I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Grey sat to Richard's left, and today she was having roasted chicken legs with salad.

She didn't join the discussion at all, and just ate her meal quietly.

She saw what happened during PE class; in fact, almost everyone on the girls' side of the field saw it.

Richard took a few steps out of his position, and she could see it more clearly from another angle.

Clean and efficient, without hesitation, the timing was as precise as if it had been calculated in advance.

A month ago, no one noticed Richard Williams.

I was the first one; it started that afternoon when Richard was explaining scientific principles to them.

It's hard to describe the feeling of caring about someone.

Saying they were instantly smitten is an exaggeration; they barely exchanged a few words.

It's more like... finding a slightly different color among a pile of gray pebbles.

When I picked it up and held it up to the light, I could see something faintly shimmering inside.

At that moment, it belonged only to you, because no one else noticed it except you.

Then, gradually, more and more people began to notice the light emanating from the stone.

Mr. Hutton praised him in class, Mr. Holland recommended him to participate in the Cicero Cup, and Warren began to actively try to win him over.

With each additional person who notices, her sense of possessiveness—that she "saw it first"—is diluted a little.

Grey knew this feeling wasn't something to be proud of.

It's not his own anyway, so what difference does it make whether he finds it first or later?

But knowing is one thing, emotions don't always follow reason.

What happened in PE class today pushed this feeling a step further.

The whole restaurant was talking about Richard; everyone was discussing him, even the younger girls were asking, "Which Williams is he?"

His own gem was laid bare in broad daylight, so that everyone could see it sparkling.

Grey put the last piece of chicken leg into her mouth and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

She stood up and took her tray to the recycling bin.

As the girl passed behind Richard, she seemed to casually ask:

"Williams, do you want the scones from last time?"

"I'll bake a little extra this time so you can take some back and share with your family."

Richard looked into the girl's blue eyes and accepted her kindness: "Okay... thank you, Grey."

"Um."

she left.

Warren watched Grey's figure disappear into the recycling window, then turned back and pointed at Richard with his fork:

"If I hadn't kicked the ball wide, you wouldn't have had the chance to be the hero and save the day!"

"Is it a classic case of a hero rescuing a damsel in distress?" Mason thought about it seriously.

"To be precise, Richard cleaned up your mess; you almost hurt that girl."

"My foot slipped!"

"Yes, yes, you slipped. To still kick that far despite slipping, you're even better than Stanfield."

Warren glared at Mason, who shrank back.

Hugh moved a chair over from the next table; his left leg was still slightly lame, and his knee was wrapped in a bandage.

He placed the plate on the corner of the table and took a piece of bread from the plate.

"What are you talking about?"

"Let's talk about Richard playing football."

"Oh, that." Hugh took a bite of bread, chewed it twice, and swallowed it.

"I saw the whole thing from the sidelines, and to be honest... it was pretty cool."

He turned to Richard, his expression a mixture of sighing and bitterness.

"When did you start becoming like this? Didn't we used to hang out together in the corner?"

"Actually, you look quite handsome rubbing your knees," Richard comforted her.

"Thank you, but I'm not comforted at all."

A corner seat in the restaurant, by the window.

Lillian had finished lunch. She was holding her notebook down with her left hand and writing something with a pencil in her right.

The pen tip moves slowly across the paper, occasionally pausing before continuing to write.

After writing a few lines, the pencil was lifted off the paper.

She tapped her lower lip lightly with the end of her pen, her gaze fixed on a spot in the notebook, as if examining the words she had just written.

A few seconds later, she reached out and tore the page from the notebook.

The paper was folded once, then folded again, and finally crumpled into a ball by fingertips.

The crumpled paper was stuffed into the right pocket of the school uniform.

Lillian closed her notebook and took a sip of water from her teacup.

When the cup was put down, the ripples on the tea surface were still gently swaying.

Her gaze swept across half the restaurant, passing through the gaps between people's heads.

She glanced at someone only once before looking away and continuing to drink her tea.

………………

Since then, Lillian Hayward has been appearing on the second floor of the library more frequently.

She used to only go to the third floor.

She spent countless afternoons squatting in front of that special bookshelf, probably turning more pages than she had spoken with her classmates.

The second floor is another world.

The school has good lighting, neat desks and chairs, and students often gather there during lunch break and after school.

Lillian rarely stayed here in the past, finding it too noisy.

But recently she has started sitting by the window in the second-floor study area for a while.

That spot was diagonally opposite the stairwell, and if you looked up from your seat, you could see people going up or down the stairs.

Richard would occasionally do his homework on the second floor.

The copy of "From the Temple to the Pulpit" he was carrying was too thick to carry around easily, so he simply locked it in a storage compartment in the library and would come here to flip through a few pages whenever he had a spare moment.

There was no real conversation between the two.

If they bump into each other, they'll exchange a glance and nod.

Richard continued flipping through his book, while Lillian continued writing in her notes.

Occasionally, their eyes would meet at the same moment, and they would look away, much like strangers making eye contact on a tram.

On Thursday afternoon, only five or six people remained in the second-floor study area.

Richard was flipping through a reference book at the second table by the window, while his right hand was writing down etymological facts in his notebook.

He wrote for about twenty minutes, then his hand got tired, so he put down the pen and moved his fingers.

When I looked up, I realized that Lillian, who was diagonally opposite me, had already left.

The chair was pushed back under the table, and the tabletop was wiped very clean.

But there was a small note folded twice on the upper left corner of his desk, and he didn't know when it had been placed there.

The paper strips were made of regular notebook paper, with neatly torn edges.

There was only one line of Latin text above, the characters small and dense, each letter neatly placed in its proper place:

"Qui audet adipiscitur. (He who dares will win.)"

This is a famous proverb, and it sounds like it's meant to cheer him on in the competition, but Richard thought of something else while holding the note.

He and Lillian both took books from that row of bookshelves on the third floor of the library.

The two never exchanged a single word on this matter.

But that encounter at the stairwell corner, the badly worn old book in her arms, Mr. Hutton's refusal to reveal any information about her...

When these clues are put together, "Qui audet adipiscitur" takes on another layer of meaning.

Only those who dare to step onto the edge of the curtain can obtain what lies behind it.

Was she talking about the game, or something else?

Richard tucked the note into his notebook and continued doing his homework.

Sometimes, receiving a signal is enough; replying is unnecessary.