I loaded the Mysticism panel.

In the last week of November, a notice was posted at the post office entrance.

Citizens are reminded that Christmas cards sent to Beijing must be delivered before December 18th; delivery before the holiday cannot be guaranteed after this date.

Below the notice, someone had added a line in crooked pencil: "What about those heading to the New World?"

No one answered the question.

The atmosphere on the Greenwood campus became even more restless.

The pastor added a speech about the "Christmas spirit" during morning prayer, the main point of which was to remind students not to circulate gift lists in class.

But the speech clearly had no effect.

The second period in the morning was geography, and the teacher drew a map of the distribution of the northern water system of the empire on the blackboard.

In the back row, Warren and Mason were passing a piece of paper back and forth under the table.

The paper contained a long shopping list, written in messy handwriting and with several corrections.

Richard sat in the front row by the window, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the piece of paper moving back and forth between the two of them.

During the break, Warren came over, clutching the crumpled list in his hand.

"Richard, what are you planning to buy for Christmas?"

"I haven't decided yet."

What does your sister like?

"Food."

Warren waited a moment, and seeing that he didn't add anything, pressed on, "That's it?"

"It's not easy to find suitable food."

Mason leaned over from the side and said, "I think you could buy a scarf; girls all like scarves."

"When did you become a female psychologist?" Warren glanced at him sideways.

"My sister told me," Mason said matter-of-factly. "She said if you don't know what to give, a scarf and gloves are always a safe bet."

"Your sister received several scarves last year," Warren reminded him.

"So it will never make a mistake, at most it will repeat itself."

Hugh ran from the other end of the corridor, one of his shoelaces loose, dragging on the ground, and he almost tripped on the threshold.

"What are you talking about?"

"Let's talk about Christmas gifts."

"Oh." Hugh moved his lips slightly. "Actually... my mom recently asked me to knit a scarf for my cousin."

Warren and Mason both turned to him at the same time.

"Can you knit scarves?"

"No." Hugh swept his bangs back, revealing a bitter face. "That's why I'm so worried."

"Then why did your mother make you knit?"

"Because I can't afford it."

These words immediately shut down the conversation.

Warren, sensing the situation, didn't press further, but instead patted Hugh on the shoulder:

"I'll teach you then. I learned from my nanny when I was a child."

"You can knit scarves?" Mason's mouth dropped open.

"You still remember the basic needling techniques, and you shouldn't have forgotten the flat needle and the pry needle."

"If a rich young master can knit scarves, what is impossible in this world?"

"Shut up."

Richard found their bickering somewhat amusing.

He really hadn't decided what Christmas present to buy for Evelyn yet.

I already bought shoes and a coat last time, but those are everyday items. Christmas gifts need to be a little different.

After returning home and finishing dinner, Richard helped his mother clear the dishes and stood in the hallway for a while before going upstairs.

He glanced at the black rotary dial telephone in the corner of the living room.

It's been almost three weeks since my appointment with Clement.

The old man said that he would be notified by phone first if he received an item marked "Category II" that failed to sell.

But so far, that phone has remained quietly tucked away in the corner, without ringing.

After thinking about it, he felt that instead of waiting for the other party to call, he should take the initiative to ask. He couldn't just wait for a windfall to fall from the sky.

Richard took Clement's business card out of his pocket, walked to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number.

The beeping continued for six times, but no one answered.

On the eighth beep, the old man's muffled voice finally came through the microphone.

Who is it?

Clement was clearly very impatient, probably because he had been woken up while dozing off.

"Mr. Clement, I am Williams."

"Which Williams? There are too many people with the surname Williams."

"Richard Williams, the student who bought the Sphinx lamp."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the microphone, followed by the sounds of a chair being moved and something being knocked over.

"Oh, it's you, kid."

The old man's voice was much clearer: "Why are you calling me so late at night?"

"I'd like to ask, regarding the list of unsold items you mentioned last time, have any new items been added recently?"

"You're still thinking about this?"

Clement seemed to be flipping through something, the pages rustling.

"The previous list was sent a week ago, but it contained only ordinary goods."

Several porcelain vases, two rusted ceremonial daggers, a pile of old candles dug up from some unknown parish…

"The one marked 'Category II' is just a very small item."

Richard was pleasantly surprised: "What is it? I don't care!"

"A seal." Clement flipped to the corresponding page:

Made of tin-copper alloy, about the size of a thumbnail, with engravings on the printing surface.

The auction house's standard appraisal report stated, "Dating back no more than two hundred years, likely from the southern colonial region, specific purpose unknown."

"The second type of label was added later. The appraiser circled it in the remarks column, but did not write the reason."

He flipped the paper over.

"The estimated price was very low; even at a base price of five shillings, no one wanted it. It was cleared out along with a batch of leftover stock."

After the discount, it will cost 3 shillings excluding shipping when it reaches me.

The old man said apologetically, "I didn't tell you before because this thing is really inconspicuous."

"A tin-copper stamp the size of a thumbprint—even if there's something inside, how much could it possibly contain? It's not worth making a special trip for you."

"But since you called yourself..."

Clement put the paper down:

"If you want it, take it for three shillings and five pence. The five pence is for shipping, just like with the oil lamp incident, I won't make any money off you."

"Sure," Richard replied readily. "I'll come tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" The old man was somewhat surprised. "Tomorrow is Tuesday. Aren't you in school?"

"I'll go after school; I should be able to get there before six o'clock."

"Okay, I'll save it for you."

After hanging up, Richard put the receiver back on the fork spring.

Clement himself didn't think it was worth informing him about such a small thing, which cost only a few shillings.

The tin-copper seal, about the size of a thumbprint, was simply circled by the appraiser at Stuart; he didn't even bother to write a note.

These scraps leaked through the sieve of the auction house, rolled all the way to the old alleys of Briston, and gathered dust under Clement's cabinet.

If he hadn't made that call, the seal would probably have remained under the cabinet until the old man threw it into the junkyard when he was clearing out his inventory.

But his diet isn't picky.

Ornaments, divination discs, silver coins, copper coins, incense burners, gargoyles, oil lamps... items of vastly different values ​​are all the same thing in the panel's eyes: etheric carriers that can be converted into points.

Eat big bites of big food, eat small bites of small food; even the smallest mosquito leg is still meat.

The current available points are 0.62. If that stamp can contribute even 0.4 more, the total will exceed the 1-point threshold.

One point is enough to unlock another skill, or to upgrade an existing skill.

Richard went upstairs, returned to his bedroom, and closed the door.

He focused his attention on the panel, re-examining the status of each skill.

[Breathing Lv.2] Progress: 93.01%

The breathing progress value is not far from reaching the maximum.

The last two conditions for advancing to Lv.3 have already been met.

As long as he has enough usable points, he can reach Lv.3 with his breathing.

Lv.3 Unlock Effect Preview - Breathing Healing: Wherever the breath flows, the body undergoes minor self-repair, and chronic ailments gradually recede.

The weight of the four words "deep diarrhea gradually subsides" was heavier than anything else to him.

The improvements brought about by breathing levels Lv.1 and Lv.2 are already quite obvious, with increased oxygen supply efficiency, improved sleep quality, and reduced cough frequency.

But these are all just temporary solutions, plugging the leaks.

The material of the bucket itself hasn't changed; the thin parts are still thin.

Healing is the only way to address the root cause.

If breathing itself can trigger minimally invasive self-repair, then it's equivalent to the barrel wall thickening by one centimeter with each breath.

It's running 24/7, fixing things while I'm awake and fixing things while I'm asleep.

By combining the three physical skills of eating, sleeping, and walking, the body's foundation will be improved from the root.

It's no longer about patching things up; it's about a true reconstruction.

………………

Richard woke up before the alarm clock went off in the morning.

The first thing I do when I wake up is, as usual, to feel my body.

My chest is clear, my breathing is steady, and there is no lingering dull pain in the back of my head.

Last night before going to bed, I did three cycles of fourfold breathing according to the method taught by Old Big. During the last exhale, I pushed my attention outward a little.

It was pushed out about an inch from the body surface and retracted after less than a second.

It felt very subtle, like reaching out to touch a wall in the dark.

No specific information came in, but the action of "pushing out" itself went much more smoothly than the day before yesterday.

As I went downstairs, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and black tea.

My mother has already set out breakfast.

Today, we had an extra small dish of pickled cucumbers as a side dish.

My father sat in his usual spot, flipping through the newspaper, with half a slice of toast in his mouth.

Evelyn hasn't come down yet.

Richard sat down in the chair, cracked open the eggshell, and ate it with a spoon.

Just as we were finishing our meal, we heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs.

Evelyn rushed into the cafeteria wrapped in her school uniform jacket, her tie only half-tied, and her hair tied in a crooked ponytail.

"Ugh, I'm still half asleep..."

She stuffed bread into her mouth while reaching for her teacup, her movements so fast one worried she might pull the tablecloth off.

"Sit still." The father turned a page of the newspaper.

Evelyn slumped in her chair, her tie still hanging there, unfinished.

She took a couple of bites of bread, then suddenly turned her head to look at Richard.

"Brother, why are you up so early again today?"

"It's about the same as usual, you just overslept."

Evelyn pouted, lowered her head and continued her struggle with the bread, muttering something indistinctly.

The mother poked her head out from the kitchen: "Don't talk while you eat, you'll choke."

Richard had finished breakfast and was packing his things to head to the school bus stop.

On the school bus, Richard leaned against the window and mentally reviewed today's schedule.

After school, instead of taking the school bus, I walk to Clement's place, which takes about forty minutes.

Go to the store to pick up the stamp, find a corner to squat in for a while, and see if the panel reacts.

If there is a reaction, absorb it on the spot;

If not... consider the three shillings as tuition fees.

At lunchtime, Warren, as usual, ordered him a roasted lamb chop with mashed potatoes.

Mason sat next to me, flipping through a horse racing magazine and muttering about the odds for a certain horse from last week.

"...The horse in position three, 'Son of the North Wind,' had a 7-to-1 odds, but it actually came in second, just half a horse length behind."

"You placed a bet?" Warren asked.

"I wanted to bet but didn't dare." Mason turned the page. "My mom says that people who bet on horse races are all idiots who lose everything."

"Your mother is right."

"But it's 7 to 1! 7 to 1! If I bet one pound, I'll make seven pounds!"

"If you bet a pound and lose, you lose a pound," Richard interjected.

Mason glanced at him: "Richard, why are you such a spoilsport?"

"Because he's clear-headed," Grey chimed in from the side.

Warren chuckled, nearly spitting out his tea onto the lamb chops.

"Alright, alright." He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Hey Mason, stop studying horse racing. You almost failed geography on your last midterm."

"That's because that test paper was too unconventional..."

"I know everything in the textbook, but I forgot it during the exam."

"...That's not what you call knowing how."

Hugh leaned over from the other side, holding a piece of bread in his hand.

The jam on the bread was spread like a palette, with layers of red and purple.

"Mason, what are you arguing about with Richard? Trying to outsmart him is just asking for trouble."

"I wasn't comparing my brains with him, I was talking about horse racing."

"Doesn't horse racing also require brains?"

"Horse racing is all about luck!"

"Well, your luck wasn't so great either. You said yourself that you wanted to place a bet but didn't dare to."