This Ends Here

The answer was no.

He had flipped through every book, and they all focused on what seals were, why they were designed that way, and comparisons of the pros and cons of various structures.

As for how to break them, not a single word was mentioned.

Richard leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a long while.

The logic was actually quite simple: teaching how to identify seals was for disaster prevention, while teaching how to break them was handing someone a weapon.

Including methods for breaking seals in introductory materials would be like writing a manual on how to commit the most destructive arson in a fire safety handbook.

Finding an introductory Breathing Technique for the Golden Path among the identifiable knowledge on this bookshelf was already an act of extreme generosity.

Thinking he could find the operational procedures for breaking a seal here was nothing but a pipe dream.

It wasn't that he hadn't considered asking Mr. Hutton, but the thought was extinguished after turning over in his mind twice.

There were two reasons for this.

The first was that his motivation didn't hold up.

Why would a poor student scrape together two pounds to buy an antique bronze vessel from the Black Soil River Basin?

For a collection? Decoration? Mr. Hutton had seen countless people; such excuses wouldn't fool him.

If the old gentleman were to ask even one more question, like "What do you intend to use this lamp for?"

He would be forced to choose between "partially revealing some secrets" and "losing trust after being caught in a lie."

Both options were dead ends, so it was better not to open his mouth in the first place.

The second reason was more fundamental.

Even if he posed the question of how to break the seal, the other party might not necessarily give him the answer.

Mr. Hutton's attitude from beginning to end had been: I've pointed out the path, how far you go depends on you.

The bookshelf locations were precise down to the row and slot, the reference table was the only copy, and he was responsible for keeping it after reading.

As for observing the seals in person, he could go if he wanted, and learn as much as he could on his own.

Every step was "giving you the opportunity to access, but not doing it for you."

He used a passive method of screening: leaving the door ajar, and whether or not to push it open was up to him.

Those who could push it open on their own proved they were qualified to walk inside;

Those who couldn't and retreated had lost nothing.

After organizing the day's notes, Richard tucked them into his notebook in chronological order.

The notebook was more than half full, with dense pencil handwriting extending from the first page to the third from the last, all locked away in a drawer.

He turned off the desk lamp, and the room plunged into darkness.

The curtains weren't drawn tight, and moonlight leaked through the gap, landing just on the edge of the desk.

Richard sat in the darkness for a while.

Up until now, he had essentially been eating a free lunch.

Everything Mr. Hutton provided: the occult bookshelf, the reference table, the seal internships, the silver coins, the Grey-Stamen Grass... he hadn't charged him a single copper.

The extent of the free lunch he could enjoy ended here.

He had already touched the ceiling of those twenty-six books.

He had the theoretical framework, the terminology system, the three career paths, and the seven ranks.

From here on out, he needed to use his own abilities to trade for resources.

In the surface world, the Cicero Cup was the first ticket he could grasp.

The prize money would solve his immediate financial problems, the recommendation list would provide a channel for continuous income, and it served as a stepping stone to higher-level institutions.

In the world behind The Veil, he needed a ticket as well.

But he couldn't yet see what that ticket looked like.

The only thing he was certain of was that no matter which path he took, he first needed to become a person of value.

Valuable enough that others would be willing to share deeper things with him.

He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains shut.

He returned to the edge of the bed, sat down, closed his eyes, and began his daily Breathing Technique practice.

Inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four beats, hold for four beats.

Warmth radiated from the Seat of the Sun, lingering steadily during the exhale phase without dissipating.

That morning, Evelyn fried an egg in the kitchen.

Strictly speaking, she fried two: one for Richard, and one for herself.

The oil in the pan sizzled, the edges of the egg white forming a crispy, lacy skirt, while the yolk remained plump in the center, kept at a soft-boiled consistency by her control.

"The one I fried for you last time was overdone; the yolk was hard."

She set the plate on the table: "This time is much better."

"Since when did you start caring about the heat for frying eggs?"

"I've always cared." Evelyn took off her apron and hung it on the hook behind the door: "You just couldn't tell the difference before."

Richard dipped a corner of his bread into the runny yolk and put it in his mouth.

"Hmm, it is indeed better than last time."

"Of course it is."

Evelyn sat opposite him, scooped a spoonful of marmalade from the dish, and spread it on her bread.

While her mouth was busy, her eyes were not; they were constantly observing her brother across the table.

Lately, she had grown accustomed to this kind of observation.

Richard's complexion was getting better by the day.

It wasn't the kind that came from makeup or getting twelve hours of sleep; it was an improvement in every aspect.

His cheeks had color, his eye sockets weren't as sunken, and his lips had changed from dry, grayish-pink to a normal, pale red.

Even his eating speed was different.

He used to have a poor appetite, taking ten minutes to nibble on half a slice of bread; now, he finished two slices of bread and an egg in less than five minutes.

"Brother."

"Hmm?"

"How have you been nourishing yourself lately? I haven't seen you doing any exercise."

"Sleeping early, waking up early, and eating more."

"Just that?"

"Just that."

Evelyn used her fork to cut off the crispy edge of the egg white, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.

She felt her brother was brushing her off again, but she really couldn't find an angle to refute him.

He was indeed sleeping early, waking up early, and eating more; the iron-clad facts were right in front of her.

"Fine." She pushed her plate away and wiped the corner of her mouth: "Anyway, it's a good thing that you're healthy."

The conversation shifted from idle chatter to the matter she was truly worried about: "Mom says we need to start preparing for the trip to the Imperial Capital in the next few days."

"Mm."

"Are you nervous?"

"It's alright."

"I'm a little nervous."

Richard glanced at her.

Evelyn wound her braid around her finger and twirled it twice.

"At the last gathering, the way those relatives looked at us..."

For a peripheral branch to attend a main family gathering, that feeling of being sized up from head to toe, only to receive a polite smile in return—you don't need to experience that a second time to remember it for a lifetime.

"This time is different." Richard finished the tea in his cup: "This time, Grandfather specifically asked to see me."

"That's exactly why I'm nervous."

"Don't be nervous, just stick with me when the time comes."

The girl stared at him for a moment, then unwound her finger from her braid.

"You say that as if you have so much experience."

"Although I haven't been there many times, I've read a lot of books lately."

"Can reading books solve issues with temperament and etiquette?"

"...It actually can. Haven't you heard the saying: books are the tools for forging the soul."

Evelyn felt she was becoming less and less able to win an argument against him, so she pursed her lips and stood up to clear the dishes.

As she reached the kitchen doorway, she habitually turned back to remind him:

"Come back early tonight, don't be too late."

"Got it."

"Don't get into anyone else's car."

"Got it."

"Don't join any gangs."

"...Mm."

Evelyn turned and walked into the kitchen, satisfied.

The clinking sound of dishes colliding rang out, and together with the sunlight outside the window, it filled this gray morning with a touch of warmth.