I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard stared intently with his spiritual vision.

The shadow chose the sparsest group of small fragments and walked towards them.

The first shard grazed the shadow's left shoulder.

A barely visible burr immediately appeared on the left shoulder edge of the shadow.

The second shard grazed the shadow's right arm.

The third and fourth shadows passed through the group of tiny fragments.

Its entire outline, left shoulder, right arm, waist, knees... those areas were all covered in hair.

But the shadow remained firmly in place, undiminished.

Richard felt certain.

He immediately performed a breathing healing on the shadow.

The warm ethereal energy seeped into the shadow along the connecting line between the two realms.

The burrs on the edges were ironed out one by one, making them even neater than before.

The shadow moved further in from the edge of the shallows.

After walking for a while, my posture became a bit strange, and I couldn't stand steadily, swaying from side to side.

But they were holding up, and Richard felt more confident.

The first two training methods are effective and the improvement in training effect compared to the original methods is clearly visible.

As for swallowing the light, Richard decided to postpone it for a while.

After giving the command to his shadow to train independently, he began to read the book "Tide Breathing".

Richard followed the diagrams in the book and readjusted his breathing.

His first breath was shorter than a quadruple breath, and his breath-holding was much shorter than a quadruple breath.

The second breath... started to feel off.

As he took the second breath, his entire chest cavity trembled from the inside out.

The main pathway was disrupted from within by the rhythm of the new breath.

Richard felt a tightness in his chest, like he had a stitch in his side while running.

With his third breath, he slowed down, and the vibrations in the main circuit subsided.

Richard roughly understood, and sat in the chair, adjusting to about ten complete breathing cycles.

The jolt in my chest gradually subsided.

Richard stopped breathing heavily and leaned back in his chair.

Within half an hour, I felt uncomfortable all over.

He braced himself against the back of the chair and gasped for breath for a while before he finally calmed down.

………………

The next day, after breakfast, Richard arrived at the lobby of the Royal Hotel.

There weren't many people in the lobby.

The red carpet had just been wiped clean, and the tips were still damp; it would feel soft and collapse when you stepped on it.

A receptionist wearing gold-rimmed glasses looked up at him, then looked down again to organize the registration book.

He walked toward the restaurant on the west side of the lobby.

"Have you had breakfast, sir?"

Behind the restaurant counter stood a waiter with a small brass badge pinned to his chest with his name engraved on it.

He was in his early forties, but his back was ramrod straight.

"I'd like to pack one meal to take away."

"Yes, sir, what would you like to bring?"

"One serving of Madagascar vanilla pod caramel pudding."

The waiter nodded but did not immediately give instructions to the kitchen.

"How far are you going to take it?"

"Bristol, 10 a.m. train."

The waiter took a jar from under the counter.

It is cylindrical with glass walls so thick that they reflect images, and the lid is fitted with a cork pad.

The can is printed with the hotel's griffin emblem, with a gold-stamped label below it:

By royal appointment.

"This is indeed the model used by the royal family," the waiter explained with pride.

"It started in 1862, back when the hotel's original owners were still around."

Richard didn't care about that; the so-called royal warrant was just a way for businesses to inflate their prices.

How long can it preserve food?

"Eight hours at room temperature." The waiter gestured towards the seal of the jar.

"The lid has a cork pad inside, which absorbs moisture and prevents the aroma from changing. We can't guarantee it after eight hours."

"How much?"

"The jar is three shillings and sixpence, and the pudding itself is one shilling and twopence."

Richard smiled.

"The jar is so much more expensive than the pudding."

The waiter corrected him expressionlessly.

"Sir, the jar will last a long time, and you'll finish the pudding in one meal."

Richard nodded and didn't try to haggle with anyone at the restaurant entrance.

He took a Sovereign gold coin directly from his inner pocket and placed it on the counter.

The waiter put away the gold coins and sent someone to the kitchen to fetch pudding.

While waiting, he took a piece of kraft paper from under the counter and lined the jar with it.

The pudding was served on a small silver plate.

The caramel-colored surface is smooth and even, with a small tuft of whipped cream on top that stands upright, clearly indicating that it was freshly made.

The waiter held a silver spoon and slowly poured the pudding into the glass jar.

He carefully scooped the last pinch of cream into the center of the jar with the tip of a spoon.

Put the lid on, screw it on tightly, and the cork pad makes a very soft "pop" sound.

"Don't sway too much on the road." He counted out the change and handed it over: "The butter flower will collapse."

"Thanks."

Have a safe journey.

Richard carried the jar out of the lobby, imagining Evelyn's expression when she opened the lid.

She might scream first, then squint and smile like a little glutton.

My sister's smile is worth the price.

………………

The waiting hall of Beijing Central Station was packed with people.

Passengers carrying suitcases, clerks in black wool suits, and an elderly couple holding hands while waiting for their train.

The newsboy held today's "Beijing Morning Post" high, shouting the headline of the front page.

There was trouble on Heimers Island again last night, but the newspapers didn't dare report the truth, only saying that "the situation in the South remains to be seen."

Richard walked to the ticket window and joined the queue.

Ahead of us was a woman with three children, haggling with the ticket seller.

Whether the youngest child counts as half a vote depends on their height.

The woman insisted that her son was still an inch short of the half-price ticket line, so the ticket seller told her to go to the other end of the platform and measure it under the ruler.

The line moved around.

When it was his turn, Richard handed in his admission documents from Imperial University and his identification.

The railway company has an old rule.

With admission documents from the five major universities in the capital (Capital University, Royal Academy, Trinity College, Capital Institute of Political Economy, and Capital Medical College), the cost of a second-class seat is waived.

It is said to be the dying wish of a railway company director: "to make train travel affordable for scholars."

In reality, it was just a respectable public relations tactic by the railway company.

Only a few dozen students use it each year, so the cost is negligible, but the reputation and benefits are significant.

But Richard was the one who benefited from this discount, which improved his opinion of the railway company considerably.

The ticket seller was a middle-aged man with a mustache. He took the document, glanced at it, and hesitated for a second.

"Imperial Capital University." He looked up at Richard. "The Department of Classics?"

"Yes."

"To Briston?"

"Yes."

The ticket seller turned to the last page of the document and looked at the stamp at the end.

He bent down, took out a second-class train ticket from the drawer, and stamped it with a snap.

"Second class seat, free of charge."

"Congratulations, young man."

"Thank you." Richard put the ticket into his inner pocket and walked away.

A middle-aged man in line behind him approached the ticket window.

"Was that young man a student who got in for free?"

"He is from the Department of Classics at Imperial University."

"Ha!" The man clicked his tongue under his hat. "You only see a handful like this a year."

"Classical studies is the hardest to pass," the ticket seller replied while collecting money.

"This year, the Department of Classical Studies at Imperial University admitted fewer than forty students, and the number of students from the north could be counted on one hand."

(Besides special classes, a small number of students are also admitted to regular classes.)

The man paid and walked deeper into the waiting hall, glancing back at Richard along the way.

Once in the car, Richard walked to his seat.

Across from me sat a middle-aged man in a gray coat, wearing pince-nez glasses, with today's evening paper spread out in his hand.

Beside him stood an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard, and he smelled of cigars mixed with cologne.

Richard arranged the suitcases on the luggage rack and placed the glass jar steadily on his lap.

He pulled out the book list his aunt had given him from his schoolbag and pondered his reading plan after the fall semester started.

The train whistle blew once.

The train swayed slightly and slowly slid off the platform.

The man in the gray coat peered over from above the newspaper.

What he saw was the glass jar on Richard's lap, mainly the griffin emblem on the jar.

"Young man, have you dined at the Royal Hotel?"

I bought a pudding to take home.

The man in the gray coat moved his pince-nez glasses further down his nose.

"The Royal Hotel's chef was poached from Westminster Club, so his skills are bound to be excellent."

Richard politely agreed and buried himself back in the book list.

The white-bearded gentleman's gaze fell on the book list.

He squinted at the lines of Latin and ancient Greek titles for a while.

"Reading?"

"Yes, sir."

Which school should I attend?

"Preparatory course for the Department of Classical Studies at Imperial Capital University."

Upon hearing the name Imperial Capital University, the white-bearded gentleman's expression changed instantly.

He looked Richard up and down.

Young, very young, holding serious knowledge in his hands, with a container from the Royal Hotel resting on his lap.

The fabric for the cuffs is simply cut, without a trace of nouveau riche ostentation.

"That's impressive," he said sincerely. "Seeing you're on this train, are you going north?"

My home is in Briston.

The white-bearded gentleman nodded: "I know, the mines, textiles, and ironware there are quite famous."

"Yes."

"It's truly remarkable that a kid from that place could get into the Classics Department of the Imperial University."

The man in the gray coat then put down his newspaper and joined the conversation seriously.

"My nephew took the exam three times the year before last but failed each time." He shook his head.

"The threshold of university cannot be crossed by money."

Richard smiled slightly but didn't reply.

"How old are you this year?" the white-bearded gentleman asked.

"Seventeen."

The white-bearded gentleman did some mental calculations and then clicked his tongue.

"A 17-year-old prep student, the Cicero Cup... Did you go last year?"

Richard's pen paused briefly on the corner of the book list.

"I've gone."

"Last year's first place winner was apparently a student from Eton College, from the Montagu family."

"Yes."

"Who came in second place again?" The white-bearded gentleman slapped his forehead.

"I can never remember names."

Richard politely replied.

"From Greenwood High School."

"Oh, yes, yes."

The white-bearded gentleman's gaze lingered on Richard's face for a moment.

The man in the gray coat put down his newspaper and looked over.

"Young man, what's your name?"