I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

Richard left early Saturday morning.

After buying an antique and second-class train tickets for the family of four to return to Brighton, there wasn’t much left of the twelve pounds his maternal grandfather had given him.

He was heading to the Brighton Central Postal Savings Bank today to withdraw his prize money from the Cicero Cup.

Richard’s knowledge of banking was on par with his knowledge of higher mathematics—he knew it existed, but the details were a complete blur.

The original Richard had never possessed more than five shillings. His father handled all the family’s finances.

His entire understanding of withdrawing money consisted of taking a passbook and proof of identity to the counter and stating a number.

’As for my modern-day self... mobile payments were already common by the time I was in high school. Banking was just a fuzzy memory from my childhood.’

Thirty pounds was a huge sum of money. He felt the cool, iron surface of the pry bar in his trouser pocket, fastened the buttons on his coat, and strode toward the savings bank.

The savings bank was located on the east side of Brighton’s Central Avenue. It was an old, gray stone building with the Royal Mail’s bronze emblem embedded in the lintel above the door.

The bronze emblem had been corroded green by acid rain. The relief at its edges was blurred, and only the outline of the crown in the center was still recognizable.

He pushed the door open. A few people were lined up at the counter.

After about half an hour, it was his turn. He handed over his passbook and the proof of identity issued by his school.

"I’m withdrawing thirty pounds."

The teller was an older woman wearing a pair of pince-nez.

She took the passbook, flipped through it, and then looked up at him. Her lips moved, but she said nothing.

The older woman pulled a stack of banknotes from under the counter. She counted them once, then counted them again.

She put the thirty pounds into a manila envelope, folded the flap over twice, and pushed it toward him.

"Count it yourself."

Richard counted the money again at the counter. Once he confirmed the amount was correct, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

He stepped out of the savings bank and turned south onto Central Avenue.

The fastest way home was actually through Hereford Lane, which ran behind the bank. From there, he could cross the footbridge on the edge of the freight yard and pass through the north end of Grafton Street.

That route was shorter and less crowded, saving about ten minutes compared to taking the main avenue.

But Richard didn’t take that route.

With thirty pounds in cash pressed against his chest, he had no intention of going anywhere deserted.

Central Avenue was Brighton’s busiest main road. On a Saturday morning, it was crowded with pedestrians, and most of the shops on both sides were open.

A cart selling coal briquettes occupied half the sidewalk. Five or six people were queued up at a pie stand. In the distance, the copper buttons on a constable’s uniform glinted, appearing and disappearing in the crowd.

Though it was a long detour, the route kept him in a crowd from start to finish, making it the safest option.

He pulled the lapels of his coat tighter, making sure the envelope wouldn’t slip out of his pocket while he was walking.

He had fastened an extra button on the inside pocket, a habit he’d learned from his father.

Whenever Rogers brought his wages home, he would place the money, sealed in an envelope, in the innermost pocket of his clothing and button his outer layers up tight.

Being in the middle of the crowd helped him relax a little.

He was surrounded by housewives shopping for daily necessities, vendors pushing handcarts, and groups of two or three teenagers loitering about.

’A bustling street is the best protective talisman.’

As he walked, he mentally arranged his to-do list for the day.

’First, I’ll go home and stash the money. After lunch, I’ll head out to Clement Antiques and buy that Sphinx Oil Lamp.’

’The Oil Lamp costs two pounds. Of the remaining twenty-eight, I need to set some aside for Mother’s medical bills, some to supplement the family’s food budget, and a portion for daily expenses. The rest will be mine.’

Just as he was calculating, a brown wallet slid out of the coat pocket of a pedestrian about seven or eight paces ahead and to his side.

The wallet landed on the sidewalk flagstones with a soft thud.

The man who’d dropped it wore a gray woolen overcoat and was walking so quickly he didn’t seem to notice a thing.

Richard stopped in his tracks.

The wallet lay in the middle of the path. Its brown leather surface was worn to a shine, and the edge of a few banknotes peeked out from one of the open corners.

"Hey, pal!"

The voice came from his right. A man had noticed the wallet on the ground at almost the same time he had.

The man was of average height and build, wearing an open work jacket, his face plastered with a smile.

"You saw that too? That guy dropped his wallet!"

The man in the jacket was quick, already scooping the wallet off the ground.

He flipped open the wallet and glanced inside, exclaiming in wonder, "Well now... there’s a good bit of money in here."

The man waved the wallet in Richard’s direction. "He’s long gone. How about we split it, finders keepers?"

Richard looked at the man’s smiling face and didn’t move.

’A few details are off.’

’First, the angle. The wallet shouldn’t have just slid out of the pocket like that.’

’The opening of a coat’s side pocket faces upward. When you walk, a wallet should settle deeper, not pop out on its own.’

’Unless someone pushes it out from the inside.’

’Besides, a wallet isn’t a handkerchief; it has weight. When it falls out of a pocket, the shift in the coat’s balance would be noticeable. A normal person would instinctively pat their pocket.’

’But the man who dropped the wallet was walking too fast.’

’Second, the man in the jacket was positioned too conveniently.’

’He was standing to my right, just on the edge of my peripheral vision.’

’He spoke up the instant the wallet hit the ground—not a second sooner or later. It was as if he’d been waiting for it to fall.’

’Third, a normal person who finds a stranger’s wallet would chase after the owner to return it, or shout, "Sir, you dropped your wallet!"’

’But this guy’s first instinct was to open it up, count the cash, and suggest splitting it with a bystander.’

’When you put the three anomalies together, the answer is obvious.’

’This kind of street scam was common in the eighties and nineties of my past life.’

’The routine is simple: two people work in tandem. Accomplice A "drops" a wallet in front of the target. Accomplice B shows up at just the right moment and "finds" the wallet with the target.’

’B suggests splitting the loot, but insists they do it somewhere private.’

’Once the target is led into an alley or a secluded corner, A comes back.’

’He’ll either pretend to be the owner and threaten to call the police as a way to extort the target, or the two of them will just drop the act and rob him.’

’The man in the gray overcoat who "dropped" the wallet is Accomplice A.’

’And this overly enthusiastic man in the jacket is Accomplice B.’

’They’re staking out Central Avenue, specifically waiting for someone with a bulging pocket to walk out of the savings bank.’

’Their next step is to lure me into an alley.’

Richard’s expression remained neutral.

"It has nothing to do with me," he said, stepping around the man in the jacket to continue on his way.

The man in the jacket froze for a second, but he reacted quickly, catching up in just a few long strides.

"Hey, pal, wait up! This is free money. You don’t want any?"

Richard ignored him and kept walking.

"Hey, what’s wrong with you..."

The man in the jacket placed a hand on Richard’s right arm.

At the same moment, the man in the gray overcoat doubled back, blocking Richard’s path.

The man in the overcoat was half a head taller than his partner and rail-thin, his cheekbones straining against a thin layer of skin.

Beneath the brim of his hat, his pupils were dilated, and a string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth.

’He’s a drug addict, too.’

’Probably using laudanum, or some similar cheap, synthetic painkiller.’

"Young man," he said, his breath carrying the stench of drugs.

"That wallet from before was mine. Since this gentleman here was kind enough to pick it up, it’s only fair we all share, isn’t it?"

As he spoke, he reached out and put a hand on Richard’s left shoulder.

Caught between them, they began to steer Richard toward a nearby alley.

The man in the jacket had a bulge at his belt, likely a folding knife or a similar weapon.

Richard sighed. In an instant, he channeled Ether to his ears and the backs of his eyes.

With the localized enhancement from the Ether, the two men’s centers of gravity, their breathing rhythms, their every preparatory motion for attack—it all lay exposed to his senses.

’The enhancement didn’t make me stronger, but it allowed me to see just how many openings an untrained person’s movements revealed.’

The man in the jacket pulled him to the left, leaning his weight into the motion.

Richard went with the pull, sinking his right elbow back until the point of it slammed into the side of the man’s neck.

As the point of his elbow dug in, the man’s eyes went vacant. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground.

Richard stood over the fallen man, his breathing perfectly steady.

He looked down at his own right elbow and right hand.

’No cracking bones, no aching joints. Not even a scrape.’

The original Richard’s shoulder would ache for half the day if his schoolbag strap dug in for too long, let alone knocking someone unconscious with an elbow strike.

’This is the first time this body has been so responsive.’