I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

’If I can find a Hunter and a Secretive One to team up with for field missions later, I should have a chance to complete it.’

After organizing his thoughts, Richard moved the notebook and the stack of rubbing copies to the center of his desk.

The stack of twelve sheets for the Boundary Stone was neatly tied up by Maggie with a thin string.

Besides the rubbing copies, he had also made a separate fair copy himself.

The charcoal pen transcriptions smudged easily. The fair copy was written on cardstock with a fountain pen, and he had left three blank lines under each symbol, ready for annotations.

The one for the Bronze Plate was done later.

He had a few hours to kill on the train, so with a sharpened pencil, he traced every symbol on the front and back of the Bronze Plate.

Richard first spread both sets out on his desk to compare them.

At first glance, the stroke patterns of the Boundary Stone were dominated by curved lines, a very distinct characteristic of the Celtic Ancient Script.

But interspersed were a few scattered angular strokes—traces left behind from the period of Romanization.

The Romans didn’t much care for curves; their Inscription Masters were accustomed to straightening out any bends.

The Bronze Plate was even more eclectic.

The front had a Celtic base, but someone had carved another layer of symbols in a different style over it.

The back gave him an even bigger headache; he didn’t recognize that string of symbols at all.

It was neither Celtic in origin, nor a Romanized transition, nor did it have anything to do with the kind of ritualistic Latin from the Medieval Church.

Richard tried to use his Spiritual Vision to perform a Fixed Gaze.

But as soon as he activated his Spiritual Vision, a few of the stroke junctures trembled slightly, as if something had swum past.

He immediately withdrew his Spiritual Vision and didn’t continue to stare.

Old Big’s ”window theory” still rang in his ears.

The first rule of survival for a Low Tier was to keep a low profile and avoid looking at things one shouldn’t.

He turned the Bronze Plate face down, deciding not to touch it for now. He would ask his aunt and Mr. Hutton about it when he got the chance.

The next morning, Richard got right out of bed and continued annotating the parts of the Boundary Stone column he could understand.

That was the section with the strongest Celtic foundation.

The first two lines of the first set: ”By blood and salt is this stone raised,” ”He who stands here may speak its name.”

The first two lines of the second set: ”Singers to the night,” ”Silent welcomers of the light.”

The first two lines of the fifth set: ”The water under the stone does not sleep,” ”The name upon the stone is briefly silent.”

He couldn’t decipher the rest; the two sets of documents Mr. Hutton had left him contained no such comparisons.

Maggie was a child born and raised in the Gael Highlands; she had been able to make out those few lines from the Celtic section.

But Richard could barely recognize the most basic Gaelic Language alphabet.

He needed basic materials on the Gaelic Language, and not just Gaelic.

The Boundary Stone Array was built up in layers: on top of the Celtic foundation lay traces of Romanization, and above that were annotations in ritualistic Latin left by medieval monks.

As for ritualistic Latin, he had built a foundation with Mr. Holland’s book, *From the Sanctuary to the Pulpit*.

But the specialized ritualistic terminology of the Medieval Church was not the same thing as Cicero’s speeches or Tacitus’s *Chronicles*.

The Church had its own distinct set of vocabulary.

Edmund had said in Whitcomb:

”You say ’Seal,’ we say ’Saint’s Guardian’; you say ’Technique,’ we say ’Sacred Rites.’”

That entire set of vocabulary, translated as an extension of liturgical rites, he had not a single word of reference for.

Richard leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t go to the school library right now.

During winter break, the gates of Greenwood were locked tight.

’Then I’ll go check out Brighton’s municipal library.’

It was just north on Central Avenue, next to the city hall.

He wasn’t sure if he could find materials on the Gaelic Language and the Church’s ritualistic terminology there.

Brighton was a city with little history; coal, iron, and textiles—factory smokestacks were what propped this city up.

But it was better than nothing.

And besides... Richard’s fingers paused on the edge of the desk.

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

’The municipal library... could it also have hidden texts?’

Mr. Hutton had said that within the Imperial borders, there were several thousand extant Seal inscriptions, tomb inscriptions, and ritual fragments, both large and small.

More than half of the academic papers published were hidden in public journals that looked like they were about physiology, geology, or anthropology.

If this was standard practice nationwide, then theoretically, the shelves of the municipal library should also have a few of those ”looks sleep-inducing, but actually contains other content” items.

Brighton didn’t have much history, but ”not much history” didn’t mean ”no history at all.”

People had lived on this land, after all. Before the factories were built, there were fields, and before the fields, there was wilderness.

Even if he could only dig up one or two hidden fragments with local characteristics, deciphering them would give him a piece of intelligence to share at the next Divine Pantheon Salon.

It might not be of great value, but being exclusive was a value in itself.

Having made up his mind, Richard went downstairs for breakfast.

All that work had taken a toll on his mind and his stomach.

When he got downstairs, he found that his Mother and sister were already up.

Richard took the tea caddy from the cupboard and started to boil water.

He measured three spoonfuls of tea leaves into the teapot, and as he warmed the pot, he spoke in a seemingly casual manner.

”Mom.”

”What is it?”

”Auntie said she’s coming to Brighton soon. Did you ask her which day specifically?”

”She hasn’t set a specific date yet.” Mother took the bread from the baking sheet.

”Her academic survey has a set order. She has to go to a few northern towns for fieldwork first, and her last stop will be here with us.”

”How long will she be staying, roughly?”

”A day or two. Three at the most.”

Richard put the lid on the teapot.

”What if she changes her plans last minute...”

”She won’t.” Mother was certain. ”When Isabella makes a promise, she never breaks it.”

At the breakfast table, Richard explained his plans for the day while buttering his bread.

”I’m going to the library this morning.”

”The city library?” Mother put down the teapot.

”Mhm, to look up some materials.”

Evelyn, who had been engrossed in her little booklet of Yorkshire pastries, slowly raised her head when she heard Richard was going out.

She didn’t say anything, her gaze fixed squarely on his face.

Richard took a bite of bread and pretended not to notice.

Evelyn continued to stare at him. ”Brother, you tricked me yesterday.”

”I apologized.”

”An apology is an apology.” Evelyn tilted her head. ”Whether I forgive you is another matter.”

She methodically speared a piece of potato.

”If it’s on your way out... Hmph, hmph, you know what to do!”

Mother covered her mouth and chuckled softly from the side.

Richard finished his bread.

”Fine.”

”Mhm.” Evelyn nodded in satisfaction, then buried her head back in her pastry booklet.

”You’re smart, Brother. I’m sure you know how to show your sincerity.”

.........

Richard left Waste Rock Lane and walked north along Central Avenue.

In winter, the streets of Brighton were gray.

Gray flagstone roads, gray brick walls, gray sky.

Factory smokestacks spewed grayish-white smoke into the sky, and the smell of coal smoke drifted along the ground.

After about a twenty-five-minute walk, he arrived at the library.

Richard pushed the door open and went inside.

It was a little warmer inside than outside, but not by much.

Bookshelves flanked the main hall, extending row after row into the interior.

Richard stood at the entrance and did a quick scan, mentally comparing it to the school library at Greenwood.

Although Greenwood was only a secondary school, its board was willing to spend money, and many of its teachers were high-achieving graduates from the Imperial Capital hired from outside.

Since they worked here, they naturally brought cutting-edge materials from the Imperial Capital with them.

A random stack of academic journals in Mr. Hutton’s private office would be considered a rare commodity anywhere else.

As for the municipal library... Brighton was a city propped up by factories. The city’s coffers were filled by coal, iron, and textile machines.

The library was just for show, a way for the city hall to look good. Its collection was small and not very comprehensive.

The most common books on the shelves were *Steam Engine Maintenance Manual*, *Textile Machinery Diagrams*, and *Metallurgy Basics*, along with a large number of practical books on accounting, gardening, and home medicine.

Richard wasn’t discouraged.

’It’s a proper library, after all. No matter how shabby, it should at least have the basic reference books.’

In the language section, he first looked for the Gaelic Language.

The collection was indeed small, but small didn’t mean non-existent.

A proper municipal library would always be equipped with basic reference books.

After searching for a good while, he found a copy of *Gaelic Grammar for Beginners* and a *Gaelic-Albion Dictionary*.

Of course, there were no specialized materials on the Celtic Ancient Script itself here.

But the underlying grammar of the ancient script and modern Gaelic share a direct lineage.

With these two basic Gaelic books, he could at least tackle the Celtic foundation of the Boundary Stone and decipher most of it on his own.

Just as he was wandering and searching aimlessly, he rounded a bookshelf and almost bumped into someone.