I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 536 You've Come and Sit at the Head of the Table Too

In a corner of the banquet hall, there was a table for the children, with small pieces of cake and diluted juice.

There were seven or eight Blackburn children sitting there, the oldest around ten years old and the youngest just learning to hold a spoon by themselves.

A little boy stood up. He was wearing a black velvet tuxedo with white lace at the collar, white stockings, and buckled leather shoes.

Her light brown hair was softly curly, her face was round, and there was a bit of honey on the tip of her nose.

The children at the table turned to look at it, their faces full of confusion. They had always thought it was someone's cousin.

As the little boy walked past the count, the count's legs buckled and he knelt down on one knee.

Immediately afterwards, everyone in the banquet hall with the surname Blackburn stood up.

Constance stood by the main table, one hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide open.

"...Ancestor."

Next to Richard, Viola also stood up, still clutching a napkin in her hand.

"It's it. I saw it when I was six." Her nonchalant expression vanished completely. Richard looked at the little boy, and the more he looked, the stranger the boy's face seemed.

The little boy's nose is exactly like Constance's;

However, her eyebrows were long and thin like Viola's, and her ears were perked up like the Count's.

He had just seen that slight downward curve at the corner of his mouth on the face of a boy who was about ten years old.

This face, every feature and detail seems to have been borrowed from a family member.

"Every child in our family goes to church once when they are six years old."

Viola said in a low voice.

"Stand in front of the genealogy and let the head of the family write the name on it."

While you're writing, a kid about your age will stand next to you, smile at you, and everyone will think he looks a bit like them.

She looked at the little boy.

"My family called this 'entering the genealogy,' and I only realized when I grew up that this was what every child in every family had seen for hundreds of years."

Richard suddenly understood. A master who had taken the path of reproduction and bloodline to its extreme anchored himself in his descendants, living out the shared childhood of this entire family.

The little boy walked up to the seat of honor, tilted his head, and looked Matthew up and down, wrinkling his nose.

"You smell strongly of fish."

Matthew looked down and sniffed his sleeve.

"The fish got burnt again a few days ago."

The little boy stood on tiptoe and compared the figures: "Also, the body you've built is way too big; the legs of my chair are crying."

Matthew, hands on his hips, looked down at it: "You built it too small, I'm almost embarrassed to fight you."

The little boy giggled and skillfully climbed onto the chair, his two short legs dangling in mid-air.

Richard felt a strong sense of incongruity watching it swing its legs.

"Little Ambrose," Matthew called to it.

"Don't call me little." The boy puffed out his cheeks. "I'm over three hundred years older than you."

The entire hall watched the two bickering, no one daring to move, much less laugh. Ambrose finally remembered the important matter and turned to look at the Earl, who was still kneeling on the ground.

"Get up, little one, the ground is cold."

The count, who was nearly fifty years old, finally stood up, not even bothering to brush the dust off his knees.

"When a guest comes to the table, there always needs to be someone at home who can keep him company and talk to him."

Ambrose was still swinging his legs: "Otherwise, people will think our family is rude."

He gestured with his lip toward Matthew.

"They haven't been able to hire anyone for so many years, and they panicked when someone suddenly showed up. Don't take it to heart."

"I don't mind," Matthew said with a smile.

"This is my first time here too. I've received several invitations from your family before."

"Then why did you come today?"

Everyone in the hall pricked up their ears, and the Earl stood there, holding his breath.

Matthew turned his head, his gaze passing over the stunned faces, and landed on the best man's seat on the left side of the main table. "Best man, come and sit down too."

Richard sighed inwardly, knowing that with this guy's personality, he certainly wouldn't let him off easily now that he was here.

He walked from the left side of the main table to the small round table, a mere dozen steps.

Within those dozen or so steps, hundreds of eyes were fixed on him, making Richard truly feel what it meant to have thorns in his back.

He heard someone gasp behind him, a knife fall into a plate, and Evelyn whisper "Brother" behind him.

Matthew patted the chair on his other side, which was also for the expert to sit on.

Richard stood in front of the chair, somewhat hesitant.

"Sit down, chairs don't bite."

With no other option, he sat down listlessly.

The chair for this expert is truly extraordinary; Richard felt like he was sinking into a cloud when he sat down.

The count stood to the side, his mouth opening and closing again.

Today, a distinguished guest has arrived, and the first thing Matthew did after sitting down was to let a young man sit next to him. "This is my friend," Matthew said to Ambrose. "I'm here today because of him."

"Friends?" Ambrose's eyes widened, his surprised expression just like that of a real child.

The little boy turned his head and stared at Richard.

It leaned half its body over the chair and sniffed twice with its little nose.

Richard could immediately sense the stark difference between her and Viola.

"You smell of horse sweat." Its voice was so soft that only the person next to it could hear it.

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

"Don't be afraid, I'll keep it a secret for you."

The little boy winked at him:

"If word gets out, that miser will come to my house begging for hay, and my stable can't afford it."

He shrank back into his seat and then swung his legs.

Matthew reached out and broke off a large piece of cake, not even taking a plate, and took a bite. "This is pretty good. Who made it?"

"My family," Richard answered cautiously.

Grey, who was not far away, immediately covered her mouth, her face turning bright red, while Evelyn was also very pleased with herself.

Matthew took another bite: "Not bad, it really tastes like home."

Ambrose then slid off his chair: "Give me the booklet."

The count quickly took out the dark chestnut-colored calfskin booklet and handed it over with both hands.

The little boy spread the booklet out on the tablecloth and turned to a certain page.

Several lines were written on that page, each with a different handwriting. The bottom line had the newest ink, which was probably the line Viola was referring to.

Ambrose stretched out his little hand and slammed it down on the page.

The Earl's expression changed, and a series of barely suppressed gasps rose from the tables at the Blackburn residence.

The little boy closed the booklet and handed it back to the count, patting the back of his hand.

"Take your time... We may lack many things, but we never lack patience." On the other side, Matthew had already stuffed the last bite of cake into his mouth and patted the crumbs off his hands.

"I have to go."

"So fast?" Ambrose curled his lip. "The guests of honor, according to custom, should fill a table for one course."

"If you sit any longer, everyone in this room will dream of going back to their hometown tonight."

Matthew stood up.

"Tomorrow morning, half of the hotel staff will resign, and half of the wives in the capital will pack their bags and return to the countryside. Your Earl can't afford to compensate them."

He glanced down at Richard and said, "After the wedding, I'll wait for you in the alley behind the hotel."

Before Richard could answer, Matthew had already turned around and walked towards the side door of the banquet hall leading to the kitchen.

Just then, a waiter carrying a tray pushed the door open from the inside.

Matthew went inside, and the door closed behind him.

The waiter stood at the door with a tray, then pushed the door open again, revealing a pot of soup behind it steaming.

The little boy waved to everyone in the hall: "Alright, everyone eat, the food's getting cold." The chandelier swayed, and the sounds in the banquet hall gradually returned.

Both experts have left, but their influence remains in the hall.

The old gentleman at the next table was already discussing with his wife that they would go back to their hometown first thing tomorrow morning;

The young waiter who was serving tea to the main table stood by the door, holding the teapot, and looked outside for a long time.

The other half of the people are affected in a completely different way.

Constance turned her head and glanced at Phillips at the head table.

Just one glance.

Phillips choked on his tea, coughing until his face turned red. His mother quickly patted his back, but her eyes were smiling.

Grey sat at the table by the window, and images inexplicably popped into her mind:

A little boy with gray eyes was sitting on a high stool in her kitchen...

She pinched her palm hard, her face turning red all the way to the tips of her ears, and lowered her head to cut the roast chicken on the plate, which had long since gone cold.

Those guests who hadn't taken a turn back were also losing their impression of the two experts. Richard walked back to his original seat and sat down.

Viola looked at him curiously: "Mr. Best Man, who exactly are you?"

"I'm the best man," he replied casually.

Viola pouted and didn't ask any more questions, glancing up at everyone in the hall.

"Just you wait and see. In another hour, apart from our few tables, no one in this room will remember who came here today."

Where are your family members?

"Even if our family doesn't find its way back, we will remember our ancestors, after all, we are all its anchor points."

Viola chatted with him.

"With these two experts here, half of the people in this room are going back to their hometowns."

"The other half..." She put down her fork.

"The year my great-grandmother got married, more than a dozen newborns were born on the street the following year. The parish priest wrote to ask if something had been added to the well water."

Richard picked up his teacup; the tea was long cold, but he drank it all in one gulp. He had taken that smoky mirror directly to Lady Mary when he returned to the capital.

Lady Mary glanced at the mirror through the linen cloth and then had the porcelain doll take it away, keeping it far away from all her mirrors.

"The cursed artifacts of the New World must be given to the people of the New World. I will deliver them to you."

Richard breathed a sigh of relief.

As for why they didn't contact Matthew directly, the manuscript they owed Matthew last time was intercepted by the administrator.

Richard didn't know whether the administrator had given it to Matthew after reading it, nor did he know the attitudes of either party.

Logically speaking, someone of a master's caliber should be able to glean information from his manuscript with just a glance.

But perhaps the other person enjoys the process of slowly reading the story?

The wise choice at this point would have been to simply refuse to see him, which is why he entrusted the matter to Mrs. Mary.

But to his surprise, Matthew not only came, but also gave him a lot of face.

Richard looked at the empty gilded chair and felt a sense of foreboding as the other party told him to meet alone after the wedding.

Soon, the problems facing him weren't just Matthew's. After the wedding banquet, the bridesmaids had to cut the cake into small pieces and thread them through the bride's wedding ring.

After dressing up, wrap the clothes in white paper, write the girl's name on them, and distribute them to the unmarried girls present.

After the girls went home, they would put it under their pillows, and it was said that they would dream of their future lovers at night.

This is an old custom for seeking good fortune.

After the banquet ended, the unmarried female guests gathered around in twos and threes.

Evelyn squeezed to the front, her eyes fixed on the cake, with Grey standing beside her.

Clara stood at the other end of the long table, with Sophia holding her arm.

Edith stood against the wall, while Catherine stood at the very back, near the door frame.

Viola stood in the center of the long table, holding a small silver knife in her hand.

Constance stood next to her cousin, having already changed out of her wedding dress.

The back room was quiet, and everyone was watching them cut the cake.

After distributing the seventh package, Viola stopped, counted the items, and looked at the girls gathered around the table. "The rest, distribute according to the list."

She took out the guest list, on which several names were circled in pencil.

Viola walked to the doorway of the back hall, where Richard was standing.

He was sent by Phillips to oversee the ceremony, as the best man was to witness it.

Constance walked up to him: "The best man writes the girls' names."

The bride smiled, but her tone left no room for argument:

"A man's handwritten name is the only one you can find in your dreams; that's our family rule."

The girls in the back hall all turned to look at him.

Evelyn waved from ahead: "Brother, write my name nicely when you do!"

Richard sighed softly and reached for his pen.

A hand pressed against the back of his hand; it was Viola, and her hand was unusually warm.

"The slips for the dream cakes must not be dipped in ink, for ink will kill the dream." "Then what should we use?"

"Use lead."

The girl's voice was so soft that even the people standing at the door could hear it.

"You have a pencil in your left pocket, don't you?"

Richard's mind was working faster than it was during the debate week.

Refusing is tantamount to admitting in front of everyone that there is something shameful hidden in your left breast.

Asking a servant for a pencil for everyday writing not only violates the rule of "using lead," but is also essentially a sign of guilt.

He looked around and found Grey standing less than three steps away from him.

Clara stood at the other end of the long table, while Catherine leaned against the doorframe.

The three of them found his hesitation strange.

Richard casually reached into his left inner pocket and took out the pencil from next to the IOU.

A soft "Huh?" came from the back room. He casually explained, "Oh, this is a little trinket my Swiss friend gave me."

This was the truth. Catherine narrowed her eyes. The scales above her head didn't tip, and Clara didn't hear anything unusual.

Viola looked at the pencil and raised an eyebrow.

She said nothing and turned back to the long table.

Richard found an empty spot and laid out the lots.

He picked up a real pencil and, just to be on the safe side, wrote his sister's name first: Evelyn Williams.

The lead tip left a faint silver-gray line as it glided across the cardstock, barely visible until you got close.

As he wrote, he spread his spiritual vision across the paper, staring at the tip of the pen and the surface of the paper.

...There was no reaction at all.

Where the lead tip passed, the etheric surface remained completely clean, without leaving a single trace.

Relieved, he continued writing:

Grey West, Clara Farfield, Sophia Hardy, Edith Carter, Catherine Blackwood, Viola Blackburn. He wrote the seven names quickly, finishing them in one go, and scanned them from beginning to end with his spiritual vision, seemingly finding nothing unusual.

The only thing that wasn't quite right was that the pencil wore out exceptionally quickly.

It even had a temperature; the pencil actually got warmer and warmer as I held it in my hand.

Writing the first name felt about the same temperature as his body, but by the seventh one, it felt like holding a hand warmer.

Richard frowned, put the pencil back in the left inner pocket, and buttoned it up.

Viola walked over and grinned at him, "You write well, better than my uncle's handwriting."

Evelyn was the first to receive the note, and the handwriting changed the instant her finger touched the card.

The faint silver-gray line suddenly turned black.

It was so black it was almost shiny, and every stroke was clear and distinct, as if it had just been written with the finest ink.

Evelyn looked down at the sign and blinked.

She held up the slip of paper and shouted to her brother at the other end of the long table, "Brother, I knew you put the most effort into writing this for me!"

The girls in the back room covered their mouths and laughed; it seemed Richard's reputation for doting on his sister was about to be confirmed. Richard turned his head to look at the shiny black name on the signature, but his heart skipped a beat.

He clearly wrote the same light gray color just now.

Sofia received the second pack, looked at the signature, and saw that the name was still that faint silver-gray, unchanged.

Edith received the third package, and upon closer inspection, it was also pale gray. She carefully tucked it into her botanical encyclopedia.

Viola picked up the bag with her name on it, and glanced at it; the name on the bag was also light gray.

She smiled, stuffed the paper packet into a hidden pocket in her skirt, and placed it with the spark plug.

When Grey received her bag, she noticed that the signature on it had become curved.

Those strokes look as if they've been pressed down by a bent pen tip.

Grey stared at it for a while, then gently touched the "" with her fingertip.

All the lead used to make bullets is now being requisitioned; who still uses real lead for pencils?

Clara was the fifth person to receive it.

The paper package landed in her palm. Before she could even look at the fortune slip, she heard a sound. It was very low and soft, coming from the paper package and creeping up her palm.

Her first thought was: the lead is making a sound.

But lead is the most mute metal; it doesn't make a sound when you tap it.

She brought the paper package to her ear, and the sound, with its varying pitches, was a very short and simple melody.

It sounds like someone humming a song, and it's a girl.

Catherine was the last one.

She walked over from the door frame, took it, and noticed the signed name fading away before her eyes.

The scale above her head seemed to fall, almost crashing to the bottom.

Catherine took out a notebook from her pocket, opened it, and wrote: "Someone marked him before."

The three men were filled with doubt, but none of them spoke up.

Grey was concerned about appearances; after all, this was someone else's wedding banquet.

Clara, with her scholarly instincts, was cautious. The humming sound in her palm was of unknown origin, and she assumed it was the work of some unknown evil spirit. Normally, Catherine would have directly questioned Richard, but her throat wouldn't allow her to speak on the spot.

Once in the women's lounge, Clara sat in front of the mirror pretending to fix her hair, but her eyes were looking at Catherine behind her through the mirror.

Catherine sat in the corner, staring at the fading words on the signature, her face grim.

Clara watched for a while, then turned around.

"Your fortune slip isn't right either?"

Catherine looked up at her, wrote a sentence, and pushed the notebook over.

Clara glanced down at the line of text in the notebook.

"My picture is humming a song," she said.

Catherine's eyebrows twitched.

The door opened, and Grey walked in.

She was carrying a small pink box and said she was there to touch up her makeup. As soon as she entered, she saw Clara and Catherine both holding paper bags.

The three exchanged glances, and none of them spoke. "Should we ask the others?" Clara, being the eldest, suggested first.

They then asked Evelyn, Sophia, and Edith, and confirmed that only the three of them had a problem; Evelyn's photo was actually the darkest and clearest.

Sofia held her signature and looked at it over and over for a long time, looking very unhappy.

"Why isn't mine responding?"

The three men were looking at her.

"Evelyn's picture is clearer now, all three of yours are making funny faces, mine is just average!"

Sofia slammed the sign on the table in a fit of anger.

"Does he not consider me one of his own? How many times have I kept track of his advisor's schedule for him, and how many times have I covered for him sneaking out of the dorm at night?"

Grey, Clara, and Catherine ignored her.

"Hey!" Sofia shouted, "Did you hear me?"

Grey borrowed Evelyn's card and placed it side by side with her own, Clara's, and Catherine's cards.

One pencil was shiny black, and the other three each had their own peculiarities. "This pencil... can recognize people," Clara concluded.

Viola was smoking by the door when she leaned over and chuckled as she added insult to injury.

"Our noses rarely make mistakes; it seems the best man was marked by another hunter first..."

On the other side, Richard was saying goodbye to the newcomers.

Constance had already gotten into the car, while Phillips stood at the door, holding a cup of tea.

He saw Richard walking over and raised his glass to him.

Richard picked up a glass of soda from the doorman's tray and clinked glasses with him.

"Viola and Constance were whispering to each other for ages just now," Phillips said.

"Then Constance told me again."

"What did he say?" Richard asked.

"Speaking of today's fortune slips, a few of them don't seem quite right," Phillips said, taking a sip of tea.

Richard's face stiffened. Phillips patted him hard on the shoulder.

"I've only been married for half a day and I've already discovered that marrying one person is already this troublesome. If I had to marry four... tsk tsk tsk."

He climbed into the car and then stuck half his head out of the window.

"I just saw a few young ladies heading towards the carriage and horse market. You'd better not go that way home tonight."

He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Fine, you can only get home that way anyway."

The car door closed.

Richard shook his head. He still kept his promise and turned into the back alley of the hotel.

His left chest was burning, but he pressed it and didn't pay attention to it for the time being.

Matthew was sitting on an overturned wooden crate, eating cake.

I don't know where he broke off another piece, but he ate it very roughly, holding it in his palm.

Beside him lay a bundle, wrapped in a dusty, coarse cloth. "You're here," Matthew nodded to him. "Sit down."

There was nowhere else to sit in the alley except for that wooden box, so Richard just stood there.

"I'm here today especially to support you."

Matthew stuffed the last bite of cake into his mouth.

"I want that whole family to see clearly whose friend you are. From now on, when they flip through that breeding book, their hands will tremble."

It patted the crumbs off its hands and handed over the bundle.

"By the way, the mirror you asked the teacher to give me has been taken care of."

Richard squatted down to untie the cloth, revealing the smoke mirror underneath.

He reached out and touched the edge of the frame; the ether on the mirror was completely sealed.

Matthew leaned against the wooden crate, stretching his legs out in the alley.

"Do you know what this mirror used to be used for?"

Richard could only cite information he could find in books: "Tescatlipoca, a smoke mirror, the god of night and fate, the Aztecs used obsidian to polish mirrors for divination..."

Matthew interrupted him: "That's written in the book. Let me tell you something that's not fully written in the book."

"They select one young man each year. He must be good-looking, have no scars, be able to play the flute, speak eloquently, and walk gracefully."

After selecting him, they dressed him in the clothes of God and adorned him with the ornaments of God, and for a full year thereafter he was God.

"People kneel before him, he eats the best food, wears the best clothes, and wherever he goes, people play the flute for him."

"On the day of the first anniversary, he walked up the steps of the temple himself."

Matthew extends one hand, making two gestures in the air to mimic the movement of someone going upstairs.

"Take one step, and you'll break a flute."

"All the flutes I played this year, I'll smash them all, one by one, and walk to the top of the steps..."

He lowered his hand, pointed to his chest, and made a digging motion.

"They call this person ixip over there, which means the skin of God or the image of God."

"A man puts on the skin of a god, and after a year he will be sacrificed on the steps." Richard listened silently, without uttering a sound.

"This mirror is used to select people, and it continues to perform its duties even after the priest who presided over the ceremony is gone."

Matthew's approach was particularly simple and brutal:

"I let it fulfill its duty, and laid a set of steps for it at the mouth of the Styx. For each step it took, I would break a reed flute."

"When I reached the very top, it wanted to rip my heart out."

Matthew tapped the mirror with his chin.

"But the road can't be cut off; now it's just an idol that's off duty."

At this point, the smile on its face vanished instantly.

"When you're wearing that mask, never let this mirror reflect your image."

"Even though it's off duty, having done so for four hundred years, it still can't resist seeing someone dressed in the skin of a god."

Richard wrapped the mirror back in cloth, tied a knot, and held it in his arms.

"Thank you." "You're welcome. It was something the teacher asked me to do, and I've already done it."

Matthew's expression changed after he said that.

Without any transition, the face that was red from the sun just a second ago looked relieved after finishing the business, but the next second it changed completely.

"Let's talk about the manuscript."

Here it comes! Richard tightened his grip on the bundle.

Matthew pulled the library card out of his pocket:

"When the master first said to reserve a copy, Matthew Carewick was the first one on the list."

"But half a month passed, and he still didn't give me the book."

He put the card back in his pocket and stood up.

"You've really made something of yourself now, you're an author on the bookshelf of masters."

"Writing for the master in Milan, writing for the master on the train, the master extends your loan period, the master collects your manuscript on the train..."

Richard didn't speak at first; he sensed something strange about the other man's anger. Matthew was exactly like someone who had been stood up by a friend, saying it was nothing but secretly seething with anger.

It's exactly the same, but it feels really out of place.

When people are angry, they breathe heavily, clench their fists, stomp their feet, and their shadows move.

Matthew had nothing, he just used his face to gradually portray the feeling of being "frustrated".

Acting, yes, acting, that's the only word Richard could think of right now.

"Since you're so good at writing."

After Matthew finished his performance, he spoke again: "Even a master like you appreciate your writing, so I'll give you a challenge."

It gestured with its chin toward the alley entrance.

There are seven gas lamps from this wooden box to the alley leading to Brook Street.

Originally, according to wartime regulations, only four lamps were lit.

Matthew snapped his fingers, and the other three lights came on, making a total of seven lights that stretched from his feet all the way to the alley entrance.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes to prepare." "Then, once you've thought it through, walk to the alley entrance. Every time a light goes out, you have to improvise a line of poetry for me on the spot."

He pondered for a moment: "The poem needs a story... I'll write about the pioneering years of the New World."

Richard frowned. Seven verses, and he also had to fit a complete story into them.

Let alone seven steps, even if you gave him seven days, I wouldn't dare say he could definitely write it well.

As for copying memories from a past life, the other party has already set the topic.

He couldn't think of any modern narrative poem with seven lines that could match the theme of the Western frontier era.

Matthew probably sensed what he was thinking and waved his hand.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not being unreasonable."

You don't need to make things up out of thin air. Whether it's history or mythology, as long as you recite it yourself, it's fine.

"What if you can't finish reading it?"

"If you don't finish reading, the street outside the alley won't be Brook Street anymore."

Matthew laughed again, as if he were discussing weekend plans with him. "Of course I won't kill you, I couldn't bear to."

There are so many fun places in the New World. In the central mountains, there's a valley to the west where only one type of tree grows. The leaf I gave you was picked from there.

There was a town where, after a mine collapsed, time in the town was stuck in an endless loop for the five minutes that the collapse occurred.

At another camp, the stakes that the surveyors drove in during the day would move westward by themselves at night. As they moved, the surveyors ended up following the stakes.

It tilted its head: "You pick a place then, and I'll keep you company while you play."

Richard silently calculated that if he was still trapped in the New World on the night of the winter solstice, his shadow would not be able to go down the well and would have to leave the hunter's pigeon.

Once the loan period ends on February 9th, the manuscript of the Mahabharata will disappear on its own, along with the half-finished draft he wrote. The master's attitude may also change from sunny to cloudy or even gloomy.

And Hermes will be absent from the Round Table in mid-February...

All the carefully planned schedules were thrown into chaos the moment the alleyway outside turned into a new world.

Richard stood under the lamp, his heart filled with anxiety, when suddenly he thought of the story of Cao Zhi.

Who would have thought that Richard would one day be forced to compose a poem in seven steps?