression very serious.

Just then, a gray moth landed on Catherine's notebook.

She stretched out her fingers, which were wrapped in cloth, and the moth's wings snapped shut, turning it into a piece of paper.

The paper was written in Hecate's handwriting: "Winter Solstice, Saint Gotthard, do not let your people approach the pass."

A note followed: "Source of this information unknown." Catherine opened her notebook, walked over to McFaye, and hurriedly wrote: "Richard is in Italy!"

After finishing writing, she couldn't help but underline "Apennines" with an emphasis line.

McFee put the metal comb down:

"I know, I heard that kid and Old Mo went to Genoa from Milan again."

"With Old Mo watching over him, he won't starve or freeze to death."

"But you should take a look at your own fingers first."

Catherine looked down at the ten fingers wrapped in cloth.

She turned to a new page and wrote: "It's okay."

McFee looked at the line of text: "Then write him a letter."

Catherine gripped her pencil again, and suddenly stopped writing halfway through.

McFee's head popped out from somewhere.

"Can I see it?" The red-haired girl leaned down completely, covering the letter with her entire upper body.

"...Okay, okay."

The white-haired giant raised both hands and retreated to his chair.

"I'm too old to read letters from young people."

He sat back down and continued combing his beard.

"When I was young, I would shield my eyes with my arm when writing letters to people."

Catherine looked up and wrote in her notebook: To whom?

"A girl who married into Orkney."

McFee fiddled with the metal comb in his hand.

"She replied that my handwriting was like muddy ground trampled by a flock of sheep."

Catherine looked at him.

"Later she married a fisherman." McFee combed his beard again.

"I've seen that fisherman's handwriting before; it's worse than a sheep's."

Catherine chuckled, buried her face, and continued writing her letter.

After finishing writing, she folded the letter and pushed it to the middle of the table, asking her tutor: How should I send it?

"The post office probably won't work." McFee put the comb down.

"To send mail from Thessaloniki to Genoa, you first have to go through the French military mail inspection, then the Greeks, and then you have to go around Marseille."

By the time the letter reaches your good friend, the winter solstice will have passed.

The white-haired giant's face was full of sarcasm when the word "good friend" was mentioned.

He admired his student's blushing face, then stood up and opened the window.

A gust of wind suddenly rushed into the room, causing the papers on the table to rustle and flutter.

McFaye then grabbed some oatmeal, placed it on the window, and murmured a Gaelic phrase.

The clouds above the sea parted, and moonlight streamed down, paving a path of light. A hare followed the light, leaped down, and jumped onto the window.

It is entirely white except for the black tips of its two ears.

When Catherine saw the adorable little messenger, her green eyes widened instantly.

She stood up and stretched out her hand, which was wrapped in cloth.

The hare raised one of its hind legs and stomped heavily on the window.

"Don't touch it!" McFaye quickly stopped her from reaching out.

"It even bites me. It bit me twice last year and even tore off a tuft of my beard."

Catherine's hand froze in mid-air.

She thought for a moment, then gathered the oats into her palm, unfolded them, and handed them over.

The hare twitched its nose, leaned in to smell her cloth-wrapped fingers, and then lowered its head to eat from her palm.

Catherine tickled between its ears with her fingertips, and the hare closed its eyes.

McFaye stood by the window, his face grim. "...I've been feeding it oatmeal for years, and I've never seen it so affectionate."

Catherine freed one hand and wrote in her notebook: It likes cool hands.

That's called frostbite.

McFee rolled the letter into a small roll, tied it around the rabbit's hind leg, and then patted its rump.

The hare leaped from the window, landed back on the bright road, and ran westward.

Finally, it disappeared into the darkness beyond the ocean and was no longer visible.

Catherine stood by the window the whole time.

McFaye yawned and went to sleep in the next room.

"Close the window, the wind is coming in."

………………

Hecate's letter arrived in Genoa first, where a gray moth landed on the teakwood of the Mahabharata.

Richard finished reading and thought that the winter solstice was December 22nd. The night before, Yul was to descend into the Deep, the entrance being at Gotthard.

The chief told them not to go near the mountain pass, but he had already promised to go there.

The letter didn't mention what Yamaguchi would do.

He figured if he asked the hunter now, the hunter would probably just reply with: "Stay close to the group when the time comes."

All he can do is make sure he has more preparations in hand.

Mercury was still waiting for a reply from the suppliers in the New World; there was still no definite news about the bark paper.

Mortimer never went to the dock to check on his ceremony materials; he left all the miscellaneous tasks to his students.

Ever since he got his hands on that can of Darjeeling, the old professor has been living in the small living room downstairs at the hostel.

The proprietress insisted on putting lemon in his tea, but he insisted on having milk.

The two people couldn't communicate verbally and relied entirely on gestures.

During the waiting period, Richard's "critical thinking" score gradually climbed to 97%.

That night, he borrowed a magnifying glass from the landlady. Her husband used to be a pilot at the port authority, and he used this magnifying glass to read the tide table.

"Give it back to me when you're done," the proprietress said.

Richard took the magnifying glass back upstairs, opened the teak board, and flipped all the way to the section about the heroes' eve of their expedition.

The edges of the leaves were covered with tiny annotations, so small they could only be seen with a magnifying glass. Richard's "knowledge and general knowledge" began to come into play in conjunction with the context.

It took him almost half an hour to figure out what was going on in one line of annotations.

The annotations were written in Javanese, and the person who wrote them was a shadow puppeteer. Javanese people call shadow puppeteers "Dalang".

A shadow puppet show can last from dusk till dawn, with hundreds of puppets manipulated by Dalang alone, and the lyrics and dialogue also handled entirely by Dalang.

Dalang's writings on the edge of the leaf were all his tips on handling puppets, rambling and disjointed, much like the casual murmurs a master would utter when instructing his apprentice:

"Before the play begins, place the ancient farmer in the center of the curtain."

Gu Nong'an is a leather puppet that looks like a tree or a mountain. Birds are hidden in the leaves, and wild beasts are crouching at the base of the tree to guard the gate.

Gu Nong'an inserted himself right in the middle, and the play began.

All night long, the king came, the gods came, and the brothers started fighting. Everyone had to go around Gu Nong'an. Before dawn, remember to put Gu Nong'an back in the center. Only when Gu Nong'an is back in the center is the play over.

If you forget to put it back in, the shadows on the curtain will keep playing until the lamp oil runs out.

A line of text was squeezed along the very edge of the leaf, so small it was almost invisible:

"The entire play is played under a single lamp, which hangs above Darran's head. The shadows of the king, the god, and the demon are all illuminated by the same lamp."

Richard put down the magnifying glass, rubbed his eyes, and thought of his own shadow. Then he turned over a few more leaves:

"The audience sits on two sides. Those sitting in front of the curtain see the shadows, while those sitting on Darran's side see the puppet itself."

The older generation says that the one sitting on the shadow side is the god, and the one sitting on the puppet side is the human.

According to Darren, the side that casts the shadow is the front of the curtain.

God sat in front of the curtain, watching with great interest as one shadow was cut down by another, never once going behind the curtain to look at the slain cowhide puppet.

In Richard's previous understanding, the true self resided on one side of the puppet, while the shadow was merely the true self's projection onto the other side of the curtain.

[Critical thinking level 4, 97% → 98%]

Behind the strangely annotated leaf was a third marginal note, written in Latin. Richard read the third marginal note and couldn't sleep all night. He got up early the next morning and rushed to the library of the University of Genoa to look it up, sensing that the advanced conditions for [Critical Thinking] would be unlocked in the next few days.

Mortimer said he was looking for a book and came along with Richard.

The University Library of Genoa was a Jesuit college two hundred years ago.

Richard and Mortimer stopped before borrowing the books, behind which sat a librarian of medium height and in his forties.

The administrator was registering people with his head down, a pencil tucked behind his ear.

Richard and Mortimer exchanged a glance, both with doubt in their eyes, neither of them sure whether the administrator in front of them was a master.

The administrator looked up, took a pencil from behind his ear, scratched his scalp a couple of times with it, and asked in a rough voice in Genoese:

"Gentlemen, what books would you like to borrow?"

The moment he opened his mouth, a strong smell of garlic filled the air.

Richard thought to himself, surely the master wouldn't be this slovenly.

Mortimer switched his cane to his other hand, let out a soft sigh of relief, and replied politely:

"Excuse me, we need to borrow Kircher's 'Illustrated Explanation of the Eastern Continent'." The "Illustrated Explanation of the Eastern Continent" was printed in Amsterdam in 1667. It was so thick that it could kill a person. The book talked about the writing, religion and customs of the East, and also included a set of copperplate plates with Sanskrit letters.

Richard found several pages of copper plates printed with Sanskrit letters in the thick book "Illustrated Explanation of the Eastern Continent" and memorized each letter one by one.

After closing the book and returning to the hostel, I reopened the teakwood bookcase and read Roth's marginal notes, referring to the Sanskrit alphabet.

The Latin annotations next to the story of the horse's neighing were written in neat handwriting, clearly the work of someone who had practiced calligraphy in a monastery.

"According to ancient custom, when Brahmins transmit the incantations for divine weapons, they must teach both the invocation and the recall together; neither can be omitted."

When Drona taught his son Masri the incantation for the head of Brahma, he only taught him the invocation; he knew Masri's temperament too well and deliberately only taught him the invocation.

Below the marginal note is another passage about Karna.

Karna was the adopted child of the coachman. He lied and claimed to be a Brahmin, and became an apprentice of Rama the Axe-Holder.

One day, Rama, who was holding an axe, fell asleep with his head on Karna's lap. An insect crawled into Karna's thigh and bit him, causing him to bleed profusely.

Karna, afraid of waking his teacher, gritted his teeth and remained motionless.

When Rama awoke and saw the blood all over the ground, he immediately understood Karna's true identity. The Brahmin couldn't bear the pain of the insects crawling into his thigh; only the warrior could endure it.

Rama, wielding an axe, cursed Karna, saying that the spell Karna had learned would leave him when he needed it most. Karna eventually died on the battlefield. Before he died, his chariot wheels got stuck in the mud. Karna jumped off the chariot to push the wheels away, but his nemesis Arjuna's arrow was already nocked.

Karna remembered every word of the spell, but he couldn't recall how to use it at all.

The annotation begins on a new line below the story of Karna:

"The incantation can be copied, overheard, or obtained by deception like Karna did."

The incantation for retraction is never written down. It is only spoken to the disciple in person when the master trusts him. If the master refuses to speak, the incantation for retraction is lost.

Therefore, in the study of divine weapon incantations, the first thing to be lost is always the half that has been recovered.

Richard recalled the origin of the broken branch: Richard learned the technique from Catherine's notes, and Catherine in turn learned it from Professor McFee.

The angle of the knife strike, the direction the blade cuts across the ridge, the timing of erasing strokes—[博闻] remembered them all perfectly.

Professor McFee himself always cut off branches without harvesting them.

[Critical thinking level 4, 98% → 99%]

Richard realized he could do the same as the two immortals: once the branch was severed, all he needed to do was find a place for it to land.