I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

A Technique related to Mysticism had clearly been used to open the door, ensuring that even someone who stumbled upon this place by accident wouldn’t be able to open it.

The space behind the door was much larger than the corridor. The light from the Oil Lamp only illuminated a distance of a few steps.

A silver plate was embedded in the center of the circular room.

The silver plate’s surface was covered in a thick layer of frost. It was the same substance as the frost on the silver pieces in the corridor, but much thicker, almost completely obscuring the plate.

Mr. Hutton entered the room, carrying his leather bag, and squatted down about three steps from the central area.

He poured a little Holy Water into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then gripped the Engraving Knife.

The original Inscription had been corroded, and some of its strokes had become blurred.

The old man used the Engraving Knife to trace and deepen the blurred strokes. For a man in his fifties, his fingers showed not the slightest tremor.

There wasn’t much to re-carve, so the task was quickly completed.

When he was done re-carving, he picked up a can of grayish-white wax. He used the tip of his knife to scoop out a small piece and press it into the grooves of the Inscription as a patch.

Richard leaned against the iron door, maintaining his breathing rhythm, and took in the entire process.

He mentally filed and categorized every detail he observed.

’The silver plate was the ”subject,” the Inscription the ”grammar,” and the wax the ”adhesive.”

The Holy Water is probably ”extra insurance” to make sure he doesn’t bring anything unclean back with him.’

The logic of the entire system was a perfect match for what he’d read in that book about mineral-based mediums.

’Theory had become reality.’

About ten minutes later, after repeatedly checking to confirm there were no problems, Mr. Hutton put away his tools.

He took a silver coin from his pocket, placed it in the very center of the silver plate, and pressed down on it with his index finger.

His lips began to move in a chant.

Richard could tell from his lip movements that he was reciting a benediction.

The repeated syllables built upon each other, their intensity growing with each repetition.

The frost on the silver plate began to converge on the silver coin. Eventually, the entire layer of frost turned into an extremely fine powder and was completely absorbed by the coin.

Mr. Hutton uttered the final syllable of the benediction and fell silent.

The moment the Seal was complete, the oppressive feeling in the room that made one’s chest feel tight vanished abruptly.

Richard was just about to let out a sigh of relief.

But then, a vision flooded his sight.

There was no warning, no transition.

The circular room, the silver plate, Mr. Hutton’s back... everything in his field of vision had its color drained away, fading to a grayscale negative before being overlaid with a new image in the span of a single breath.

He saw the main floor of a textile factory.

Silk-reeling machines stood in two rows, their wooden frames strung with dense webs of thread. Spools spun and drive belts whirred.

Gas lamps hanging from the ceiling beams cast a dim, yellow light, bathing the entire workshop in a patchwork of light and shadow.

Female workers sat at their stations, fingers flying between the threads.

The air was thick with the distinct, acrid smell of raw silk mixed with machine oil, a taste that seemed to coat the back of his tongue.

All five of Richard’s senses had been hijacked. He was seeing through another person’s eyes and hearing with another person’s ears.

The workshop door opened. The thing standing in the doorway had once been a young woman.

Its hair hung down, obscuring half of its face.

It was still wearing its white burial dress and stood barefoot on the floor, its toenails black.

On the visible half of its face, the pupil was dilated and completely clouded over.

The first to see it were the workers in the row of stations nearest the door.

An older woman’s Iron Shuttle fell from her hand, hitting the iron leg of a reeling machine with a CLANG.

The sound echoed through the workshop, and everyone turned to look.

They found themselves face to face with a dead person who should have been in a coffin, blood staining the corners of its mouth and its white dress.

After a moment of silence, screams erupted from all directions.

The women began to back away, while two of the bolder men grabbed Iron Shuttles and large shears from a corner and charged.

The first man’s Iron Shuttle struck the Ghoul’s shoulder with the dull thud of metal hitting metal.

The Ghoul didn’t even sway.

It reached out, splayed its fingers, and clamped its hand over the man’s face.

As its fingers closed, Richard heard the sound of a skull cracking.

The man was lifted and thrown, smashing into a reeling machine and snapping several threads.

The second man plunged his large shears into the Ghoul’s back, but the blades only sank in partway.

The Ghoul turned slowly. With a casual shrug, the partially embedded shears fell to the floor.

Seeing their attacks were useless, the order on the factory floor completely collapsed.

The women surged toward the back door, shoving one another. Someone tripped and was trampled underfoot.

Screams, sobs, and the hum of the idling machines blended into a chaotic din.

The Ghoul didn’t pursue the crowd. It locked onto the fallen person nearest to it.

Its head tilted to an angle impossible for a living person, and its mouth opened...

At that moment, Richard went from observer to participant.

He suddenly realized he wasn’t just watching the scene—he was in it.

He was one of the workers at a station.

He was backing away when his foot caught on something, and he fell to the ground.

His gaze was forced upward, meeting the clouded pupils of the feeding Ghoul.

’No consciousness, no malice, no hunger... nothing.

Whether you cry, run, or beg for mercy, it won’t be a fraction of a second faster or slower.

Immune to physical attacks, extremely efficient at draining life force, movements driven purely by instinct... The gap between the dry descriptions in the books and seeing it firsthand was several times greater than he could have ever imagined.’

’I want this Strength.’

’The Ghoul’s Strength is just a contaminated, defective version. What I want is the Strength from the greater system behind the Curtain.

The kind of Strength that makes the Inscription on the silver plate glow, that lets me bind and even banish Evil Beings.’

At this thought, Richard, entirely on his own, began to adjust his Breathing.

Inhale for four beats, pulling his focus from the afterimage and back to the space behind his sternum.

Hold for four beats, the warmth within his Throne of the Sun re-condensing, acting as an Anchor for his chaotic senses.

Exhale for four beats, the textile workshop starting to fade, the outlines of the reeling machines blurring.

Hold for four beats, the basement reappearing, the reflection from the silver plate stinging his eyes.

The vision shattered, the afterimage peeling away from the edges of his sight piece by piece.

Mr. Hutton’s hand was just about to land on his left shoulder to shake him awake.

Richard turned his head, and Mr. Hutton froze, looking stunned.

He had expected to see a face contorted with uncontrollable terror.

People who get swept up in such visions usually have a severe stress reaction after they break free:

Vomiting, convulsions, incontinence, even a temporary mental collapse.

He’d seen it many times, but Richard was different.

Mr. Hutton’s hand hovered in mid-air, making the atmosphere a bit awkward.

”You...”

”I’m fine.”

”What did you see?”

”The textile factory workshop. Everything that happened after the Ghoul came in.”

Mr. Hutton’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

”The whole vision?”

”The whole thing. From it pushing the door open to when it started to feed.”

”How did you break out of it?”

”I adjusted my breathing rhythm. I used the framework of Quadruple Breathing to pull my attention back to my Throne of the Sun, and the afterimage just fell apart.”

The old man sighed and covered his face with his free hand.

”Mr. Hutton?”

”I’m fine.”

His voice came through his fingers. ”I’m re-evaluating.”

He lowered his hand, revealing an old face etched with lingering fear.

”It was my mistake. I misjudged. I didn’t think your current level of Ether Affinity was high enough to trigger an afterimage...

The final stage of reinforcing a Seal involves a brief release of Ether. That’s when these things are most active.”

”For most people, a release of that magnitude would have no effect, but your inspiration is a whole level higher than I estimated.”

He brushed the dust from his trouser legs.

”You endured a full sensory recreation with absolutely no protection, and then you pulled yourself out of it on your own.”

”Unless...” He stopped abruptly, his expression turning strange.

”You weren’t afraid at all, were you?”

Richard didn’t answer right away.

The old man shook his head.

”I don’t want to know. Come on, let’s talk outside.”