I loaded the Mysticism panel.

He first brought out a stone sculpture.

It is about the size of two adult fists, made of gray-black stone, with rough and powerful carving.

The design is that of a crouching gargoyle.

Its wings were half-open and pressed against the sides of its back, its head stretched forward, and its mouth wide open.

The mouth has a unique shape, with the gap between the upper and lower fangs deliberately carved into a hollow tube, as if the gargoyle is breathing in some direction.

The base is square, with different symbols engraved on each of the four sides.

Richard recognized it at first glance; the way the symbols were engraved was different from the priestly inscriptions of the Black Earth River basin.

The strokes are more rounded, and there are connecting strokes between the lines, which is the ancient inscription system native to the Western Continent.

Gerald placed the gargoyle on the writing desk, the stone base hitting the table with a dull thud.

Richard took two steps closer, but the panel did not react at all.

It was dead, and as clean as the other items in the study... No, that's not right.

The bronze sculptures and silver candlesticks in the study remain untouched because there is no staining or sediment inside.

Gargoyles are different.

As he approached, the warm, slightly trembling object in the Sun Throne on his chest gave him a warning; his internal energy told him that there was something inside this stone.

But the panel remained unresponsive.

There is only one explanation: the seal is too tight, the ether is locked so tightly that not even the slightest amount can seep in.

Gerald stood beside the writing desk, watching the subtle changes in his grandson's expression as he approached the gargoyle.

"Can you feel something inside?"

Richard nodded.

Gerald extended his right hand from behind his back, placing his fingertips on the gargoyle's head.

The inscription on the gargoyle's base lit up, and the panel popped up.

Available points: 0.52

The seal was opened by a crack, and ether seeped outwards along that crack.

But the old man only twisted it halfway, leaving the other half there.

The cake that can't be finished is more valuable than the cake that can be swallowed in one bite; he was clearly doing it on purpose.

"Take this."

He removed his hand from the gargoyle's head.

"What's sealed inside?" Richard asked.

Gerald sat down in the chair next to the writing desk, crossing his legs.

"To be honest, I only know the general categories; I can't explain the specifics."

This statement sounded a bit strange, and Richard waited for further explanation.

"The job in the Old World is basically guarding the gate, watching this side of the curtain, and not letting the dirty stuff get out."

But the real front is in the New World, where the veil is thinnest.

The Ashford family has been doing this job for three generations. Our lineage is basically the hunter's way, direct confrontation, capture and disposal.

This approach is pragmatic, effective, and aligns with our functions.

"But this gargoyle doesn't belong to our family."

He gently touched the gargoyle's wing with his finger:

"What's sealed inside are the scholar's secret techniques."

"Scholars have a habit of writing important things down as inscriptions and engraving them into objects."

Richard approached, turned the gargoyle over to the bottom, and carefully examined the four sets of inscriptions.

The length, symbol arrangement, and writing density of each set of inscriptions are different.

"You'll have to figure out how to decipher the four-sided inscription yourself. Since you were able to finish digesting those steganographic texts in a month, this won't take too long either."

When Richard received the gargoyle, a question came to mind:

"According to what you said before, my aunt is also pursuing an academic career. Doesn't she need this?"

Gerald waved his hand: "Your aunt saw this thing ten years ago, but she couldn't use the secret techniques in it."

He tapped the gargoyle's wings with his knuckles:

"Moreover, the line she followed was not the same branch as what was carved here."

To her, it was just an old textbook from someone else's subject, gathering dust on the bookshelf.

"But it's perfect for someone like you who's just starting out."

The old man leaned back in his chair.

"You want to go into academia. I'm not familiar with the rules there, but I do know one thing... They look down on you when you give them the answers."

He continued to explain:

"Actually, our lineage has the most resources and inheritance related to hunters. We can take you all the way to the minor proficiency stage. Of course, you still have to rely on yourself to complete the ceremony to advance to minor proficiency."

"Unfortunately, the best starting point for the path of burning blood is thirteen years old. Fourteen years old is a threshold. After that age, the body's plasticity is much less."

"Sixteen isn't a bad age to start, but..." He looked at Richard's slender figure and couldn't help but frown:

"Your foundation isn't very good."

The old man placed his hands on the table.

"Getting back to the main point, the academic path has its advantages: independence, freedom, and less constraint."

"But as for promotions and related resources, you'll have to work your way up step by step on your own."

Richard didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

"They'll give you an evaluation system, a group of like-minded people, and a door that will only open when you reach a certain level."

"Before that, you have to find rare items yourself, gather resources yourself, and figure out the source of all kinds of materials from scratch."

He could understand the other person's subtext, but he didn't rush to express his opinion on the spot:

"Grandfather, you said you could provide support, but what exactly is that support?"

Gerrard glanced at him and smiled.

"They can provide guidance on information and direction, and also make introductions in terms of connections."

And when you reach a critical juncture, we are willing to endorse you.

"Understood." Richard nodded.

Gerald looked down at the crouching stone statue:

"I don't know the specifics of the path to becoming a scholar, but I do know one thing."

The farther scholars go, the more hunters and hermits rely on them.

They are the kind of people who can change the situation, not by throwing a punch, but by understanding things that others cannot.

He shifted his gaze from the gargoyle to Richard's face:

"This does not contradict the duties of a gatekeeper; on the contrary, it may go further than simply following the path of burning blood."

"Consider this the gargoyle as my personal compensation to you. Even if you don't choose to return to Ashford in the future, this thing is still yours, and no one will come to take it back."

Richard placed the gargoyle back on the writing desk, the rough texture of the stone still lingering in his palm.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Gerald nodded and then pulled a flat wooden box from the drawer.

The Ashford family crest—an oak tree and a standing lion—is engraved on the wooden box lid.

"This is for you too."

He pushed the wooden box onto the table, placing it next to the gargoyle.

"There are some things inside that you might need in the capital. Not many, but enough to get you by right now."

"After the Cicero Cup, you can stay here permanently if you wish. Ashford's door is always open to you."

As the conversation drew to a close, the fire in the stove was about to go out, and the temperature in the study was slowly dropping.

"Go and rest," Gerrard said. "Aren't you preparing for the Cicero Cup match?"

Richard, with the wooden box in one hand and the gargoyle in the other, said, "I'm going back to my room now."

"Go."

………………

Richard walked along the corridor toward the guest rooms, carrying two rather heavy items in his hands.

He looked down at the wooden box tucked under his arm and the gargoyle he was holding, feeling like a laborer carrying goods.

But to gain so much from just one conversation is a happy kind of trouble.

As I turned the corner, I could see my mother standing by the window at the end of the corridor in the distance.

The curtains were only partially drawn, and the moonlight illuminated the woman's pale profile.

Margaret wore the same old dress she had arrived in, with a thin cardigan over it, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Her posture was completely different from how she looked in the living room during the day.

During the day, she stands ramrod straight, her expression poised and aloof; every movement is the result of training since childhood.

Now that his shoulders are relaxed, he leans against the window frame, clearly having stood there for a long time.

She was waiting for her son.