I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The clerk glanced at the association's official seal and signature on the award certificate:

"You're not a student from Greenwood University, who studied in the capital?"

"Yes."

"Is this the first time a student from Greenwood has won a Cicero Cup?"

"It should be."

The clerk wrote the address on the envelope with a ballpoint pen, muttering something like "not easy" under his breath.

After writing and sealing the letter, he placed it in the mail tray.

"The Dawn family made the request through their eldest daughter, whose name is..."

He flipped through the records again: "Charlotte Dawn, twenty-three years old this year, returned after graduating from university in the capital."

"I heard that she was in charge of the tutoring business, and her mother just signed the papers and paid the money."

Mr. Dawn was often away on the road, working on shipping, and rarely home.

Richard understood.

The eldest daughter is the actual decision-maker, the mother is the nominal client, and the father is basically absent.

The student is twelve years old and has had three different tutors, but his cooperation level is low.

He had drawn a portrait of the family in his mind, and the outline was already taking shape.

………………

After completing the application process for the tutoring job, I left the office before the sun had even set behind the chimneys.

Richard checked his watch; there were still two or three hours until dark.

He stood on the stone steps downstairs from the office building for a moment, then decided to go and check out the shooting range.

The words the inspection team leader said yesterday are still ringing in my ears.

The firing range is open all day, but no one uses it on weekends. Just bring your documents.

Now that we have the legal right to use firearms, the sooner we become familiar with them, the better.

He walked north along Grafton Street, crossing Central Avenue.

As he passed by the pie stand, he couldn't help but glance at it.

As usual, the vomit of the unfortunate crowd and the oil spilled by the pie vendor were cleaned up thoroughly.

Even the pebbles that the man in the jacket had stomped on had been repaired.

No wonder they're called health inspectors; they really do things cleanly and efficiently.

He walked through the perimeter wall of the freight yard next to Central Avenue and found the building the inspection team leader had mentioned in the northeast corner.

The three-story brick building had yellowish mortar plaster on its exterior walls and few windows, each fitted with iron bars.

A rusty brass plaque hangs at the entrance: "Bristol Municipal Environmental Monitoring Station - North Branch".

Below the bronze plaque was a smaller tin plaque, engraved in smaller characters:

"Unauthorized personnel are prohibited from entering. For environmental complaints, please go to window number three in the municipal hall."

Who would come to the back of the freight yard to complain about environmental issues?

The only function of this sign is probably to shoo away curious passersby.

Richard pushed open the door, and behind the duty desk sat a middle-aged man in uniform.

The duty officer looked down at the magazine; on the cover was a player heading the ball.

"Probationary Inspector Richard Williams, come and use the firing range." He handed him the warrant.

The duty officer took it, flipped through it, looked at the administrative seal and number on the document, and then looked up at Richard.

Her gaze lingered on his face for about two seconds, and she probably muttered to herself, "How can he be so young?"

"The shooting range is on the first basement level, and the stairs are at the far right."

The ammunition room is on the left side of the firing range entrance; you need to register your own ammunition usage.

The duty officer took a key from the drawer and threw it on the table:

"The practice gun is in the metal cabinet in the ammunition room. It's a Webley revolver, and the serial number has already been registered."

Return it after use; do not take it out of the building.

After saying this, the duty officer buried his head back into the magazine.

The entire reception process was more than ten times more efficient than at a savings bank.

Richard picked up the key and walked down the corridor to his right.

The ammunition room is on the left side of the range entrance, with the iron gate half open.

Once inside, the walls were lined with ammunition boxes of various sizes.

The metal cabinet was in the corner. He opened it with the key given to him by the duty officer and found two Webley revolvers inside.

Richard picked up a relatively new-looking one and weighed it in his hand.

Webley's revolver was a bit too big for his hands, which were still in the throes of a teenager.

Although it was heavy, it wasn't so heavy that it weighed you down. Holding the gun in my hand gave me a sense of security.

After writing his information in the register, he carried his things into the firing range.

The firing range is small, about 25 yards long, with four firing positions separated by iron plates, and at the end is a thick sand and soil bulletproof wall.

There was an iron frame in front of the bulletproof wall, with human-shaped paper targets clamped on it.

The paper was covered with countless holes, some concentrated in the head and chest area, and some scattered all over the place.

Richard placed his gun and ammunition on the firing position partition and was about to fumble around to load them when he heard footsteps coming from the entrance.

An old man appeared at the entrance of the shooting range.

He had a large belly, and his sideburns were mostly gray but still quite thick. The tool bag he carried jingled.

"Oh, you're the intern the boss was talking about?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

Richard Williams.

How old are you?

"sixteen."

The man squeezed out an exaggerated expression on his round face.

"Sixteen? You're already handling guns here at sixteen?"

He put the bag on the ground:

"The boss and his men leave after practicing shooting on weekdays, and this place is as deserted as a morgue on weekends."

Ah, I work in a morgue, so this analogy is quite accurate.

The man introduced himself as follows:

"William Bigelow, the coroner for the North District of Briston Public Health, everyone calls me Old Bigelow."

Richard recalled what the inspection team leader had said yesterday: there was an old beagle at the firing range who was quite enthusiastic; this must be the man.

"Are you a coroner?" he asked deliberately.

"Yes, the only official coroner in North Briston."

Old Big reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper:

"Would you like the pork and mustard flavor?"

"No need, I've already had lunch."

Old Big didn't mind being rejected, and mumbled as he chewed his sandwich:

"Knowing you want to practice shooting, we certainly can't let a beginner handle the gun on their own. An incorrect gun-holding posture can break your fingers."

The boss told me about your situation on the phone and asked me to train you when I have time.

He chewed a couple of times, swallowed the sandwich, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand: "Don't rush to load the bullets."

As he spoke, he pulled out his gun from the toolbox.

The gun was a size smaller than the one Richard had; it was shorter and the grip was narrower.

It is a Webley-Price RIC revolver.

It is one size smaller than the standard military Webley and was designed earlier; it is now discontinued.

"This gun was passed down from my sect."

Old Big opened the magazine and took out bullets one by one from the small leather pouch next to his tool bag at his waist to load them.

"There are many rules in the sect. One of them is that after you graduate, your master will give you a weapon, which can be a knife, a hammer, or a gun."

What you take isn't important; what's important is that you treat it as an extension of your own arm.