I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard sat in his chair, lost in thought.

Having spent several years in folklore forums in his past life, he has never lacked imagination when it comes to supernatural tales.

The post contained half-true, half-false field research, detailed records of local witchcraft traditions, and oral accounts of shamans entering a trance state...

He read through hundreds of posts, wrote several research articles, and debated the similarities and differences between black magic and Voodoo in the comments section.

At that time, his excitement was based on the premise of safety: reality was on this side of the screen, and the story was on the other side.

Because he knew that even after turning off the computer, the world would still be the same.

But now that we've actually arrived in another world, that premise has been dismantled.

The curtain is real, the ether is real, and what's behind the curtain is real.

The excitement was still there, but something else was weighing it down.

It was cold and heavy, making him reluctant to get up from the chair.

This is an instinctive fear of the unknown.

The experience of standing on the edge of a deep pool and looking down is completely different from lying on the sofa flipping through swimming tutorials.

He began to organize the information in his mind, forcing himself to detach from his emotions and enter a state of flow.

First, extraordinary power exists, has a system, has a lineage, and also poses dangers.

Although the description in Appendix C is restrained, the warning between the lines is very strong.

Secondly, advanced breathing requires extraordinary breathing techniques, which can be achieved through at least three legitimate methods.

The Golden Path is the safest, the Blood-Burning Path is too aggressive, and the Abyss Path is a forbidden zone.

Given his current physical condition, the Golden Path is practically the only option.

Third, Mr. Hutton.

The old gentleman handed over a slip of paper, pointing out the location of the bookshelf, down to the exact row and shelf number.

Those borderline lectures in class—the God of the Road, the priestly class, the temple information network, the blacked-out government reports—now seem like mere prelude.

How much does Mr. Hutton actually know?

Is he simply a scholar, or a character within a system of extraordinary cultivation?

Why would he guide a student to engage with these things?

Fourth, my cousin Vincent.

The bronze pendant, worn for a few days, eventually wore down the original Richard to death.

Does Vincent know that there's something wrong with this thing?

If he doesn't know, then he's just a passerby; the real problem lies in the origin of the ornament.

If he knew... Richard temporarily set aside this lead, refusing to make a judgment without evidence, but marked it as a high priority.

After arranging the information in his mind, he let out a long breath.

The panel was quietly lit at the edge of the field of vision.

[Knowledge] Lv.1 Experience: 102/200

After three consecutive days of intensive decoding work, my knowledge and experience bar has jumped forward significantly.

Every successful reconstruction of a code word, every key clue found in the etymology manual, every piece of scattered sentence fragments pieced back together... the panel faithfully records all these inputs.

Decoding itself involves an extremely high density of knowledge application: cross-referencing Latin grammar, etymology, cryptographic foundations, and religious texts.

It is much more efficient than simply listening to lectures in class.

Looking back now, Mr. Hutton may have considered more than just interest in the occult; sufficient academic ability was also one of the selection criteria.

To put it bluntly, students who can't even understand the knowledge taught in class have no way of knowing what's behind the scenes.

My breathing skill is almost full, and I should be able to reach Lv.2 in another two or three days.

He stood up, his joints cracking twice; he had been sitting for too long.

As I was tidying up the papers on the table, I heard the sound of dishes being cooked downstairs.

"elder brother!"

Evelyn yelled at him to come eat dinner.

However, the sound was somewhat attenuated by the floor and the closed door.

His attention was entirely focused on the notes spread out on the table. His index finger traced the derivation process line by line, and he muttered something silently to himself.

After a while, the sound of a girl's footsteps echoed on the stairs, light and cheerful, yet tinged with a hint of defiance.

Knock, knock, knock—three knocks on the door.

"Brother! Are you deaf? I'm calling you for dinner!"

Richard suddenly snapped back to reality.

He glanced down at the table.

The translated manuscript of Appendix C covered the entire table, with the comparison table unfolded and placed beside it.

The notebook was filled with densely packed derivations, and the book was laid out open in the most conspicuous place.

The doorknob is already being pressed down.

His body reacted faster than his brain; he grabbed all the papers on the table and haphazardly stuffed them, along with the books, into the drawer.

He didn't have time to put the notebook away, so he flipped to a blank page and placed it face down on the table.

The door opened.

Evelyn stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, with half a cucumber stick dangling from her mouth, probably something she'd grabbed from the kitchen.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but was stunned by the sight inside the room.

The boy was standing next to the desk, his posture stiff, as if he was hiding something.

Sweat was pouring down my forehead, the tip of my nose, and even behind my ears. My breathing was a little rapid, and my chest was heaving more than usual.

The lamp was still on in the room, and the curtains were drawn tightly, making it stuffy and hot.

Evelyn forgot to chew the cucumber sticks in her mouth.

"you……"

"Do your homework," Richard lied without batting an eye.

"Can you really break a sweat doing homework?"

"It's a bit stuffy inside."

"Then open the window."

"I forgot."

Evelyn took the cucumber strip out of her mouth and squinted at him.

The door was closed, the curtains were drawn, the room was stuffy, and everyone was sweating profusely. After hearing the knock, they hurriedly hid their belongings.

And most suspicious of all—the locked drawer.

She's not completely ignorant.

Occasionally, some half-revealed topics circulate among girls, and her mother has also talked to her about some changes that boys "will undergo as they grow up."

My mother's exact words at the time were:

"At your brother's age, he might... exhibit some behaviors... You don't need to worry too much about them, and don't disturb his private space."

Evelyn nodded as if she understood, feeling that this matter was far removed from her own experience.

But now that all the information had been pieced together, the girl's face immediately turned red, starting from the roots of her ears.

"You, you, you, you..." She took a half step back, almost dropping the cucumber strip in her hand.

"I really am doing my homework," Richard repeated, his tone firm and sincere.

"Why do you have to lock the door and draw the curtains to do your homework, and still break a sweat!"

Evelyn's voice rose, then she quickly lowered it, afraid her parents downstairs would hear.

Her face was flushed, burning from her neck all the way to her hairline, and even the tips of her ears were hot.

"Latin homework," Richard said, emphasizing each word.

"You're lying!"

"It really is Latin."

"Latin can be written like this?!"

From a certain perspective, it is indeed true that Latin is written this way, Richard thought with a wry smile.

Decoding three pages of coded messages is enough to make anyone break out in a sweat.

But he also realized what his sister was thinking.

This sudden misunderstanding was too huge, and all the surface evidence supported her judgment.

The more you try to explain, the more the other person feels that you are making excuses.

Evelyn took a deep breath and turned her face away.

She stared at the corner of the wall for a while, as if rehearsing it in her mind several times, but when she spoke it out, she still stammered:

"Um... bro."

"Um?"

"I know you... you're just... at this age, as Mom said, it's normal."

Richard's facial expressions were somewhat out of control.

"But!" Evelyn's voice rose a notch:

"Your health wasn't good to begin with. Have you forgotten that you almost didn't wake up before?"

The doctor told you to take good care of yourself, but instead you…

She was almost choking up by the time she got to this point.

Her entire face turned bright red, and her voice grew softer and softer until it became a mosquito's buzz:

"...You need to be more restrained."

After saying that, Evelyn turned and ran away, as if her brother were some kind of monster.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and the person even tripped over the handrail halfway down.

Richard stood there, looking down at his sweat-soaked shirt.

Indeed, anyone would think in that direction.

He wiped the sweat from his face and found it somewhat amusing.

Compared to the awkwardness that awaits at the dinner table, the unknown behind the curtain is not so scary.

In the restaurant, the father was already seated, with the newspaper neatly folded and placed aside.

His mother placed the soup bowl on the table and glanced back at him.

"Did you wash them by hand?"

"It's been washed."

Richard sat down in a chair and poured himself a bowl of soup.

"The soup is delicious today," the father commented.

"I added pepper," the mother replied.

Evelyn buried her head in her soup, her ears still flushed.

Richard sat there, drinking his own bowl of wine, without saying a word.

Some things become more unclear the more you explain them. Once my sister forgets about it in a few days, everything will be back to normal.

We should eat a proper dinner.