Kept Man

Mother draped the dishcloth over her shoulder, came over, and touched Richard's forehead.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Not yet."

"I left some in the pot for you. The soup's warm, and the bread's on the rack."

"Thanks, Mom."

He went into the kitchen, brought out a bowl of soup and some bread, then sat down at the table to eat.

Evelyn sat across from him, elbows propped on the table, staring at him like she was interrogating a criminal.

"So who was that girl from school?"

"Gray. She's in my class."

"Gray? What Gray? Full name?"

"Irene Gray."

The girl searched her memory for several seconds, her lips moving as though she were silently repeating some piece of information.

"Gray... the Gray Family from the South District?"

"Probably."

"Richard!" Evelyn slapped her palm on the table, making the surface of the soup tremble.

She leaned forward, carrying the urgency of someone who sensed disaster:

"You haven't been... kept by her, have you?"

Richard nearly sprayed soup from his mouth.

"What kind of extracurricular books do you usually read?"

"In the books I read, eight out of ten have some poor boy being picked up in a luxurious carriage by a rich young lady!"

"And the other two?"

"In the other two, he gets picked up by a wealthy married woman."

"..."

Father folded up his newspaper, set it on the table, and stood.

He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then stopped as he passed the dining table.

"Get some rest early after you finish eating," he said to Richard in an ordinary tone.

But after taking two steps, he stopped again and added with his back to the siblings:

"Making friends is a good thing, but you need to know where to draw the line."

Then he went upstairs.

Evelyn watched Father's retreating back, then turned to Richard and jerked her chin at him.

"Did you hear that? Even Dad said so."

"I heard him." Richard finished his soup and used the bread to mop up the bottom of the bowl. "A classmate just gave me a ride. You're all way too worked up."

He stood to clear the dishes. As he passed Evelyn, he took the paper packet from his pocket and set it on the table.

"Gray gave me these scones. Want to try one?"

Evelyn looked down at the packet. After hesitating for about half a second, she gave in to her curiosity.

Once she opened it, a sweet fragrance drifted out. The scones were golden and fluffy, made with ingredients several grades better than anything she had used in home economics class.

She took a bite, and her expression became even more conflicted. "...They really are good."

"Not as good as yours," Richard teased with a smile.

"Don't you start!" Evelyn elbowed him, blushing.

That night, Richard waited until all the lights downstairs had gone out before drawing the curtains and turning on his desk lamp.

Having learned his lesson from the last time his sister had burst into his room, he sat facing the door this time so he could listen for movement outside at any moment.

From memory, he copied down in full the two pages of handwritten content he had seen in the library.

The memory enhancement from [Scholarship] made it easy. Every Latin word was crystal clear.

After finishing the transcription, he translated it.

The steps of the Breathing Technique were not complicated. Its core consisted of only three elements: rhythm, visualization, and an anchor.

The first step was to find his own heartbeat.

Press his fingertips against the artery at the side of his neck or the inside of his wrist, silently count the pulse, and continue until he could clearly perceive the rhythm of his heartbeat without touching his skin.

From then on, all counting would use heartbeats as units rather than clock time. The text emphasized this point in particular:

"A clock is an external object; the heartbeat belongs to oneself. The foundation of the Golden Path lies in seeking inward. All rhythm must arise from oneself."

The second step was to enter "Quadruple Breathing."

Inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four beats, then hold again for four beats, forming one complete cycle.

The four stages were equal in length and symmetrical, like the four sides of a square.

Neither hurried nor slow, neither tilted nor biased, with no beat heavier or lighter than another, like the two sides of a balance. That was why it was called the "Golden Path."

In Alchemy, gold did not refer to the metal itself. It referred to the state in which all things attained balance: Aurum Philosophicum, Philosopher's Gold.

When the four stages of breathing were divided evenly, the practitioner's body and spirit gradually harmonized within the rhythm. Aether naturally accumulated amid that harmony, without needing to be forcibly seized.

The third step was to add visualization during every held breath.

During the first hold, focus attention on the point directly behind the sternum, between the two lungs.

The text called it the "Seat of the Sun," written in Latin as Sedes Solis.

It was where the "Inner Sun" of the Hermes tradition resided, and also the place where Aether was most easily retained.

The text specifically reminded him that visualization did not require seeing anything, nor did it require genuine sensations of light or heat.

Over time, what could not be seen would become visible.

He put away the translation draft, sat on the edge of his bed, and closed his eyes.

Air entered through his nose, traveled past the split in his windpipe, and filled both lobes of his lungs.

The bonus from [Breathing Lv.2] made the process smoother than it was for ordinary people. His airways had less resistance, and his alveoli expanded more fully.

Hold his breath. Let his attention sink entirely behind his sternum. This was the hardest part.

"Focus attention on a place that cannot be seen or touched" sounded simple, but in practice, it was incredibly easy to lose focus.

All kinds of stray thoughts ran through his mind: tomorrow's classes, the Cicero Cup, Gray's car, Evelyn's ridiculous speculations... He suppressed them and anchored himself again.

Hold. One and a half seconds ended.

Exhale... one, two. He pushed the breath out of his lungs at a steady pace, controlling it so he would not go too fast.

The first complete cycle ended. He felt nothing.

He continued with the second, third, and fourth.

By the fifth cycle, an incredibly faint warmth appeared deep in his chest.

It was even fainter than when Breathing had leveled up, so faint that he could barely tell whether it was real or merely psychological suggestion.

But the panel popped up.

[Breathing] Experience: +2 (cultivation bonus)

His experience, which had previously only been in the single digits, jumped by two points at once.

He made a comparison in his mind.

Under normal breathing, the experience gained each time was practically negligible, requiring tens of thousands of breaths to accumulate.

With breathing in a cultivation state, a few cycles gained two points. The difference in efficiency was not even on the same scale.

If he practiced the Breathing Technique every day, Lv.3 would arrive much sooner.

He restrained his excitement and continued until he had finished today's practice.

The number on the panel glowed quietly.

[Breathing] Lv.2 Experience: 21/500

One session had gained nearly ten points, even more than he had estimated.

At this pace, he could possibly reach Lv.3 in around two months.

Breathing Lv.3: Healing would bring another qualitative transformation and an all-around improvement.

He turned off the desk lamp and lay down on the bed.

Cold air poured in through the gap in the window, making the edge of the curtain flutter slightly.

He did not close the window. Tonight's air seemed especially sweet.

The rhythm of campus life that followed was much the same as before, but his relationships with others underwent a few subtle shifts.

First came Gray.

After that "convenient ride home" on Wednesday night, she moved from beside Warren to beside Richard during lunchtime tutoring.

The distance between them shrank by several seats, and her notebook moved from her lap onto the desk.

Then there was Lillian.

That morning, Lillian stopped when she passed Richard in the corridor.

"Williams."

"Mm?"

Her mouth opened, then closed again.

After about two seconds of silence, she pulled a sheet of paper from beneath the textbook in her arms and handed it to him.

"That suggestion Mr. West gave you last week.

"I found an original passage from Cicero's In Defense of Murena. Its structure is similar to the one you used, so you can use it for reference."

A passage of Latin was copied onto the paper, with notes beside it marking the stress and pauses. The notes were meticulous.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Lillian hugged her textbook a little tighter, turned, and left. Her pace was quick, and the end of her braid swung twice behind her shoulder.

Richard lowered his head and glanced at the sheet. Her handwriting was completely different from Gray's flowing cursive, the kind trained from childhood:

Lillian's writing was small and dense, like it had been typed on a typewriter. Every letter sat properly within its grid.

People in the class saw it happen.

By lunchtime, the news had already made one round through the class: Lillian had passed Richard a little note.