Reappearance

The door clearly utilized occult-related techniques, ensuring that even if someone stumbled upon this place by accident, they would be unable to open it.

The space behind the door was much larger than the corridor, and the light from the oil lamp could only illuminate a distance of a few steps.

Embedded at the center of the room was a Silver Plate.

The surface of the Silver Plate was covered in a thick layer of frost, the same substance found on the silver fragments in the corridor, though far denser, almost completely obscuring the plate.

Hutton walked into the room carrying his leather bag and crouched down about three steps away from the central area.

He poured a bit of holy water into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and then picked up a carving chisel.

The original inscriptions had been eroded, and some of the strokes were already blurred.

The old man used the chisel to deepen the blurred strokes; for a man in his fifties, his fingers did not tremble in the slightest.

There was not much that needed to be re-engraved, and the task was completed quickly.

Finishing the engraving, he picked up the jar of grayish-white wax and used the tip of his knife to pick out a small piece, stuffing it into the grooves of the inscriptions to repair them.

Richard leaned his back against the iron door, maintaining his breathing rhythm, and watched the entire process.

He filed and categorized every detail he observed in his mind.

The Silver Plate was the "subject," the inscriptions were the "syntax," and the wax was the "adhesive."

The holy water was likely an "extra insurance" to ensure he wouldn't bring anything unclean back with him.

The logic of the entire system was highly consistent with what he had read in that book on mineral medium classification.

Theory had manifested into reality.

After about ten minutes, Hutton checked repeatedly to confirm there were no issues before putting away his tools.

He took a silver coin from his pocket, placed it in the exact center of the Silver Plate, and held it down with his index finger.

His lips began to chant.

Judging by the shape of his lips, Richard determined he was reciting a prayer.

The repeated syllables layered and progressed, the tone growing increasingly heavy.

The frost on the Silver Plate began to gather toward the silver coin, and finally, the entire layer of frost turned into an extremely fine dust, which was completely absorbed by the coin.

Hutton reached the final syllable of his prayer and fell silent.

The moment the seal was completed, the feeling of pressure that had been tightening everyone's chest in the room suddenly dissipated.

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

However, images suddenly appeared before his eyes.

There was no warning, no transition.

The circular room, the Silver Plate, and the back of Hutton in his field of vision... all had their colors drained away, fading into a grayish-white negative, and in the next breath, they were covered by a new image.

He saw the workshop of the Textile Mill.

Silk Reeling Machines were arranged in two rows, with dense silk threads stretched across wooden frames; the spools were spinning, and the drive belts were moving.

Gas lamps hung from the ceiling beams, casting a dim, yellowish light that created a contrast of light and shadow throughout the workshop.

The female workers sat at their respective stations, their fingers moving rapidly between the silk threads.

The air was filled with the distinct, raw, fishy scent of silk mixed with machine oil, sticking to the back of his throat.

Richard's five senses were completely hijacked; he was seeing through another person's eyes and hearing through another person's ears.

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

Its hair hung down, covering half of its face.

It was still wearing the white dress from its funeral, its bare feet stepping on the floor, its toenails blackened.

On the half of the face that was exposed, the pupils were dilated and murky.

The first to see it was the female worker at the station by the door.

An older woman dropped her shuttle, which hit the iron leg of the Silk Reeling Machine with a metallic clang.

The sound echoed through the workshop, and everyone turned their heads.

Only to discover that a dead person who should have been in a coffin was right before their eyes, blood staining the corners of its mouth and its white dress.

After a brief silence, screams erupted from different directions.

The female workers began to retreat, and two brave male workers grabbed iron shuttles and large shears from the corner and rushed forward.

The first male worker's iron shuttle struck the Ghoul on the shoulder, producing a dull thud that only occurs when metal hits metal.

The Ghoul's body didn't even sway.

It reached out, fingers splayed, and clamped onto the male worker's face.

As the fingers tightened, Richard heard the sound of a skull shattering.

The male worker was lifted up and thrown away, crashing into a Silk Reeling Machine, snapping several silk threads.

The second male worker's large shears stabbed into the Ghoul's back, but could only sink in a little way.

The Ghoul turned around slowly, shaking its body casually until the scissors that had been stabbed halfway into it fell to the floor.

Seeing that the attack was ineffective, the order in the workshop completely collapsed.

The female workers crowded toward the back door, shoving each other, and those who tripped were trampled underfoot.

Screams, wails, and the buzzing of machines still idling in the background were all churned together.

The Ghoul did not pursue the crowd; it locked onto the person who had fallen closest to it.

Its head tilted to an angle no living person's neck could possibly reach, and its mouth opened wide...

At this moment, Richard shifted from an observer to a participant.

He suddenly realized he wasn't just watching this scene; he was inside it.

He was one of the people at the workstations.

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

His line of sight was forced upward, meeting the murky pupils of the Ghoul as it prepared to feed.

No consciousness, no malice, no hunger... there was nothing at all.

Whether you cried, ran, or begged for mercy, it would not speed up or slow down by even a fraction.

Physical attacks were ineffective, the efficiency of its life-force extraction was extremely high, and its movement patterns were driven entirely by instinct... The gap between the dry descriptions in books and what he saw with his own eyes was many times greater than he had imagined.

He wanted this kind of power.

The Ghoul's power was merely a defective product after being corrupted; what he wanted was the power from that greater system behind The Veil.

To make the inscriptions on the Silver Plate glow, to enable himself to bind or even dispel evil entities.

Thinking of this, Richard actually began to adjust his breathing without being taught.

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

Hold for four beats, the warmth within the Seat of the Sun re-condensed, acting as an anchor amidst his chaotic senses.

Exhale for four beats, the Textile Mill workshop began to fade, the outlines of the Silk Reeling Machine blurring.

Hold for four beats, the basement re-emerged, and the reflection from the Silver Plate stung his eyes.

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

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

Richard turned his head, but the old gentleman himself was somewhat stunned.

He had expected to see a face terrified to the point of losing control.

Those caught in the images of Vox Mortis usually experienced violent stress reactions after breaking free:

Vomiting, convulsions, incontinence, or even a brief collapse of consciousness.

He had seen too many such cases, but Richard had not.

Mr. Hutton's hand hung in mid-air, the atmosphere becoming somewhat awkward.

"You..."

"I'm fine."

"What did you see?"

"The Textile Mill workshop, the events after the Ghoul entered the door."

Mr. Hutton's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"The complete scene?"

"Complete, from the moment it pushed the door open to when it began to feed."

"How did you get out?"

"I adjusted my breathing rhythm, using the Quadruple Breathing framework to pull my attention back to the Seat of the Sun, and the afterimage dissipated on its own."

The old gentleman sighed, covering his face with his other hand.

"Mr. Hutton?"

"It's nothing."

His voice came from between his fingers: "I am reflecting on my mistake."

He moved his palm away from his face, revealing an old face filled with lingering fear.

"It was my misjudgment; I thought your current level of Aether affinity was not enough to trigger an afterimage...

There is a brief release of Aether during the final stage of reinforcing the seal, which is when they are at their most active."

"For the vast majority of people, that level of release wouldn't have any effect, but your inspiration is at least a grade higher than I estimated."

He brushed the dust off his pant legs.

"You endured a scene reconstruction without any protection at all, and then managed to break out on your own."

"Or rather..." he suddenly stopped, his expression turning strange.

"You couldn't possibly not be afraid at all, could you?"

Richard did not answer immediately.

The old gentleman shook his head.

"I don't want to know. Let's go, we'll talk once we're out."