I'm a Student!

The number was climbing, but extremely slowly—far more slowly than with the pendant or the God-Descending Disk.

0.01... More than ten seconds later, it was still 0.01.

After another half minute, it became 0.02.

There was something inside, but some mechanism was suppressing it, making the seepage incredibly slow.

Richard picked up the oil lamp and turned it over in his hands.

The lamp was heavy and solidly cast, with a ring of inscriptions carved around the edge of its base.

The strokes were angular, the structure compact, every character deliberately crammed into an equally sized square.

This was Priest Script from the Black Soil River Basin. He had seen similar lettering in the illustrations of that book at E.V.M.

When his palm rested against the bronze surface, the number on the panel rose at roughly 0.01 per minute.

Too slow.

The pendant had absorbed one point in just a few minutes, and the God-Descending Disk had been about the same.

This oil lamp had clearly undergone some sort of treatment. Whatever residue had been sealed inside was locked away, with only the tiniest amount leaking out.

He turned the lamp over and examined its bottom carefully.

Another set of symbols was carved into the inner side of the base. Their arrangement differed from the outer inscription and was closer to geometric shapes.

A circle enclosed a triangle, with short lines extending from each of the triangle's three sides.

A sealing mark?

If the inscription was the "lock," then this geometric shape might be the "keyhole."

He was not certain, but it made sense logically.

An antique that had come through legitimate channels was unlikely to have its sealed contents left completely exposed by the merchant.

Adding a seal was like putting a Wax Seal on a wine bottle, ensuring the contents would not leak during circulation or harm guests who wandered in by mistake.

He put the oil lamp back on the shelf, picked it up again, then set it down once more.

The number rose when he held it and stopped when he put it down.

All right.

Carrying the oil lamp, he sat down in a nearby chair, placed it on his lap, covered it with both hands, and began waiting patiently.

0.03... 0.04...

The light outside the window shifted, and someone passed through the alley.

0.05... 0.06...

The shop was quiet. Behind the counter, the old man occasionally flipped through his catalog of old coins, the pages rustling softly.

0.07... 0.08...

Richard's hands were getting sore. He changed his grip, supporting the base with his left hand and covering the top of the lamp with his right, as though warming a small animal.

About another half hour passed before the number finally crawled up to 0.1.

He put the oil lamp back on the shelf, stood, and walked to the counter.

"How much is this lamp?"

The old man looked up from behind his magnifying glass and squinted in the direction Richard was pointing.

"Oh, that one." He set down the magnifying glass. "Something from the Black Soil River. It's got some age to it. Three pounds."

Three pounds.

Richard had only seven pence in his pocket when he left home.

"Three pounds is a little expensive."

"Eastern Continent bronze. Look at its age and condition—the Sphinx design on this lamp uses an old casting method, not some later imitation.

"The tail and wings were cast separately and then welded together. It's craftsmanship from at least five hundred years before the New Calendar."

The old man tapped the counter with a finger. "Three pounds is very fair."

"But the upper half of the curled decoration on the spout is missing, and there are repair marks along the wing seams. Those are not the original welds.

"The wings are covered in black corrosion, which means it was kept in a humid, high-temperature environment for a long time. Burial goods like this generally need to be discounted."

The old man took off his glasses and gave him another look.

"You actually know bronzeware?"

"I know a little. We covered artifact identification from the Black Soil River Basin in history class."

That was half true. Mr. Hutton had indeed mentioned the basic characteristics of Black Soil River relics in class.

But Richard's ability to mention technical terms like "separate casting and welding" and "inscription preservation" mainly came from the assorted related books he had memorized after his [Scholarship] enhancement.

"Then do you recognize the inscription on the base?" the old man suddenly asked.

"Priest Script. I'm not sure of the exact content, but judging by the density of the characters and their repeated patterns, it should be a prayer or Ritual language.

"Several batches of lamps with this kind of inscription have been unearthed from temple ruins along the middle reaches of the Black Soil River. Museums have records of similar artifacts."

The old man put his glasses back on. The way he looked at Richard had changed.

He was no longer looking at a student killing time. This was a customer who knew his stuff.

"You've got some knowledge." He pondered for a moment. "Two pounds seven shillings."

"The damaged spout decoration and the serious repairs to the wings affect both its value and integrity. One pound."

"Who bargains like that? Two pounds five shillings. That's my lowest."

"One pound five shillings. I'm a student!"

The old man laughed at that line.

"All right, all right... You're a student, so two pounds even. Any lower and I might as well give it to you for free."

With things put that way, continuing to haggle would be ungrateful.

Richard still could not afford two pounds, but he did not need to buy it immediately.

"I'll reserve it for now. Could you hold it for me?"

"Sure." The old man pulled out a notebook from beneath the counter. "Student, bronze lamp, two pounds. What's your name?"

"Richard Williams."

"I'm Clement. Albert Clement." The old man closed the notebook.

"I'll hold it for at most two months. After that, no promises."

"All right."

As Richard stepped out of the shop, he began doing the math in his head.

His current savings definitely would not be enough for two pounds, but if he could place in the Cicero Cup, it would more than cover it.

Of course, that was assuming he could place in the first place.

He looked up at the sky. The sun had been blocked by clouds, but the day was still brighter than usual.

Evelyn's voice came from the direction of the alley entrance.

"Bro! What on earth have you been doing in there? I've already walked through three streets!"

She hurried over from the direction of the candy shop, clutching a paper packet that probably held a few cheap sweets.

"I was looking at antiques."

"For how long? I waited so long I bought candy twice."

"Was it really that long?"

Richard rubbed the back of his neck.

Honestly, he had spent quite a while beside that oil lamp.

To make the panel rise a little more, he had held and turned that lamp over for more than half an hour.

More than half an hour, yet he had only absorbed 0.1 point.

The efficiency was atrocious, but at least it confirmed two things:

Not everything at Clement Antiques was ordinary old junk. There really were items with "goods" inside;

And the absorption speed of sealed artifacts would be heavily suppressed.

"Why are your hands green?" Evelyn stared at his palms.

Damn. He had held it too long and gotten several patches of copper staining on his hands.

"...I touched an old lamp."

"Why did you touch an old lamp for over half an hour?"

"I was studying the inscription on it."

Evelyn's gaze moved from his palms to his face, back to his palms, then back to his face.

"Bro, have you really been keeping a diary lately?"

"Yes."

"Then you absolutely have to write, 'Today I touched an old lamp for half an hour,' in it."

"Fine, fine. I'll write it."

"I think you should find a different hobby. Antiques aren't something a family like ours can afford."

"I think you should mind your own business and stop worrying about your brother."

Evelyn sighed, took a piece of toffee from the paper packet, and shoved it toward his mouth.

"Here, eat it. It'll comfort you for not buying that old lamp."

Richard caught it with his mouth.

The toffee was sweet—almost cloyingly so.

The siblings walked home side by side.

After taking a few steps, Evelyn suddenly spoke again.

"Bro, you're not really hiding something from us, are you?"

"What?"

"I don't know what it is. It's just that lately, you've been like a completely different person.

"You used to lie down the moment you got home, but now you lock yourself in your room until midnight every day.

"You used to be unable to even fry bread by yourself, but now you're quicker at it than I am.

"You used to wish you could bury your head under the desk whenever the teacher called on you, but now I hear that when a teacher asks you to explain something, you can talk for ages..."

She listed off a string of changes, then turned to look at him.

"If there's something you can't tell Mom and Dad, you can tell me. I may be a year younger than you, but you know..."

She did not finish the second half, but the meaning was probably: You know who's more reliable in this family.

Richard laughed to himself.

"I got seriously sick once, and it made me realize a lot of things."

"What did you realize?"

"That I can't keep making you and Mom worry about me."

The girl's steps paused slightly.

She did not respond. She lowered her head and walked a few more steps.

Then she suddenly took out another piece of candy and forcibly stuffed it into his mouth. "Who's been worrying about you?!"