I loaded the Mysticism panel.

On Saturday, Richard went to Dawn's house to give Tom a lesson, as was his custom.

Charlotte escorted him to the living room, where Mrs. Dawn was sitting.

"Mr. Williams," Mrs. Dawn nodded to him.

Mrs. Dawn.

"Tom has been learning very well lately," the lady said, putting down her teacup.

"My husband and I are very satisfied."

"Tom is very clever; I just used the right method," Richard replied politely.

"Um."

Mrs. Dawn's gaze lingered on his face for a moment.

I read your essay a few days ago.

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

"What do you think?"

"It's very well written." The lady's tone revealed nothing else.

"My husband read it too, and he even wrote a letter to the editor-in-chief."

"Thank you, Mr. Dawn."

"However, some gentlemen find it rather uncomfortable to read."

Richard did not respond.

"A few days ago, our family hosted a dinner party, and there were several business owners from the western suburbs present."

Mrs. Dawn spoke slowly.

"They mentioned your name."

Richard wasn't too surprised.

"...What was mentioned?"

"Nothing specific," Mrs. Dawn replied.

"They just asked, 'Which family does that Greenwood kid belong to?'"

"I said, he's the grandson of that Ashford patriarch."

They said "Oh" and didn't ask any more questions.

Richard understood.

"……thank you."

"Richard," Mrs. Dawn suddenly changed her form of address, "I want to say something to you."

Richard was somewhat surprised.

"...What are you doing here?"

"If you want to write, then keep writing, one piece after another."

Mrs. Dawn put down her teacup.

"Several gentlemen remember your name; they can remember it."

But they also remember the chill that ran down the back of the neck for thousands of readers.

You are only a "signboard" when both sides remember you.

When you only remember one side, you become "a target."

"...What do you mean?"

"Either stop completely, or keep writing."

"Taking a break in the middle is the most dangerous thing."

Richard never expected Mrs. Dawn to say such a thing.

Mrs. Dawn smiled and said, "Go and teach Tom."

………………

On Monday, Richard began processing the box for the second time.

Lingrong had just recovered some of her youthful appearance.

Lillian had a regular elective class that day, which she wouldn't skip.

This time, Richard's ether push notifications were much more precise.

The crack was controlled to be within the width of a hair.

[Available Points] Climb to 1.53.

[Lingrong] only dropped to 4, slightly less than last time.

On Friday, he opened the box again, and the few "whispers" that escaped from it this time indicated a stronger struggle.

Those whispers, though extremely faint, were nothing like the lingering remnants of the "contrast curse" in the bronze mirror.

The words in the bronze mirror are cut off, and after hundreds of years of wear, even the emotions have been worn away.

The sounds emanating from the box are alive, carrying emotions and direction.

The first things we heard were these:

"Who is it...?"

"It's so cold here..."

"Come closer..."

"...Let me see you..."

The voice was very soft, and the tone was gentle.

It sounds like someone who has been imprisoned for so long that even malice has been worn down into pleading.

Richard did not respond.

[博闻] Immediately, several corresponding points came to mind.

Common bait tactics; almost all bindings that rely on "contact" to work use this approach in the first phase.

First gain sympathy, then ask to get closer, then lay the bait.

He didn't get any closer.

He maintained that silent vacuum, letting those few words drift out and dissipate on their own within the vacuum.

He waited until the last day of March to deal with the box for the fourth time.

[Spirit Countenance] is full again; this will be the last time I deal with the box.

Lillian was going to the vicinity of the old train station to the north that day.

She said that sparrows have been getting killed on the newly installed steel frames in that area recently.

But Li sensed that the girl had probably figured something out and was deliberately finding excuses to give herself some private space.

He still entered the house on time, locked the door, and left it empty.

This time, the crack had barely opened when the voice from inside the box came to them.

"...You're here again."

His voice sounded a bit more energetic than last time.

"...I know you can hear me."

"...I can feel your thread."

line.

[博闻] Immediately recall the core terminology of the web-weaving tradition. In that vocabulary, "thread" specifically refers to the traces of fate cast by the human body on the other side of the curtain.

For a person to live, he is a thread on the other side of the curtain.

All the roads I've traveled, the things I've owed, the people I've loved, and the debts I need to repay are woven into this thread.

Richard felt a chill run down his spine.

It peered out from the other side of the curtain through the hair-thin slit he had pried open, looking in both directions.

It hasn't gone very far; what we can see right now is probably just the part sticking out of the crevice.

But the fact that it can see the "line" means that it doesn't need to get any closer.

As long as his ether touches the headbox, it can reach his wire.

Richard maintained the vacuum, waiting for that last wisp of words to drift away.

The vacuum suppressed the ether, and Richard's own microcirculation was barely audible in the vacuum.

The voice sighed again.

"...They won't come over."

The voice inside the box was quiet for a moment, then began to offer temptations.

"...Just one strand will do."

"One strand is enough."

"With a thread this thick, you wouldn't even feel like you're missing a single strand..."

"...I'll give you a reward."

Richard's breathing softened when he heard the word "report".

"...You want power, I have it."

"...You want someone to stay by your side forever, and that's what I want too."

"...If you want that girl named Lillian, I can tie a knot for you..."

Richard's temples throbbed.

This thing actually read Lillian's name.

[Analysis] Immediately break this matter down for him, layer by layer:

From the crack he pried open, it only read a section of its own thread.

What it reads are the most recent entanglements of this thread.

Lillian's name came up at this time because of the house, the key, and every afternoon Richard had visited over the past few weeks.

Richard neither moved nor made a sound.

He silently increased his absorption rate, and there wasn't much residue left inside.

Seeing that he didn't react, the voice from inside the box emitted another wisp of sound:

"...I don't want this, something else is fine with me."

"I can tie many kinds of knots for you..."

The voice stopped abruptly at that point.

Richard steadily and thoroughly squeezed out all the ether that could seep from his body.

This time, he left not a single thing behind.

Available points: 2.02

Hard work pays off; this thing contributed about 1.3, almost matching the Sphinx lamp back then.

………………

The section of red brick wall in Coleman's backyard had become soft from the dampness of spring.

A few clumps of thatch roots sprouted from the cracks in the bricks, their fuzzy tips tilting towards the north sun.

Richard placed the long box of silver needles on the lid of the water tank and watched as he rolled up his sleeves above his elbows.

Richard's psychic vision was attached to it early on.

【Moon Nail - Reflection】This stitch pushed the broken path back up a lot more.

The stimulus was caught by the circuit, and a warm current flowed back towards the break point.

Richard noticed that the scar, which had been frozen for over three years, was spreading outwards again.

"...It's grown even longer than last time." Coleman examined the section of his hand from all angles.

Richard mentally circled his conjecture about "indirect repair."

It's no longer a guess.

"...How is it?" Coleman stared at him.

"Um."

"Just one, huh?"

"Don't get too cocky." Richard locked the long box.

"The price increases rapidly at first, but will gradually slow down later."

The break point itself is like an old scar; the outer layer of skin grows back first, but the bottom layer is the hardest to heal.

"I know," Coleman rolled up his cuffs, "but as long as it grows, I'll..."

He looked toward the Collie lying in the backyard, sunbathing by the water tank.

The dog had glossy fur and a bulging belly; it didn't even bother to look up when Richard came.

Coleman glanced toward the Collie.

"It ate a spoonful of oat pudding this morning."

"...Oatmeal pudding?"

"My mom made it."

"And you?"

Oatmeal porridge.

Richard couldn't help but laugh.

Coleman chuckled, but it sounded a bit bitter.

"Don't forget to treat me to a meal once I'm cured."

"I know, I'm definitely going to have a big meal."

"Um."

"What about the Collie?"

"It goes with us too," Coleman said seriously. "To eat the bones we spit out."

………………

April arrived, and the rain came and went.

The rainy season on the main island of the empire always arrives somewhat unexpectedly.

The day before, the northwest wind was dry and cold, but when I woke up early the next morning, the streets were all wet.

When his mother saw him off in the morning, she said to him:

"Richard, you'll be on holiday in two days."

You've been running around too much lately, so sleep in a little longer during your holiday.

He answered with an "Mm".

Mother said again:

"Your sister asked me yesterday, 'Brother, are you going to Beijing in two months?'"

"...Mom, what did you answer?"

I said, "Whether he goes to the capital or not is up to him."

The mother was standing at the door of the house.

"But then she asked me another question."

"...What?"

She asked, "Brother went to the capital, will he come back?"

Richard did not answer.

His mother didn't ask him for an answer at that time.

She pulled her son's collar up a little, then smoothed it down.

"Hurry up and go to school, don't be late."

The vast majority of students will have to be streamed at the end of this semester.

Those who want to attend the preparatory course will continue to strive in the last semester, aiming for universities in Beijing or the north.

Those who didn't finish their studies either went to technical colleges to study drafting and mechanics, or were taken by their families to sign apprenticeship contracts.

Hugh's father was a post office dispatcher, and he himself wanted to learn drawing;

The Warrens were a coal mining association, and that road had been laid out before him from the day he was born;

Mason's brother got a job as a foreman in a textile factory, and he guessed he would end up in the same place.

As for Grey... Richard didn't think about Grey.

"And you?" Warren reached out and nudged Richard's elbow.

"I?"

Where are you going?

Richard lowered his eyes and twirled the pencil halfway around on the table.

"I'm still filling out the application forms. I have to apply to several universities in Beijing."

Hugh leaned closer: "The one on your report card, old West said, was in the top tier during his twenty years of teaching at Greenwood."

"Good luck."

"Tch, you got all the luck."

Warren slammed his textbook shut: "Leave us a bite to eat."

"Let me eat first."

A few more laughs broke out in the classroom, the atmosphere becoming somewhat strained despite its relaxed tone.

Richard looked out the window.

Rainwater streamed down the window frame, and in the distance, chimneys billowed black smoke.

He read on the faces of this group of teenagers that there was none of the excitement and trepidation that should be present in a seventeen or eighteen-year-old.

More than anything, it's a kind of quiet acceptance that comes from having already seen through the next twenty years of one's life.

Children from small industrial towns have their forties predicted for them even in their youth:

The son of a post office dispatcher will most likely go into a related industry.

The son of the chairman of the coal mining association will most likely go to work in a coal mine.

The younger brother of the textile factory foreman will most likely go to the textile factory.

Even at a private school like Greenwood, the number of students who can truly break out of this established pattern is never enough to fill a table in each graduating class.

Richard was one of those people at that table.