In the first week of March, the snow had melted, leaving only a few stubborn icicles under the eaves.
Mr. Hutton was back.
Richard first noticed it on the history class schedule.
The name "Hutton," which had been vacant for over half a month, had been rewritten by the academic office. The ink was newer than the surrounding lines.
He had been gone for so long this time that even the headmaster, Dr. Fletcher, had vaguely mentioned in an announcement after morning prayer that "Mr. Hutton is temporarily away on official business."
Now that his business was concluded, the schedule had to be filled in again.
During the break between classes, he was summoned to the third floor by a note.
When the dismissal bell rang, he headed upstairs almost in sync with the sound.
The office door was ajar. Richard raised his hand to knock, but it froze mid-air.
A portion of the Ether in the center of the room was being quietly drawn away, collapsing toward a single point.
Richard pushed the door open and went inside.
Mr. Hutton was standing by the window, his posture more stooped than usual, his hands clasped before him.
In the old armchair in the center of the room sat another, even older man.
The old man was severely hunched, a cane with a worn, blackened head leaning against the armrest of the chair.
He wore an extremely old-fashioned black wool frock coat.
Richard recognized the style. An old portrait had hung on the wall of the Classical Society North District Office.
The old president from sixty years ago in the painting wore the exact same thing. Even the most traditional tailor shops no longer accepted commissions for that kind of stand-up collar.
Mr. Hutton bowed slightly toward the old man.
"Professor, this is the student I mentioned to you, Richard Williams."
The old man didn’t look at Richard.
He stared down at the rippling tea in his cup and spoke slowly to Hutton.
"Little Hutton."
"Yes."
"This tea you’ve brewed is still too strong."
"I’ll get you a weaker cup right away."
"Wait." The old man stopped Hutton. "These tea leaves, how many years have they been sitting?"
Mr. Hutton couldn’t grasp his meaning.
"This tin is from last year’s spring harvest. It’s been stored for less than a year."
"That’s right," the old man said languidly.
"I’ve lived to this age, and these tea leaves are a hundred years younger than I am.
No matter how strong you brew it, it can’t be stronger than these old bones of mine."
Mr. Hutton tried to understand what he meant.
"Professor, would you like some plain hot water?"
"What I’m saying is..." The old man handed over the teacup.
"I’ve lived this long. Just give me something warm to drink.
Keep the tea for yourself. Leave it for those who have decades ahead of them to endure."
Mr. Hutton froze, holding the chipped teacup.
Richard stood at the door, unsure whether to enter or leave.
"I’ll get you a cup of warm water right away, Professor," Mr. Hutton finally said.
"Mm." Only then did the old man raise his gaze to Richard.
His cloudy eyes rested on him for less than half a second.
And in that less than half a second, Richard felt as if he had been seen through completely, left naked with nowhere to hide.
"The fire is newly lit."
He turned to Mr. Hutton and commented:
"It’s still very small, but it burns cleanly... cleaner than your furnace did back then.
When you lit yours, the room would fill halfway with smoke first."
Mr. Hutton looked a bit awkward as he took the empty cup to get more water.
The old man drank the fresh warm water and raised a hand.
"Young man, sit down. I’m tired just watching you stand."
Richard obediently sat down.
"Richard," Mr. Hutton began the formal introduction. "This is Professor Silas Mortimer, a Master Scholar."
"...He was my Mentor’s Mentor."
Richard’s breath hitched.
He quickly did the math in his head.
Mr. Hutton was nearly sixty. His own Mentor, as he had mentioned once before, had passed away many years ago.
’So, Mr. Hutton’s Mentor’s Mentor...’
"When I was your age..." Professor Mortimer glanced at him and continued on his own.
"To get from Brighton to the Imperial Capital, you had to take a mail coach for four days. The railroad tracks were laid north inch by inch much later."
"The first time I rode a train, I was already a Practitioner.
Sitting in the carriage, I thought the iron shell was moving too fast, that a person’s soul might be thrown right out of their body."
The old professor took a sip of warm water.
"Later, it turned out I was half right about that fear."
"...Your soul was thrown out?"
"No." Professor Mortimer shook his head, looking amused.
"My soul wasn’t thrown out, but a tooth was rattled loose.
Ever since that tooth fell out, I’ve held a grudge against the railway my whole life."
"I’ve lived this long, and my teeth were all filled in later, one by one. But that one, I’ve always left empty."
The old man opened his mouth and pointed to a blackened tooth root on his lower left.
"See? Still empty."
Richard was at a loss for words, so he just did a silent calculation in his head.
The first steam railway in Albion opened to traffic sometime in the 1820s of the new calendar.
He remembered the year clearly. In history class, when Mr. Hutton lectured on the "Rationalization Process of Mysticism," he had used industry and the railway as the backdrop for an entire lesson.
In other words, in the year Professor Mortimer received his signatory brand, this country didn’t have a single inch of railroad track.
A man who had lived from a time when mail was still delivered by horse-drawn carriage to the present day.
The old man didn’t exude any obvious aura of "Strength."
He just sat there, the Ether collapsing towards him, yet the surface of the water remained perfectly still.
As Richard was leaving the office, Mr. Hutton spoke with him alone for a moment.
"How did you feel when the Professor looked at you today?"
"...Like I was turned inside out."
"Exactly." Mr. Hutton nodded. "In his eyes, everything can be an essay."
"With a single glance, he can deconstruct your entire being, from skin to bone, into sentences that can be read, revised, and erased."
"The Professor came to Brighton this time because he was sent over from the Imperial Capital to wrap up the matter of the Unyielding Pit."
"He’s here to clear the net and seal the pit."
...
The net-clearing was scheduled for the next day, in the courtyard of the Branch Office.
A wooden table was placed in the middle of the courtyard.
On the table was a basin of clear water and a full map of Brighton City spread out.
The map was large, showing all the city’s streets, canals, and bridges. A few spots were circled in red ink, markings only people in their line of work would understand.
Professor Mortimer, supported by his student, sat down in a high-backed chair that had been brought out and placed before the wooden table.
He first asked for a cup of tea.
Mr. Hutton had learned his lesson this time. He brewed it extremely weak—just two tea leaves floating in a cup of warm water.
The old man took a sip from the cup before slowly reaching his hand toward the basin of clear water.
Richard, standing in the innermost circle of the courtyard, quietly activated his [Hidden Spiritual Vision].
This was with the old professor’s permission; this was the whole point of observing.
The professor’s fingertip tapped the water in the basin, sending a ripple across its surface.
A kind of Technique Richard had never seen before spread out from the basin of water.
It flowed along the wooden table, the paving stones, and the walls of the Branch Office’s courtyard, silently spreading out toward the entire city.
In his mind, Richard quickly deconstructed what the professor was doing.
Those who had been modified by the "Echo Society," who had "external interfaces" implanted in them, were all connected to the same place on the other side of the Curtain.
The professor didn’t send people to hunt down the dozens of well-hidden individuals in Brighton City.
He stood on this side of the Curtain, like a fisherman pulling in his net, grasping all the threads in his hand.
Pulling in the net took about ten minutes.
The professor finished his first cup of warm water, and Mr. Hutton refilled it.
Only then did the old man begin to "grade."
That was the only word Richard could think of.
In his Spiritual Vision, the dozens of threads caught in the net appeared one by one, lined up neatly.
The professor stretched out his trembling hand and pointed his fingertip at the first thread.
The thread lit up for a moment.
Professor Mortimer grunted, "Hm," as if he’d just read a passable piece of homework.
Then, following the thread’s path, he gave it a gentle flick at its root.
The thread snapped.
Richard vaguely saw the silhouette of a person.
After the thread snapped, the silhouette silently stopped breathing.
The professor’s fingertip moved to the second thread.
"This one..." the old man began slowly. "Hasn’t been connected for long. A pity. If he’d been found two months earlier, he could have been turned back."
With a flick of his fingertip, the second thread snapped.
Richard recalled what Mr. Hutton had said yesterday.
’In his eyes, you are just an essay.’
’When you read an essay with mistakes, do you pass judgment on it? You just pick up a red pen and cross out the wrong word.’
"Professor," Mr. Hutton suddenly spoke up.
Richard followed the voice with his eyes.
Professor Mortimer’s Technique had now ensnared a particularly thin, faint thread.
Following the thread, Richard caught the person’s silhouette.
Small and thin—it was a young girl.
’Her age... about the same as Xiaoma from that night at the Unyielding Pit. Not more than two years older than me.’
Mr. Hutton bowed even lower.
"This one... I see her connection is shallow and recent. She might have been deceived."
’His own Guide was pleading for her.’
Richard’s heart leaped into his throat.
Professor Mortimer stared at the two tea leaves floating in his cup. After a long moment, he finally spoke, slowly.
"Little Hutton."
"Yes."
"Back when you were studying with me, I handled a similar case. Do you remember?"
Mr. Hutton sighed.
"Of course, I remember."
"Deceived or not," the old professor’s voice was dry and raspy, "that is a matter between her and the one who deceived her."
His fingertip rested on the thin, faint thread.
"What I am reading has never been her as a person."
"What I am reading is the line of text written on her."
"Once a word is written, it cannot be unwritten."
With a flick of his fingertip, the thin thread snapped.
Somewhere in the city’s West Suburb, the slender young girl silently went limp.
The courtyard was so quiet you could hear the sound of water dripping from the eaves as the snow melted.
The professor raised his cup and took another sip.
Mr. Hutton straightened up. He truly felt it was a shame.

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