I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The third, fourth... and seventh time, a hair-width crack appeared at the temporary seal point.

Richard stabilized the intensity of the ether push, keeping the gap at the width of a hair.

[Available Points] have begun to climb, with the amount of ether flowing out being extremely weak.

Richard stood in front of the table, holding a steel pipe in one hand to maintain the vacuum, and using the other hand to maintain stress on the box, his breathing extremely low.

When his own ether ran out, he started to draw on the reserves in his [Spirit Form].

Twenty minutes passed.

The available points have reached 1.05, and the first phase goal has been achieved.

Moreover, the box seems to have a good supply of ether, so all the effort I put into it was worthwhile.

Richard stopped the ether push and began to restore the seal.

He wouldn't be foolish enough to drain himself dry before thinking about repairing the seal.

After sealing it, he opened the steel pipe to the side, allowing the vacuum zone to slowly dissipate from around the box.

Inspiration returned, and the candle flame leaped back to its original height.

Richard leaned back in his chair and took a few deep breaths.

The [Spirit Appearance] has been reduced from 10 to 6, with ample reserves.

The available points are currently set at 1.1.

During the brief moment he leaned back in his chair, he allowed his microcirculation to flow slowly back to the base of his lungs, following the roots of the inverted tree of the Sun's Seat.

After his breathing returned to its usual, most comfortable rhythm, he closed his eyes and let the panel float up.

[Perception] lv.2, progress 62%

[Critical Thinking] Level 1, Progress 77%

Once you've collected enough, there are many more things you can do.

Richard's gaze swept across the panel from top to bottom, finally settling on the line for "Critical Thinking".

This item took the shortest time to light up, and the progress was relatively fast.

Those twelve sets of empirical texts, the stack of books that Aunt Isabella sent from the capital, Mrs. Mary's handwritten copy with the words "a detective is not a prophet" repeatedly written in the margins... all of these things were nourishing it.

[Critical thinking] is the side lamp that he lit for himself in his mind.

When the light was turned on, all the sharp edges of things that I thought I had understood suddenly became apparent.

Richard focused his attention on that column.

Previewing doesn't cost points, so take a look if you want.

Two lines of small text appeared on the panel:

This feature is now enabled. To advance to the next level, you must meet the following requirements:

Level 1 completed;

Available points: 1;

Re-examine a judgment you once firmly believed in, discover its errors, and correct them.

"Unlockable Effect Preview - Contemplation & Inner Awakening: "

The original critical thinking effect was improved, and it was easier to perceive one's own shortcomings during thinking, with a significant increase in resistance to external words and suggestions.

Richard read the two lines twice.

The most important thing is to have "believed it without a doubt".

To take this level, he has to force himself to look back and rethink his own performance.

[Perception] He needs to go behind the curtain and keep an eye on a hostile target who is of a higher level than him;

[Reflection] Instead of letting him look out, make him look inward.

Looking outward, one can borrow the eye of perception;

Turn it inside out... The thinnest part of the entire suit of armor is always the inner lining.

He let out a long breath.

As for that trait itself.

As Richard looked at the words "[Contemplation and Inner Awakening]", something slowly began to rise in his mind.

He later went back and reviewed Hecate's words at that anonymous round table, finding in every single one a hook she had laid.

When she says, "We are not born just for ourselves," the microcirculation will gently tilt in that direction;

When she says, "The fact that you're sitting here means you deserve it," he'll have a split second to think to himself, "I do deserve it."

He understood all of this afterward.

But what he wanted was a ray of light that allowed him to see things clearly even amidst the chaos.

【Reflection and Inner Awakening】This is exactly the question they've given us.

Since it has been overlooked for a long time, finding a way to deal with it is something that is difficult to achieve even while sitting at a table and racking one's brains.

It has to be brought up by something unrelated at some unexpected moment.

All he could do was keep his head open and wait for the impact.

It was already dark outside the window.

Richard carefully collected the moss and dung remnants from the oil paper back into the sealed jar.

The taste of these two types of fodder will change once they have been used, so they must be kept separate from unused ones.

The blackened layer of straw at the other end of the steel pipe needs to be cleaned out and replaced with new straw.

Before leaving, he tidied up the right half of the table, leaving no trace.

………………

When a cold wave hits, it's always the poor who die first.

Richard had just finished dealing with the box and returned from school. When he reached the east end of the slag alley, he saw several neighbors gathered together.

Mother Margaret stood on the steps, holding a hand warmer in her hand, and whispered something to the neighbor lady.

"...Is this Mr. Burns?"

Richard stopped in his tracks.

"Mrs. Sybil found out this morning; she lives next door to Mr. Burns and they get along well."

The neighbor lady kept talking incessantly.

"Burns didn't go out last night. This morning she went to deliver a kettle of hot water, and the door was open."

"...He left quietly, just leaning against the stove, where the fire had long since gone out."

Richard's breathing softened.

His mother patted him on the shoulder, gesturing for him to go inside first.

At the dinner table, the father, Rogers, also mentioned it briefly.

"In the past, every spring there would be a sudden cold snap, and a few old people would always fall ill at the dock."

The father spoke casually as he chopped the radishes in the dish.

Several of his neighbors planned to chip in some money to pay for Burns' burial.

"Burns is different."

"How are they different?"

He coughed up blood for a long time, knowing he was going to die.

I spoke with him last winter, and he said he wasn't afraid of dying, but he was afraid that no one would arrange his funeral.

"...Who will take care of the funeral arrangements?"

"He saved some money himself and left it with the priest at Elizabeth Church."

We were still a few shillings short, so a few of us neighbors and his coworkers chipped in to cover it.

Evelyn listened silently without saying a word.

Richard glanced at his sister.

Evelyn wasn't familiar with Mr. Burns, but she had grown up in the slag heap and knew the name of every household in the alley, which house they lived in, and how many people lived in their families.

She was sad all night because one of the families was missing.

After dinner, Richard went upstairs alone.

He pulled out the copy of "Northern Literature Review" from the drawer.

The editor-in-chief added a quote to the header of his own article:

"No one remembers when he started coughing, just as no one remembers when he started carrying coal."

True Burns is dead.

He is illiterate and may not have even read this essay.

Those thousands of readers, their necks tightening as they read the article, had no idea that at the east end of Slag Lane, there was a real Burns family, huddled by the stove, enduring their last night.

Richard closed the magazine and went downstairs.

He said to his mother.

"I'll go check on Mr. Burns."

His mother looked at him but didn't ask anything.

She took a small cloth bag from the cupboard, inside which was a shilling and a few pennies.

"...Take this to Mrs. Sybil to raise money for her funeral arrangements."

"Um."

"Don't go into Mr. Burns's room, and don't look at his face. Give him some face," the mother advised.

Richard nodded, put the cloth bag in his pocket, and went out the door.

The coldness in the slag heap was deeper than he had imagined.

The smell of burning coal ash wafted from the end of the alley.

He walked to the door that Mrs. Sybil had temporarily propped up with wooden planks and stopped.

The enhancement of [Perception] allowed him to see the entire space of this household after his spiritual vision expanded.

Cinders, furnace ash, the old chair Burns moved around every day, and the old photographs hanging on the wall...

After Burns left, he left something in the house.

Death requires fear and pain, but Burns passed away peacefully; he had been able to calmly accept his own death many years ago.

Therefore, all that remains is a kind of "fatigue" after a long period of hard work.

That slight fatigue is harmless on the etheric level, but it will sink.

Where will it sink?

Richard's inspiration followed that feeling of "fatigue".

"Fatigue" seeped into the ground along the cracks in the floor and continued to seep downwards.

The direction it's going is... west.

Richard stood in front of that door, his nose frozen stiff.

The more you understand it, the less mysterious it becomes;

Read to the very top, and the extraordinary fades away.

But as soon as I understood one thing, a hundred new things sprang up in the city.

His ability to understand things was far slower than the city's own growth rate.

Mrs. Sybil came from the other end of the alley.

She was wearing a dusty wool scarf and holding an earthenware pot in her hands.

"Little Richard?"

"Mrs. Sybil," Richard said, handing her the bag.

"My mother asked me to bring this over to help with Mr. Burns' funeral arrangements."

Mrs. Sybil took the bag, didn't even count it, and stuffed it into her apron pocket.

"Thanks."

She raised her hand and wiped her eyes.

"...He didn't die badly," Mrs. Sybil said.

"When I went to deliver hot water this morning, he was leaning against the stove, his clothes were neatly dressed, and he was wearing shoes."

"He knew he would be leaving today."

Richard nodded.

"Where will you be buried?"

"The cemetery behind Elizabeth Chapel."

Mrs. Sybil answered.

"The priest promised to carve a small stone for him."

"Marcus Burns, 1851–1913, nothing else."