I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard went out early Saturday morning.

The twelve pounds my grandfather gave me were almost all gone after buying antiques and second-class train tickets for the family of four back to Briston.

He's going to the Briston Central Post Office today to collect his Cicero Cup prize money.

Richard's understanding of banking was roughly the same as his understanding of advanced mathematics: he knew it existed, but the details were all vague.

Richard never owned more than five shillings; his father managed all the family finances.

His entire understanding of withdrawing money consisted of simply taking his passbook and receipt to the counter and stating a number.

As for the version of myself living in the modern world... mobile payments were already widespread when I was in high school, and banking services only existed in my vague childhood memories.

Thirty pounds was a huge sum of money. He touched the cold metal of the crowbar in his pocket, buttoned up his coat, and strode toward the savings bank.

The savings bank is located on the east side of Briston Central Street, in an old building with gray stone walls and a bronze Royal Mail emblem above the door.

The bronze emblem has turned green from acid rain corrosion, and the edge relief has become blurred; only the outline of the crown in the center is still discernible.

Pushing open the door, I saw several people lined up in front of the counter.

After waiting for about half an hour, it was his turn. He handed over his bankbook and the identity certificate issued by the school.

"Take thirty pounds."

The teller was an older woman wearing pince-nez glasses.

She took the passbook, flipped through it, then looked up at him, her lips moved but she didn't say anything.

The old woman pulled out a stack of banknotes from under the counter, counted them one by one, and then counted them again.

Thirty pounds were put into a brown paper envelope, the opening of which was folded twice, and she pushed the envelope over.

"Count them yourself."

Richard counted the money again at the counter, and after confirming that it was correct, he put it into the inside pocket of his coat.

After leaving the savings bank, he turned south onto Central Avenue.

The fastest way home is actually to go through Helford Lane behind the savings bank, walk across the covered bridge outside the freight yard, and then go through the north entrance of Grafton Street.

That road is less crowded and shorter, saving about ten minutes compared to walking down the main street.

But Richard didn't take that route.

With thirty pounds of cash pressed against his chest, he had no intention of going to any secluded places.

Central Street is Bristol’s busiest thoroughfare, and it was packed with pedestrians on Saturday morning, with most of the shops on both sides open.

A coal briquette cart occupied half of the sidewalk, five or six people were lined up in front of a pie stall, and the brass-buttoned uniforms of patrol officers could be seen and seen in the crowd in the distance.

Although this route is a long detour, it's surrounded by people from beginning to end, making it the safest option at present.

He pulled his coat jacket tighter to make sure the envelope wouldn't slip out of his pocket as he walked.

I made an extra button on the inside pocket, a habit I learned from my father.

Every time Rogers received his salary, he would seal it up and put it inside his clothes, fastening the outer layer tightly.

Walking in the middle of the crowd made him feel a little more relaxed.

The surrounding area was filled with housewives buying daily necessities, vendors pushing shopping carts, and groups of teenagers strolling around.

A busy street is the best talisman.

As he walked, he mentally prioritized the things he needed to do that day.

Go home first to put the money away, then have lunch before heading out to Clement Antiques to buy the Sphinx lamp.

The oil lamp cost two pounds. Of the remaining twenty-eight pounds, some had to be set aside for the mother's medical treatment, to supplement the family's food expenses, and for daily living expenses. The rest was for himself.

As he was calculating, a brown wallet slipped out of the coat pocket of a pedestrian diagonally in front of him, about seven or eight steps ahead.

The wallet landed on the sidewalk with a soft thud.

The person who lost their wallet was wearing a gray wool coat and was walking very fast, completely unaware that they had dropped something.

Richard stopped in his tracks.

The wallet lay open in the middle of the road, its brown leather surface worn smooth, with the edges of a few banknotes peeking out from one of the open corners.

Hey bro!

The sound came from his right, and someone noticed the wallet on the ground almost at the same time as him.

The man was of medium build, wearing an open work jacket, and had a smile on his face.

"You saw it too? That person dropped their wallet!"

The man in the jacket was quick and had already scooped the wallet up from the ground.

He opened his wallet and glanced inside, exclaiming in surprise, "Wow... there's a lot of money in here!"

The man waved his wallet in Richard's direction: "That guy's gone, shall we share?"

Richard looked at the man's smiling face but didn't move.

There are a few details that are incorrect.

First, the wallet slipped out of the pocket at the wrong angle.

The side pockets of the coat face upwards, so the wallet will sink deeper into the pocket as you walk normally and won't pop out on its own.

Unless you push it out from the inside with your hand.

Moreover, a wallet is not a handkerchief; it has weight. When it slips out of a pocket, the center of gravity of the clothes changes, and a normal person will subconsciously touch the pocket.

But the person who lost their wallet left too quickly.

Secondly, the man in the jacket was positioned too conveniently.

He stood to Richard's right, just at the edge of Richard's peripheral vision.

He spoke up at just the right time, as soon as the wallet landed, as if he had been waiting for it to land.

Third, the normal reaction of an ordinary passerby who finds a stranger's wallet should be to chase after the owner and return it, or shout loudly, "Sir, you dropped your wallet."

But now, the first thing he does is open his wallet and count the money, pulling the person next to him to suggest that everyone should get a share.

When the three anomalies are combined, the answer becomes clear.

In my previous life, in the 1980s and 90s, this kind of street scam was very common.

The scheme is simple and to the point: two people work together. Person A deliberately "drops" a wallet in front of the target, and Person B appears at the right time to pull the target to pick up the wallet together.

B proposed to split the loot with the target, but the splitting of the loot needed to be done in a place where no one could see them.

Once the target is led into an alley or a secluded corner, A will turn back.

They either pretended the owner had found the lost item and threatened to call the police to extort money, or the two turned on each other and robbed the victim.

The gray wool coat with the wallet that "dropped" in front is A.

The overly enthusiastic man in the jacket in front of you is B.

They were watching people on Central Avenue, specifically waiting for those who came out of savings banks and whose pockets were obviously bulging.

The next step is to lead him into the alley.

Richard withdrew his hand, his expression unchanged.

"It has nothing to do with me," he said, turning sideways past the man in the jacket and continuing to walk forward.

The man in the jacket paused for a moment, but reacted quickly, taking three steps at a time to catch up.

"Hey bro, wait a minute! This is free money, aren't you going to take it?"

Richard ignored him and kept walking.

"Hey, what's wrong with you...?"

The man in the jacket placed his hand on Richard's right arm.

At the same time, the gray wool coat in front had turned back and blocked Richard's way from the front.

The man in the gray wool coat was half a head taller than the man in the jacket, and was extremely thin, with a thin layer of skin sticking out of his cheekbones.

The pupils of the eyes beneath the brim of the hat were wide open, and drool hung from the corners of their mouths.

This guy was actually a drug addict.

It was probably tincture of opium, or a similar cheap synthetic analgesic.

"Young man." The smell of medicine wafted from his mouth.

"That was my wallet. Since this guy helped me pick it up, it's fair that we split it."

As he spoke, he reached out and put his hand on Richard's left shoulder.

The two men flanked Richard, trying to lead him to the alleyway.

The man in the jacket had a bulge on his belt, probably where he was wearing a folding knife or something similar.

Richard wasn't sure whether the other person was carrying a knife.

If he shouts, and the other party, in a desperate move, stabs him in the street, then he'll suffer a huge loss.

He quietly slipped his left hand into the side pocket of his coat.

If you don't have time to pull out the crowbar, you can't swing it in the street.

But Gray Grass can, as Fog Wall has no visual effect; it doesn't emit light or smoke.

Rub your thumb vigorously, and the gray stamen grass will be crushed between your fingers.

The fibers cracked with a slight snapping sound, and the grass clippings scattered in the palm of the hand.

A long, gentle breath blew across the crumbs in my palm.

Ether activated the grey clover fibers, causing them to explode silently.