I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Just as Hugh picked up the pencil, Mr. Holland walked into the classroom.

He was holding a paper tray with two fried chicken legs prominently displayed on it.

The golden-brown crispy crust was still glistening with oil, and the aroma of toasted breadcrumbs wafted from the entrance all the way to the first row.

The toilet and the cafeteria are in different directions, so he probably went there specifically to buy chicken legs and didn't actually go to the toilet.

Hugh stared at the two chicken legs, his eyes suddenly lighting up.

Mr. Holland placed the paper tray on the desks where the two students were sitting:

"I smelled it when I passed by the cafeteria and bought it on a whim."

He bought two chicken drumsticks on a whim, but he didn't get a single one for himself.

He pushed the paper tray toward the two students, sat down in the second row, and took out a handkerchief to wipe the oil off his fingers.

"I practiced all afternoon, and I can't walk without eating something."

Hugh didn't care about being polite anymore; he grabbed a chicken leg with both hands and took a big bite.

The outer skin is crispy, making a crunchy sound when you bite into it, and the meat juice bursts out between your teeth.

He chewed a couple of times, a look of almost pious satisfaction appearing on his face.

Compared to the chicken leg he just drew, the real thing is obviously more convincing.

Richard picked up another one and took a bite.

The three of them sat around the first row of desks, two students were eating chicken legs, and a teacher was sitting behind them wiping his hands.

The school motto plaque hanging above the podium, "Lux Rationis Semper Vincit," overlooks this scene.

It probably didn't expect that, under the light of reason, teachers and students would turn this place into a picnic spot.

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair and glanced at Hugh.

"Fenton, you look terrible."

With his mouth full of chicken leg meat, Hugh mumbled, "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Catching up on homework?"

"It's not homework..." Hugh chewed twice and swallowed the meat, a little embarrassed: "I'm listening to the game broadcast."

Which one?

"Stanfield's away game."

Mr. Holland's handkerchief stopped between his fingers.

"The one that was tied 2-2?"

Hugh looked up, breadcrumbs still clinging to the corners of his mouth.

"Sir, you listened to it too?"

"I didn't listen to the broadcast; I read it in the newspaper this morning."

Mr. Holland folded his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket, his triple chin folding over his collar.

"That shot in stoppage time, the one that hit the post and bounced out, was that McKinney kicking?"

"Yes! It's him!" Hugh's eyes lit up.

There's a shared understanding among city team fans that transcends age, often built on a foundation of mutual disappointment:

Year after year, we wait and wait, only to be sent home by the goalposts, by rebounds, or by fate at the most crucial moment.

But when the radio came on the next day, those who were supposed to be waiting by the side still were.

Richard, munching on his chicken leg, watched the interaction between the two in a daze.

Just over ten minutes ago, Mr. Holland was the strict teacher who dragged his chair around making noise and corrected pronunciation with a stern face.

Now he sits next to the student with his legs crossed, talking about the left goalpost and header rebounds, his triple chin trembling with the rhythm of his speech.

"Sir," Hugh suddenly looked up.

"Um?"

"Stanfield will play Bolton at home next Wednesday, kicking off at 7:30."

He took the pencil from behind his ear and twirled it between his fingers.

"Would you like to... listen to the broadcast together?"

Mr. Holland was somewhat surprised:

"Are you inviting your teacher to stay up all night to listen to the game?"

"Didn't you say you watched three seasons in a row without missing a single one...?"

"That was when I was young. Now I'm a middle-aged person who has to get up early for class."

As he passed by Hugh, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket: "Wipe your mouth, it's all greasy."

Hugh quickly wiped his face with his handkerchief, stood up, folded the handkerchief, and returned it.

"Keep it, it's dirty anyway."

Mr. Holland tucked the lesson plan under his arm.

"We'll continue at the same time tomorrow. The second excerpt of the speech is also ready; we have two versions."

He pushed open the door and walked out, but after taking two steps, he turned back:

Fenton.

"teacher!"

"Go to bed early tonight and don't listen to the broadcast. If you doze off in class again, I won't give you a good look."

The door closed.

Hugh stood there, looking down at the handkerchief.

Made of linen, with a cursive "H" embroidered in the corner, the stitches are fine and dense, and it hasn't pilled even after many washes.

It was an expensive handkerchief, and its owner had taken good care of it.

"He's such a nice guy," Hugh whispered.

"Of course." Richard tossed the chicken bone into the trash can.

"I always thought Mr. Holland was the kind of teacher who was very fierce."

"He wasn't mean to begin with. You were called on by him so many times in Latin class that you couldn't answer the questions, which gave you a psychological trauma."

"That's true." Hugh chuckled.

He carefully folded the handkerchief, put it in his pocket, patted it to make sure it was secure.

"I'll wash it properly when I get back. I just soak the oil stains in cold water and then scrub them with soap. My mom taught me that."

As the two walked towards the door carrying their schoolbags, Hugh's steps were noticeably lighter.

Richard.

"Um?"

"Aren't you tired of standing for so long? Didn't you used to get dizzy after standing for just ten minutes?"

"I've been exercising lately."

"You've changed a lot lately," Hugh sighed.

"His grades have improved, his reaction time is faster, and he can stand for forty minutes without getting dizzy... Could he have taken some kind of magic potion?"

"Eat well, sleep well."

"Then why is it useless even though I eat it every day?"

"You don't sleep properly."

"That's true." He admitted it readily.

As they reached the classroom door, Hugh suddenly spoke:

"When you went to the capital for the competition, I couldn't help much... but I'll treat you to your first meal when you come back."

"You're treating?"

"I've saved up my allowance for two weeks." He grinned, his bangs bobbing in front of his forehead.

"I'll treat you to a bowl of tomato oxtail soup."

"Okay, you treat me to the first meal, and I'll treat you to the second."

"You've arranged everything quite well."

………………

In the final week, Richard also went through all the remaining books on the third-floor bookshelf.

Each book was screened, each section deciphered, and the notes on the blank paper grew thicker and thicker.

Most of the steganographic content overlaps with previous books.

The same terminology and the same classification framework are used, but the wording and emphasis are different, with one or two details that were not mentioned before being added occasionally.

The real incremental information is concentrated in the two books.

Hidden within the text of a thin booklet are hand-drawn illustrations depicting several common lower-level seal structures.

Silver-based seals, copper-based seals, stone-carved seals, and wooden seals—each of these four mediums has its own applicable scenarios.

Silver is the most stable and suitable for long-term passive sealing.

Copper conducts ether with the highest efficiency, making it suitable for active sealing that requires frequent activation;

Stones have the largest capacity but are difficult to inscribe, and are mostly used for large-scale permanent seals;

Wood is the lightest but also the most fragile, and is only suitable for temporary emergencies.

The basic syntax of inscription symbols is also covered.

Square strokes represent constraints, while curved strokes represent guidance.

The essence of sealing inscriptions is to use geometric language to issue instructions to the etheric field: to lock things within a specific area, preventing them from entering or leaving.

The steganographic passages in another book are even more detailed, providing diagrams of three basic sealing structures, along with the types of evil objects suitable for each structure and their maintenance cycles.

Richard compared this information with the seal on the base of the Sphinx lamp.

A circle enclosing a triangle, with short lines extending from the three sides of the triangle.

The circle defines the scope, the triangle anchors the content, and the short line acts as a safety valve for releasing excess ether.

Standard structure, textbook-level standardized seal.

The designer is very professional; every symbol is in the correct position.

He could even determine roughly when and by what school of thought the seal was set up.

The direction of the short line's curve is consistent with the writing habits of the priests' inscriptions in the middle reaches of the Black Earth River, suggesting that it dates back to shortly after the oil lamp was cast.

Having reached this stage of theoretical analysis, the next question naturally arises: How do we open it?