Seal Identification

Hugh had just picked up his pencil when Mr. Holland walked into the classroom.

He was carrying a paper tray, and sitting prominently on it were two fried chicken drumsticks.

The golden-brown crispy skin was still glistening with oil, and the charred, savory aroma of breadcrumbs drifted all the way from the door to the first row.

The restrooms and the cafeteria were in opposite directions; he had likely gone specifically to buy the chicken, not to use the restroom at all.

Hugh stared at those two drumsticks, his eyes lighting up instantly.

Mr. Holland set the paper tray down on the desk where two students were sitting:

"I smelled them while passing the cafeteria, so I picked them up."

He had picked up two drumsticks, yet not a single one was for himself.

He pushed the paper tray toward the two students, sat down in the second row, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the oil from his fingers.

"You've been practicing all afternoon; you won't have the strength to walk if you don't eat something."

Hugh could no longer afford to be polite; he grabbed a drumstick with both hands and took a huge bite.

The skin was crispy, crunching audibly as he bit into it, and the juices burst between his teeth.

He chewed twice, a look of almost pious satisfaction appearing on his face.

Compared to the drumstick he had just drawn, the real thing was clearly more convincing.

Richard picked up the other one and took a bite.

The three of them were gathered around the front desk, two students gnawing on chicken while a teacher sat behind them wiping his hands.

The school motto plaque hanging above the podium, "Lux Rationis Semper Vincit," looked down upon the scene.

It probably hadn't expected that under the Light of Reason, a teacher and his students would turn this place into a picnic site.

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair and glanced at Hugh.

"Fenton, you look terrible."

With his mouth stuffed with chicken, Hugh mumbled a reply: "Didn't sleep well last night."

"Catching up on homework?"

"Not homework..." Hugh chewed twice and swallowed the meat, looking a bit embarrassed: "Listening to the game broadcast."

"Which one?"

"Stanfield's away game."

Mr. Holland's handkerchief paused between his fingers.

"The two-to-two match?"

Hugh looked up, breadcrumbs still clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"You listened to it too, sir?"

"Didn't listen to the broadcast, read the paper this morning."

Mr. Holland folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket, his triple chin folding over his collar.

"That ball in stoppage time, the one that hit the goalpost and bounced out—was that kicked by McKinney?"

"Yes! That was him!" Hugh's eyes brightened.

There is a tacit understanding among fans of the city's team that transcends age, a bond usually built on shared disappointment:

Year after year of anticipation, year after year of being sent home by the goalpost, by a rebound, by fate at the most critical moment.

But the next day, when the radio turned on, those who were supposed to be there would be there.

Richard gnawed on his own drumstick, watching the interaction between the two of them in a daze.

Ten minutes ago, Mr. Holland was still the stern teacher dragging chairs to make noise and correcting pronunciations with a straight face.

Now, he was sitting next to his students with his legs crossed, chatting about left goalposts and headers, his triple chin trembling with the rhythm of his speech.

"Sir," Hugh suddenly looked up.

"Hmm?"

"Stanfield plays Bolton at home next Wednesday, kickoff at seven-thirty."

He took the pencil from behind his ear and spun it between his fingers.

"Would you like to... listen to the broadcast together?"

Mr. Holland looked somewhat surprised:

"Are you inviting your teacher to stay up late at night to listen to a ball game?"

"You said yourself you haven't missed a game in three seasons..."

"That was back when I was young; now I'm a middle-aged man who has to get up early for class."

As he passed by Hugh, he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket: "Wipe your mouth, your chin is covered in oil."

Hugh hurriedly wiped his face with the handkerchief, stood up, and folded it to return it.

"Keep it. It's already dirty anyway."

Mr. Holland tucked his lesson plan under his arm.

"We'll continue at the same time tomorrow. Have the excerpts for the second speech ready as well—prepare two versions."

He pushed the door open and started to walk out, but after two steps, he turned back.

"Fenton."

"Yes, sir!"

"Get some sleep early tonight. Don't listen to the broadcast. If you doze off in class again, I won't be so pleasant."

The door closed.

Hugh stood where he was, looking down at the handkerchief.

It was made of linen, with a cursive "H" embroidered in the corner. The stitching was fine, and though it had been washed many times, there was no pilling.

It was not a cheap handkerchief, and its owner had taken very good care of it.

"He's such a good person," Hugh whispered.

"Of course he is," Richard said, tossing a chicken bone into the trash can.

"I always thought Mr. Holland was the type of teacher who was very fierce."

"He isn't fierce by nature. You've just been called on in Latin class too many times without knowing the answer, so you've developed a psychological trauma."

"That's true," Hugh chuckled.

He carefully folded the handkerchief and put it into his pocket, patting it to make sure it was secure.

"I'll wash it properly when I get back. Soaking the oil stain in cold water and then scrubbing it with soap should do the trick; my mom taught me that."

As the two of them grabbed their school bags and walked toward the door, Hugh's steps were noticeably lighter.

"Richard."

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you tired after standing for so long? Didn't you used to get dizzy after standing for ten minutes?"

"I've been exercising lately."

"You've changed so much recently," Hugh sighed.

"Your grades are up, your reflexes are faster, and you can stand for forty minutes without getting dizzy... Could it be that you took some kind of miracle medicine?"

"I did. It's called 'eating well and sleeping well'."

"Then why doesn't it work when I do it every day?"

"You don't sleep well."

"Fair point," he admitted readily.

When they reached the classroom door, Hugh suddenly spoke up:

"When you go to the Imperial Capital for the competition, even though I can't help much... I'll treat you to your first meal when you get back."

"You're treating?"

"I've been saving my allowance for two weeks," he grinned, his bangs swaying across his forehead.

"Enough to buy you a bowl of Tomato Oxtail Soup."

"Fine. You treat the first meal, and I'll treat the second."

"You've got it all planned out."

By the final week, Richard had flipped through all the remaining books on the third-floor bookshelf.

He screened them one by one, deciphering them paragraph by paragraph, and the notes on his blank paper grew thicker and thicker.

Most of the hidden content overlapped with the previous books.

The same terminology, the same classification framework, just with different wording and different emphases, occasionally adding a detail or two not mentioned before.

The truly incremental information was concentrated in two books.

Tucked between the pages of a thin volume were hand-drawn diagrams depicting several common types of lower-level seal structures.

Silver-Base Seal, Copper-Base Seal, Stone-Carved Seal, and Wooden Seal—each of the four mediums had its own applicable scenario.

Silver was the most stable, suitable for long-term passive seals;

Copper had the highest efficiency for conducting Aether, suitable for active seals that required frequent activation;

Stone had the largest capacity but was difficult to engrave, mostly used for large-scale permanent seals;

Wooden was the lightest and most fragile, suitable only for temporary emergencies.

The basic grammar of the inscription symbols was also covered.

Square strokes represented restraint, while curved lines represented guidance.

The essence of a sealing inscription is to use geometric language to issue commands to the Aether field: lock everything within a specific area, allowing nothing in or out.

The steganographic passages in another book were more detailed, providing diagrams for three basic sealing structures, along with the types of evil entities each structure was suited for and their maintenance cycles.

Richard compared this information with the seal on the base of the Sphinx Oil Lamp.

A circle enclosing a triangle, with short lines extending from the three sides of the triangle.

The circle was for "defining the scope," the triangle for "anchoring the contents," and the short lines were "safety valves to vent excess Aether."

A standard structure, a textbook-level, textbook-compliant seal.

The designer was very professional; every symbol was in the correct position.

He could even determine roughly when this seal was set and by which school of thought.

The direction of the curved short lines matched the writing habits of the priests from the middle reaches of the Black Soil River, suggesting the date was shortly after the oil lamp was cast.

With the theoretical analysis having reached this point, the next question naturally surfaced: how to open it?