I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard finished class at the Petrie Building and took a carriage back to his mansion; it was already getting dark.

There are advantages to having an empty house.

There is no better place to practice techniques than an empty house.

He took out the Silent Fern spores that Demeter had given him.

It was completely dry, and felt slightly cool to the touch.

There were two steel pipes on the table.

The steel pipe originally contained multi-eyed black moss with fog bells.

The fog bells were an alternative introduced by Nemesis, but they were far less effective.

Richard used this method to practice his silence to this day, but he's still stuck on the point of being able to "use it".

They managed to create a vacuum through the steel pipe, but that was all.

It's different now.

He replaced the ferns with a tuft of silent ferns and laid out the three pages of advanced spell formulas that Lady Mary had written down on that night of her psychic encounter in his mind.

Genuine spellcasting medium, complete with a fully functional operating circuit.

Richard held the steel pipe in his palm, breathing in the humid air.

Inhale and let it stretch like a long slope; exhale and let it recede like a short wave.

The ether in my chest receded on its own and then overflowed.

A wisp of ether traveled down the inside of his right arm and into the palm of his hand holding the steel pipe.

Ether permeated the steel pipe, activating the forage.

The next moment, a vacuum was expelled from the steel pipe.

Richard felt a chill run down his spine.

The vacuum produced by genuine Silent Fern is more than twice as strong as that of Fog Bell.

Just as his own ether was rising upwards, a portion of it was forcibly drawn away by this vacuum.

It was all taken away in one go, without being replenished in time.

Richard grunted and stopped.

My chest was in chaos, and I lost track of the ebb and flow of emotions.

My throat tightened, and my temples throbbed.

It took him a while to calm down and straighten out his pent-up anger.

It's incredibly powerful.

But half of that power was directed at the enemy, while the other half backfired on the user.

Richard remained seated, mentally reviewing what had just happened.

[Analysis] The core problem was quickly identified, mainly stemming from the issue of "spitting out".

He vomited so quickly that his ether was still rising upwards when a portion of it was drawn away by the vacuum.

If prices don't rise, then naturally they will fall.

Tidal breathing has its benefits; as the ether adjusts its own frequency with each breath, what he needs to do is to lock onto that point.

Just as the ether reaches its peak and is about to retreat, it uses this retreat to expel the vacuum.

Once you understand the theory, you still need to practice.

Richard pushed the ether into the steel pipe, this time without immediately spitting it out.

First, focus on the ethereal tide rising in your chest cavity, surging...surging to its peak...

Just as Ether was about to retreat, he expelled the vacuum.

The vacuum was gone, and there was no longer any emptiness in the chest area.

Richard took a breath and tried a few more times.

It's getting more and more stable each time.

When he exhaled that vacuum, his ether remained perfectly undisturbed.

The tides rise and fall as usual.

………………

In September, Phillips planned to sneak back to Imperial College and called Richard in advance to tell him to wait.

Richard stood under the tree, and the first thing he heard was a sound.

A sudden, rumbling sound came from the alley behind the Petrie Building, panting heavily and startling all the sparrows in the sycamore trees into flight.

A convertible car drove in, wobbling and twisting.

The brass headlights shone brightly in the autumn sun, and a trail of black smoke trailed behind the exhaust pipe.

After the car came to a complete stop, the engine shook twice before finally turning off.

Phillips jumped out of the driver's seat, took off his goggles, and his hair stood on end in the wind.

"My dad's car." He patted the scorching hot hood.

"I went to the countryside to hunt grouse last month and drove here on my way back."

The engine stalled three times along the way. I had to push it down the hill west of the city for a while, and I was panting heavily from exhaustion.

"Doesn't the Royal Academy offer shuttle service?"

"There's no car here." Phillips bent down and pulled a wicker basket from the back seat.

"Those old men are eager for us to walk, saying that walking tempers our temper."

He sat down on a patch of dry grass in the shade of a tree and opened his basket.

There was only a teapot and two cups inside.

Richard looked at the pot.

It's hard to say which master craftsman it was made of; the glaze is dark, and there's a small chip on the spout, so it looks quite old.

"Newly purchased?"

"An old acquaintance." Phillips placed the jug on the grass. "I've been using it for seven or eight years."

He neither put tea leaves in the pot nor poured water.

He ran his fingers over the teapot, then lifted it and tilted it towards the cup.

A stream of amber-colored tea soup flowed out, steaming hot.

Richard's clairvoyance had been activated for a long time.

He saw clearly that the teapot had recognized Phillips as its owner and was continuously leaking tea.

"You signed your name."

"It'll only be a matter of the last few months," Phillips said, pushing the poured glass towards him. "We'll use this pot."

Richard picked it up and took a sip.

It's Darjeeling, even better than the Royal Hotel.

"The hunter is the knife, the hermit is the net."

Phillips poured himself a glass and held it to his nose to smell it.

"My turn is to be a teapot, with an inexhaustible supply of tea."

"What specific types of tea can you produce?"

"You can have anything you want." He took a sip.

"Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon... you could drink a different one every day for a lifetime."

Richard's eyes darted around as he heard this, intending to tease the guy.

"Darjeeling tastes bland, I'd like a honey grapefruit tea."

Phillips's hand, holding the glass, froze in mid-air.

"Honey grapefruit tea!" He glanced at me sideways, his face showing the look of someone looking at a traitor.

"Williams, I misjudged you."

Such a fine teapot, when it reaches your lips, produces that cloyingly sweet taste in the water.

"What's wrong? Can't you get out?"

"We can get out, we can get out."

Phillips slammed the empty cup onto the grass, too lazy to argue with him.

"I'm not going to argue with someone as tasteless as you."

He picked up the pot again and poured the contents into the cup.

The tea soup that flowed out was a bit lighter in color, with a pale yellow tinge.

A sweet aroma wafted out, the tartness of the pomelo balanced with honey, and the tea flavor supporting it from the bottom.

Richard picked it up and took a bite with some skepticism.

It's truly honey grapefruit tea, with the sweetness perfectly balanced—sweet but not cloying.

"..." He stared at the old teapot with its chipped spout for a long time: "It actually came out."

"Why would I lie to you?" Phillips changed his clothes back to Darjeeling, looking disgusted.

"Hot or cold, strong or weak, it produces whatever you think of. I haven't figured out the limits yet."

Richard held the cup of grapefruit tea, his mind racing.

"Phillips, you've got exactly what you want from this pot."

Richard stared at the pot: "So, can it only produce tea?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," Richard put the glass down, "can it dispense other liquids?"

Phillips was stumped and scratched his head.

"I haven't tried it, and I don't want to drink anything else."

"Think about it," Richard leaned closer.

"You can conjure up honey grapefruit tea out of thin air with this pot, and the heat and sugar ratio are just right."

It doesn't produce water; it produces a pre-mixed, flavored liquid.

"What if... it produces something that not only tastes good, but also has other effects?"

Phillips slowly lowered the teacup in his hand.

"You mean...?"

"What's the most lacking thing in our line of work?" Richard asked, looking at him.

"Deep ether condensate or high-concentration alchemy conversion solution, even a small bottle can fetch an astronomical price at auctions in the capital."

"It's scarce because of low production; there aren't many throughout the year."

"Your pot is constantly overflowing."

Richard tapped the pot with his fingertip: "Pot after pot, it's like we can never finish it."

Phillips' eyes slowly widened.

"You mean, if one day this pot of mine transforms to a certain extent... it will be able to produce more than just tea."

"It produces a beneficial liquid," Richard continued. "Stable and continuous."

Let's see the wealth of people one by one.

No one spoke for a moment on the grass, only the spout of the kettle was still steaming.

"That's..." Phillips swallowed hard. "It's incredibly useful."

"Others extract their etheric condensate drop by drop from deep within the veil, accumulating only a few bottles a year."

Richard nodded vigorously.

"If your pot can really produce anything, it'll be like opening a well that will never run dry."

"Pouring it out pot by pot." Phillips himself was startled by this idea.

"Those hunters on the front lines, desperate for their lives... they'll have to line up and beg me for help."

"Let's not talk about the front lines," Richard chuckled.

"Your own family will probably treat you like royalty."

Phillips held the old, chipped jug and examined it from all angles for a long time.

"However," he said, putting the pot back on the grass, deflated.

"Right now, all I can produce is tea. Your theory will have to wait until it evolves to that stage."

"Don't you just want to read books and drink tea all your life?" Richard joked.

"Things are different now." Phillips downed his Darjeeling in one gulp.

"Where else can I find such a good deal: making money while sipping tea?"

There was a glint in his eyes, unlike his usual lazy demeanor.

"I'll wait until this pot of mine produces something else someday."

Phillips looked at his tea friend.

"I'll keep the first bottle for you."

"It's settled." Richard picked up his grapefruit tea and clinked glasses with him.

The two of them, sitting over this old teapot with its chipped spout, chatted about their wild and whimsical ideas, which went further and further away.

Halfway through the conversation, Phillips suddenly remembered something.

"By the way, do you know Wilkinson? He's the one who rowes really well in the rowing competition."

"I don't remember."

"It's okay if you don't know him. I'm just telling you about this: he signed up for the army."

Phillips swirled the tea in his cup.

"He left just two days ago. Before he left, he made a bet with us that he would definitely come back before Christmas and would treat everyone to Islay whisky when he returned."

"Before Christmas..." Richard had a bad feeling.

"How long can they fight on the other side of the sea?" Phillips waved his hand.

"It's in the newspaper every day; it sounds intimidating."

"I'll fight until winter at most." He poured himself another glass.

"Once the primroses bloom in spring, Wilkinson should be back to pay off my gambling debts."

Richard did not respond.

He knew exactly how the Old World would be burned.

But he couldn't utter a single word of those things.

Just then, a young woman came looking for them along the path.

The girl was beautiful and wore a light gray aristocratic dress.

She walked over at a moderate pace, her chin slightly raised, suggesting she was a young lady from a prominent family.

Richard glanced at her.

Even those who have passed the initial screening are still hunters.

That meticulous manners and etiquette were probably deliberately displayed.

Phillips followed his gaze and turned to see the girl, nearly spilling the tea he had just poured.

"How did you find me?"

The girl ignored him and first bowed to Richard, lifting her skirt.

"Hello," she introduced herself, "I'm Phillips' fiancée."

Richard stood up and returned the greeting.

This must be the response from Phillips' family after he signed the teapot.

"Phillips," the girl said politely, turning to her fiancé.

"It's time to go back; your aunt is still waiting."

"I'm having tea with my friends."

Phillips sat down again on the grass, gathering his wicker basket in front of him: "Just a moment..."

The girl frowned and reached out to put her hand on his arm.

The next moment, Phillips was lifted up, and the tea in his cup spilled all over the floor.

Phillips's signature object was a teapot, and he himself was a scholar, so how could he possibly compete with a professional hunter?

"Hey, hey, I haven't put my cup away yet..."

"Excuse me, Mr. Williams."

The girl nodded to Richard again, her elegant steps unwavering, and led Phillips down the path.

Richard held the unfinished cup of grapefruit tea, not touching it.

These are family matters that outsiders shouldn't interfere with.

Phillips was dragged away, half-dragged and half-pulled.

Even after walking a long way, you could still hear his reluctant voice drifting back.

The convertible was still parked crookedly under the sycamore tree, its brass headlights on, unattended.

Richard sat back down on the grass and slowly finished his grapefruit tea.

This tea tastes better than the one my aunt makes herself. I'll ask Phillips to make some more for her and send it over to her later.

Speaking of which, I promised my mother before I left home that I would call home more often.

I've been busy with the start of the semester and researching that mask and those cursed artifacts, so I haven't made a phone call in about a week.

He got up and walked toward the public phone booth.

Richard gave his number and waited for the other end to connect.

The phone rang a few times, and someone picked up the receiver.

"Feed? Who is it?"

Sweet and soft, that's my younger sister's voice.

"It's me," Richard said.

"Brother!" The voice on the other end suddenly rose in volume: "You finally called back!"

"Yeah, I've been busy lately."

"What are you busy with?" Evelyn didn't wait for his answer and started talking to herself.

"I have so much to tell you!"

Richard leaned against the wooden partition of the cubicle, listening to his sister's rambling.

"Mrs. Wer's cat ran onto our windowsill a few days ago and ate a piece of almond tart that I had left to cool!"

I didn't even want to eat that piece! But it ate it all in just a few bites!

"That cat..." Richard remembered something and didn't finish his sentence.

"Mom told me not to be angry, saying the cat is being unreasonable, but that was a piece I specially saved!"

As she spoke, she veered off to other topics.

Dad hasn't been working overtime lately, and he comes home earlier.

My mother has been taking her medicine on time, and the lady next door taught her a new jam recipe.

A new pastry shop opened on Central Street, but it's not as good as hers.

One thing after another, all trivial matters.

Richard's expression softened as he listened to his sister's endless chatter about family matters.

Although I felt relieved, there was still something weighing on my mind.

"Hey? Brother, are you still listening?" Evelyn's voice pulled him back to reality.

"I'm listening," Richard said.

"I'll make that dessert I mentioned earlier for you when you get back. I promise it'll be delicious this time!"

"Okay." Richard smiled. "I'll be waiting."

"Then you must eat well at school," Evelyn's voice softened. "Don't lose weight again."

"understood."

After hanging up the phone, Richard walked out of the cubicle.

The sky was dusky, and he stood there for a while.