I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 530 Masters Are Everywhere

The last cogwheel train to the mountain had long since left, so the two of them walked along the lakeshore toward the Angel Hotel.

Richard peeled the orange and gave half to Lillian.

She brought the orange peel to her nose and smelled it.

"Although I can't taste the sweetness, I can smell the orange peel."

She ate the orange segment by segment.

The wind blew from the lake and towards the town.

She stood on the side facing the town, while Richard stood on the side facing the lake.

Lillian took the box of matches out of her coat pocket.

"You said this afternoon that you'd cut one every time you saw me."

"Um."

"It's my turn to draw today." She pulled out a skewer and held it between her fingers.

"If I'm telling the truth... the gingerbread was delicious on my birthday, so I'll let the flames slant toward you."

She marked her name.

The flames, suppressed by the lake breeze, turned and veered straight toward her without the slightest hesitation.

Lillian stared at the flickering flame, her face instantly turning red.

"...I mean, I think it should taste delicious."

Richard sucked in his cheeks, not daring to laugh.

Lillian hurriedly extinguished the match when it was only half-burnt.

She took out another one and held it between her fingers, not moving it for a long time.

The wind on the lake blew a few strands of her loose hair in front of her face, but she didn't brush them away.

"If I'm telling the truth..."

The girl took a breath, raised her head, and looked directly at the person in front of her. "I've thought about you every single day this past year, so I'll let the flames veer towards you."

*Snap!* The flames leaped up, only to be suppressed by the lake breeze and flickered.

Then it actually went against the wind and turned towards Richard.

The truth that "My surname is Williams" can only extinguish a flame for less than three seconds.

As soon as Lillian uttered those words, the flame bent over and never stood upright again.

Her face turned completely red as she looked at the flame, and she panicked, not knowing what to do. She leaned in to blow on it.

The flames dodged to the side, still heading towards Richard.

She blew on it again, and the flame flickered but still faced the opposite side.

"Why won't it go out..." The girl's voice changed with anxiety.

The flame burned her fingertips, but Lillian didn't feel the heat. She looked down and watched helplessly as the flame licked her fingers.

Richard quickly grabbed her hand and forcefully extinguished the flame.

The girl's small hand was encased in his palm, her fingertips red from the heat. Lillian looked up at him, her eyes wet, snowflakes melting into fine droplets that clung to the tips of her eyelashes, threatening to fall.

She stared at Richard for a while, then grabbed his scarf with her other hand and pulled it down, standing on tiptoe.

...The girl's lips were particularly cold, making him feel as if he had a mouthful of snow in his mouth.

He had practiced the Mirror Condensation Technique for so long, yet when Apophis sat across from him drinking coffee, not a ripple appeared on the surface of his heart.

Today, Lillian kissed me, and the water surface shattered completely.

Richard's hands froze in mid-air, unsure whether to put them down or hold them up. It took him a while to remember to put his arms around the back of the person in his arms.

Lillian remained motionless in his arms. After a while, she stepped back slightly and blinked.

"...It's hot."

"You're hot." Her voice began to tremble.

"I thought I'd never know what heat felt like in my entire life."

Tears streamed down her face as she laughed through them, her shoulders trembling.

Richard was at a loss, wanting to wipe her down, but after searching his body for a long time, he couldn't find anything to wipe her with. Lillian grabbed the scarf of the person in front of her and buried her face in his coat.

"Your breath smells like oranges."

"Didn't you say you couldn't taste the difference?"

There was a moment of quiet inside the coat.

"...I smelled it."

She buried her face even deeper.

"You are not allowed to write today into your story."

"I won't write it."

"You're not allowed to use my name when you write it."

"Then what should we use?"

She thought for a moment and then said very seriously.

"...Skadi won't work either." Richard couldn't help but laugh.

Lillian glared at him and then buried her face back in his collar, pressing her forehead against his collar.

"One more time," she whispered.

"...What?"

She stopped talking, gripped her scarf, and pulled him down a little further.

By the time the two returned, it was already very late.

The proprietress of the Angel Hotel opened the door for them, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men.

Richard couldn't pretend he hadn't seen it this time. Lillian's face was bright red, the redness extending all the way into her collar, and her lips were red too, creating a stark contrast with her porcelain-like face.

She was quite nonchalant and even asked the proprietress if she had hot milk.

The proprietress said she had some and brought over a cup, still steaming.

Lillian held the cup and carefully took a sip: "It's so hot."

Richard lay in bed for a long time that night, unable to fall asleep. He thought of the letter sent by the hare messenger; he thought of the bench in Kensington Gardens; he thought of the rubbing machine he habitually carried with him.

[Reflection] He dutifully reminded him: You are avoiding choices.

Richard pulled the blanket over his head.

...Of course I know.

On the morning of December 6th, the small station had only one stop.

The newsstand displayed yesterday's Neue Zürcher Zeitung, with the front page reporting that Joffre had been appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Army in Frankfurt.

The second version is a photograph of local soldiers carrying guns standing on a snow-capped mountain pass, with the words "Watching Over" printed below.

Lillian was going to take the train to Zurich, from where she would transfer back to Prague.

The train pulled into the station, and she carried her small suitcase toward the door.

Halfway there, she turned around.

"Was the envoy very tired that day?"

Richard thought for a moment: "He's probably very tired." Lillian nodded: "Tell him not to overwork himself."

She took something wrapped in a handkerchief from her pocket, walked back, and put it in his hand.

"Here, take this."

Richard opened the handkerchief; inside was a lead strip.

"This is……"

"pencil."

Richard scratched his head. Isn't a pencil just graphite mixed with clay?

"A pencil made of lead?"

"You're not allowed to ask."

Her ears turned red instantly, and she turned and ran away.

The small suitcase bumped against its feet. It quickly boarded the train, found a window seat, and sat down with its face turned towards the carriage, no longer looking out.

The whistle blew, and the train started moving. Richard stood at the station, looking down at the pencil.

The lead should have been cool, but it was slightly warm to the touch.

Two black tracks were left on the rails by the wheels, and the new snow was falling and gradually filling them in.

On the evening of the 6th, Mortimer returned from across the lake.

Richard took the briefcase from him and asked how the copies were coming along.

"Taliaferro said the condition was a bit strange, and he wasn't wrong."

Mortimer sat down in the hotel restaurant.

"When the monks were binding the book, they sewed together a volume of Augustine and a volume of a fourteenth-century monastery account book."

The first half is about the City of God, the second half is about how much salt to put in pickled cabbage.

"Can it be taken apart?"

"Of course it has to be opened." Mortimer pursed his lips.

"The vice-dean was very reluctant to part with it, saying that only by reading the two books together can one see that even saints need to eat." The waiter brought over the soup.

The old professor, holding a soup spoon, glanced at him.

"Something doesn't look right on your face."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it," Mortimer said, taking a sip of soup.

"...It's similar to the day you met the master, yet also a little different."

He had spent his life buried in books. Although he was keenly aware that his students' emotions were a bit strange, he couldn't figure out why.

Richard put the spoon into the soup, not daring to say anything.

Halfway through the meal, he asked, "Professor, how do we get back to the Empire?"

Mortimer picked up the soup and drank it all in one gulp.

"Let's go back over the Alps."

Richard sat opposite him, waiting a while but nothing came of it. "...Professor, you weren't joking after all?"

The old professor spoke as casually as if he were saying, "Walk two blocks ahead."

"North of Switzerland is Germania, you can't get there from there."

There are several mountain passes on the western border with France, and the higher ones are left unattended in winter.

Once you get to Frankfurt, just find a town, catch a train, and head north to Paris, the same route you took to get there.

"On the contrary, if we go back to the Apennines, not only will the journey be much longer, but the border crossings will also become increasingly difficult to pass, and there is a possibility of traffic disruptions."

Richard sat there, unsure of what to say.

"Professor, the history book says Hannibal crossed the Alps at the end of October, but it's December now."

Mortimer wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Richard continued, "He took 37,000 men with him, and when he came down the mountain, only 20,000 were left."

Mortimer put the cup back on the table: "He brought an elephant, and it ate a lot."

After the old professor finished speaking, his mustache twitched, his expression exactly the same as when he had taken over someone's chair. Mortimer was making fun of him; he had been thoroughly humiliated by the administrator in Milan and needed to get his revenge.

"OK."

Richard stood up.

"Then I'll go pack my luggage. If you can't walk, Professor, I'll carry you."

Mortimer scoffed, "You can't carry it."

He was definitely not joking.

On the morning of the 7th, the two of them actually boarded a train heading southwest.

The car passed through the Kand River Valley and headed into the Lech Mountains.

Before the tunnel entrance, the railway inexplicably made a sharp turn.

In the same carriage, a pastor from Bern was reading a small book.

Mortimer looked from his shoes to his hat, then from the hat to behind his ears, and finally looked away.

The pastor felt uneasy under their gaze. The train disappeared into the mountainside.

Looking at these treacherous mountain passes, Richard suddenly had a flash of inspiration.

I came from Lucerne a few days ago, taking the Gotthard Line.

The mountain was carved out, and trains ran over human bones one after another.

The number of people on the bus was counted: the number of people in the church, the number of people in the tunnel, and the number of times they had gone around.

In my past life, there was a comic book called "Wolf's Mouth," which tells the story of a pass at Gotthard Pass seven hundred years ago.

There was a deputy official sitting in the gate; anyone who wanted to cross the mountain had to get past him.

However, some plots in that comic were too exaggerated, such as characters who could fly over rooftops and leap across walls, and the idea that once they crossed the mountain pass, all difficulties could be overcome.

In order to deliberately create a dark and tragic narrative, it deviates from historical reality and needs to be drastically altered.

Richard thought that he couldn't lose the gatekeeper named Wolf, who was the villain of the soul.

He pulled a stack of new manuscript paper from his bag and spread it on his lap.

Wolf never interfered at the checkpoints. He always had his men inspect the goods, stamp them, and then let the people through.

When they reached the canyon exit, just one step away from seeing the lake, they had someone go up and hold them down.

The Uri people say that a wolf's mouth is not scary when it bites, but rather when it opens.

As the car emerged from the tunnel, the sunlight from the Rhône Valley suddenly flooded in, turning the paper white.

Mortimer leaned over and glanced at his manuscript.

"Who is this addressed to?"

"Written for myself."

The old professor gave an "oh" and pulled his head back.

After a while, he leaned over again.

"Which one was for whom?"

"Almost done, will finish revising tonight."

Mortimer didn't ask any more questions, but glanced out the window at the increasingly higher mountains on either side of the valley. On the morning of the 8th, they changed vehicles and continued on their way.

This time, there was a small wooden box next to the car door with a note attached to it:

"Travel Library: Books in this carriage are available for borrowing. Please return them to their original places before disembarking."

Mortimer stood in front of the wooden box, looking suspicious.

"professor?"

"It's alright." The old professor sat down, leaning on his cane, his eyes still glancing in that direction.

"I just feel that every time I see a book, the first thing I want to do is ask who it belongs to."

Besides the two of them, the only other person in the carriage was a jacket draped over the seat opposite them in the aisle.

The owner of the coat probably went to smoke at the connection between the carriages and hasn't returned.

Once the train departs, the conductor comes to check tickets.

His face was dark red, and his beard was as stiff as a brush.

Mortimer's gaze was fixed on the other person's pencil. The conductor cut up the ticket and gave it back to him.

Mortimer slowly stood up and took off his hat.

"Do you read books regularly?"

The train conductor looked at the old man with a puzzled expression.

"Read, I read the Bible, and I read the weather forecast."

Mortimer nodded solemnly and bowed slightly to him.

The train conductor took a half step back with the ticket in his hand; he had never seen anyone bow to him just for checking a ticket.

He said nothing and turned to go to the next carriage.

Richard buried his face in the manuscript paper.

"What are you laughing at?" Mortimer sat back down.

"I didn't laugh."

"I'm just being cautious," the old professor said, pulling his hat back up. He glanced out the window again at the canyon, which was hundreds of feet deep.

"If you get lost in the snowy mountains, I will write to Isabella and say that you have gone to the New World."

Richard sat there, utterly speechless.

"Professor, please don't write it like that."

Why?

"My aunt will come to the New World to find me."

Richard lowered his head and finished revising the last paragraph of the manuscript.

The date written on the library card is tomorrow.

The canyon outside the window is almost over; a few stops ahead is a small town on the border.

Going into the mountains from there, you'll find a mountain pass that's deserted in winter.

Richard took the leaf Matthew had given him from the inside pocket of his coat.

He planned to give them a heads-up first. Experts are usually quite busy, so he'd send a message first; they'd see it when they had time.

He pasted the leaf onto the manuscript and said softly, "Mr. Matthew, the manuscript is finished."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a door opened in the wall of the carriage.

Light shone through the crack in the door, and water and mud could be vaguely seen inside, along with a large iron pot bubbling with oil.

Mortimer stood up abruptly, holding his cane horizontally in front of him.

The etheric field inside the carriage was completely suppressed by him, and even the frost on the windowpanes stopped growing.

The man's voice came from under the door.

"Hey kid, do you know what time it is here?"

Richard grunted.

"It's the middle of the night," the voice said to itself.

"I just put the fish in the pot, and your yelling made me throw the spatula down."

The door opened a little wider, and a hand reached in and opened towards him. "Here, take it. It's been half a year since I finished writing it. I've been waiting here for so long, it's practically growing weeds. I'm just hoping this will keep me entertained."

"Sir, don't be so nervous. I don't eat people."

It paused for a moment at this point.

"...At least I don't eat the old stuff."

Mortimer didn't move; his cane remained horizontal.

Richard picked up the stack of "The Mistake" and handed it to that hand.

The edge of the paper just touched Matthew's fingertips.

A hand reached out from the side and snatched the manuscript away.

Richard turned his head.

Across the aisle, the brown jacket that was just there was now being worn by someone.

Richard was stunned for a moment, then a question suddenly popped into his head, and he blurted out: "The guy behind the one borrowing books at the University of Genoa, the one with a pencil tucked behind his ear..."

The administrator shook his head: "That's a real person, his name is Giovanni, and the garlic was pickled by his mother-in-law." Mortimer held onto the armrest of his chair and slowly sat back down.

Matthew's voice came through the crack in the door, all traces of his usual laziness gone.

"Hey, that was written for me!"

"It's written for you, but it's still on its way until it reaches you."

The administrator turned a page: "The books on the road are mine."

"I am the road!"

The administrator looked up and peeked through the crack in the door.

"Then I am the bookshelf."

There was no sound coming from under the door.

The administrator took a card out of his coat pocket, wrote two lines on it with a pencil, and handed it to Richard.

Borrower: l.

Title: The Mahabharata (Palm Leaf Manuscript). Loan period: Extended to February 9, 1916.

On a new line below, the text is written in even smaller characters: Two new entries into Tibet: "The Mistake at the Gate" and "The Mouth of the Wolf".

Two articles, one article per month.

He then wrote another line on the cover of the manuscript with a pencil and pushed it through the crack in the door:

Book reservations: Matthew Kelly is ranked first.

"I'm the client!" Matthew said indignantly.

"The client has no priority rights with this institution."

The administrator took the stack of "The Mouth of the Wolf" and placed it under "The Mistake".

"After I finish watching, it will be your turn."

The hand that was peeking through the crack in the door paused in mid-air for a moment before slowly retracting.

The administrator turned a page. "Reservations at this venue do not expire."

"How long?" "Until you arrive."

A spatula scraped the bottom of a wok with a sizzling sound from the other side of the door, and the smell of burning food seeped into the carriage through the crack in the door.

"...The fish is burnt."

The door closed, but the tension between an expert and a master was still rippling behind the curtain.

There is no moon at the mouth of the River Styx.

Once you cross the central mountain range to the west, the moon becomes less inclined to hang in the sky.

Matthew returned to the doorway of his stilt house, holding a spatula in one hand and an iron pot in the other.

There were three fish in the pot; the side touching the bottom was charred, while the side facing up was still raw.

"...Come over for fish on Friday."

The haystack in the corner of the house stirred, and a dog emerged.

Matthew attended school for a few years when he was young, and his favorite book was "Robinson Crusoe".

It handed the pot to the dog. Friday sniffed it, then turned away, walked back to the haystack, and lay down with its back to its owner.

Even you find it unacceptable!

Matthew curses the fish, the water, his own dog, and finally the pot.

It cursed everyone, but it didn't dare to utter a single word against that master.

On the other side, above the Jutland plains, the Wild Hunt crews rested.

The hunter has been in a good mood these past few days, online.

The elderly scholar next to him sat on the saddle, spreading the roster on his lap and adding names to it.

This month, thanks to Loki, everyone had to give him a ticket before they went on horseback. They had materials, cash, intelligence, and connections.

The hunter doesn't have to pay a single cent.

It opened the display case, glancing inside every now and then while muttering to itself.

Just then, the hunting book moved on its own, and the names accumulated over hundreds of years slipped under the old scholar's eyelids.

The pack erupted. Thousands of dogs sprang up from their sleeping piles at once, their neck fur standing on end, silently facing south.

The lame puppy burrowed into the horse's belly, tucking its tail between its legs and whimpering.

The hunter slapped the hunting book shut.

The frost on the hunter's antlers fell with a whoosh, landing squarely on the head of the dozing rider behind him.

The rider sat up abruptly, wiped away the ice shards, looked around, and dared not utter a word of anger.

"...is a master of classical traditions."

The hunter looked up and gazed southwest.

Looking through the curtain, all I could see was a continuous line of snow.

"Are they targeting our team?"

The old scholar didn't seem to think anything of it: "If they were targeting us, they wouldn't have just flipped through the booklet once."

"Who is that aimed at?"

The old scholar didn't reply. The hunter didn't ask any more questions either; it remembered the little fellow at the end of the fire passage.

Sometimes, things are better left unresolved than left unexplained.

It threw the prepared "anchor" into the saddlebag, then reached in and rummaged around for a while before taking out a copper ring.

The copper ring was covered in green rust, and there was a chip on the side.

Someone on the cloud ridge gasped.

The hunter held up the bronze ring and examined it against the dark sky.

In 1628, the Swedes built the most beautiful warship in the entire Old World, painted and gilded, with sixty-four cannons.

Less than a nautical mile from the port, a gust of wind came and it capsized, sinking near the dock in Stockholm. This brass ring broke off from the ship's side.

The old scholar stared at the copper ring for a long time: "Using a ship that sinks as soon as it leaves port to weigh it down, you really are an expert."

The hunter clenched the copper ring in his palm.

"An anchor is supposed to sink, and since someone is watching, it has to be something presentable."

After it finished speaking, the entire cloud ridge remained silent for a while. A man carrying a piece of charred wood squeezed out from the crowd and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"The Hunter has gone to great lengths! He even spared no expense for us, even taking out a ship ring from the Vasa!"

"If you shout again, I'll let you walk at the front of the line on the winter solstice night."

The hunter gave the reins a shake.

The man carrying the log shut his mouth, but his laughter didn't stop.

The barefoot guy's ten toes were frozen red, and he was rubbing his feet.

"Do masters of classical tradition regulate the distribution of shoes?"

The lobster soldier wiped the brass button on his chest with his sleeve and replied.

"The master is in charge of books; are you planning to fill out the library card with your toes?"

The laughter rolled backward along the ridge of the clouds, until it disappeared into the distance.

The hounds lowered their heads one by one, but the lame little hound remained crouched under the horse's belly, facing southwest, its tail taut.

The hunter adjusted the reins and turned to the old scholar, saying, "Write a note to Loki, telling him to give those living people a thorough training session before the winter solstice, so there won't be any mishaps."

The old scholar pulled a piece of paper from his saddlebag and dipped his brush in ink again.

"Should we include the master's affairs as well? Loki's mouth is more gossipy than any living person he's summoned."

"Write it all down."

"Loki will definitely sell the Master's story as intelligence." The old scholar was unsure of what to do.

The hunter twirled the copper ring halfway between his fingers and laughed out loud.

"Let him sell it; if he can sell it, that's his skill."

………………

The experts at Heituhe are also seriously considering canceling their plans for the winter solstice night.

But after much deliberation, it decided that it was no longer willing to endure the torment brought by the Hunter's Horn and would proceed with the original plan.

Just as they made up their minds, the black tide below the pyramid tip receded to both sides, revealing a gaping maw that stretched as far as the eye could see beneath the pyramid.

The Abyss Master never leaves the bottom of the Deep Realm, and whenever he goes out on business, he only sends his mouth. When the big mouth appeared, the Black Earth River Master had to use a lot of effort to stabilize his shadow.

The Abyss Master spoke, its voice tinged with swallowing echoes.

"Old priest of the Black Soil River, I rushed over right after finishing a meal. I have a bit of indigestion afterward, so I'll be blunt: I want extra money for the thing you asked me to do on the winter solstice."

The expert from Heituhe straightened up immediately:

"We agreed on the price last month, and you also received a shadow as a deposit."

"Everyone should follow the rules; the agreed-upon price cannot be changed."

The Abyss expert said, "The situation today is different from last month."

"Old priest, you felt it too, didn't you? The moment the book master left, I lost half my appetite."

The expert from Heitu River asked knowingly, "What does the departure of the master of classical texts have to do with the price you charge on the winter solstice?"

"It's very important," the Abyss Master said bluntly.

"On the winter solstice night, once I open my pocket, I have to put any people or strange creatures that fall from the Wild Hunt team into my mouth first."

The Master of the Books just appeared near Mount Gotthard today. If a copy of His book or one of His caretakers falls into my pocket… the risk is several times greater than last month, so I need more money.” It quoted a new price: “Give me seven more shadows now, and I’ll take thirty percent of whatever prey I catch in my pocket.”

"If a book by a master of classics or someone under His care falls into my pocket, I have the right to immediately open my pocket and leave, and not a trace of the shadow you gave me will be returned."

The lion opened its mouth wide, making the entire pyramid tremble with rage.

"Don't go too far... I'll give you two more shadows at most, but I won't give you a single bit of the prey."

"Two shadows aren't even enough to fill my teeth."

The Abyss Master yawned, his huge mouth opening and closing, causing the pyramid to sink a little further.

The expert from Heituhe didn't reply, but secretly pulled a small mirror out from the folds of his clothes.

The small mirror quietly sank down next to the big mouth, close to the black tide.

It wanted to use the small mirror to see where the other party was hiding, so that it would have more leverage in future negotiations.

The small mirror sank down, but quickly floated back up.

The frame was returned to its hands intact, but not a single shard of glass remained.

The Abyss Master laughed out loud: "Old Priest, you don't need to sneak around like this if you want to treat me to snacks." The Black Earth River Master's face was very ugly. He decided to send two shadows to keep the other party calm for the time being, and do something underhanded.

As the two shadows sank into the large mouth together, the other party slowly savored it: "The first one is real, the second one is fake."

"...Spit out the fake stuff!"

"Even the shadow of a liar can fill my stomach, so I'll take it."

The Abyss Master chuckled, "Since you've tricked me once, I'll keep raising the price. It's eight levels now."

Just as the expert from Heituhe was about to retort, he suddenly noticed that several shadows around him had become thinner.

While the two were talking, Big Mouth secretly licked it.

It quickly retracted its shadow into the folds and demanded sharply, "You were negotiating a price with me while stealing my shadow?!"

"Your shadow is too close to my mouth, I can't help it..."

The large mouth didn't care at all: "I've been hungry for so long, I can't control my tongue when I see something edible, please bear with me."

The man from Heituhe could no longer tolerate it and took action.