I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Mr. Hutton has a class on Fridays.

The old gentleman taught his class as usual, stroked his pipe on the podium as usual, and left a half-word of guidance at some seemingly ordinary corner as usual.

Today we're talking about the resource allocation system in the early colonies of the New World, a purely administrative history, with absolutely no connection to what happens behind the scenes.

The bell rang, and the students packed their bags, preparing to rush out.

"Williams, wait a moment."

The familiar words made the last few people in the classroom quicken their pace and leave.

Mr. Hutton waited until the noise in the corridor had subsided before closing the lesson plan and placing it in the corner of the podium.

"Is the list included?"

"It's in."

"That's good."

The old man stood up from his chair, walked to the window, and pushed it open.

The window latch was rusted, and he had to use his strength to push it open. The cold wind outside, carrying the smell of coal ash, rushed in.

"Those on the recommended list will have the opportunity to participate in summer study programs jointly organized by prestigious universities in Beijing."

He pushed the window open another notch.

"You'll see how valuable that project is when you go there."

Richard put this news on his agenda.

Summer study programs are jointly organized by higher education institutions.

The Classical Society is an external organization of the academic system behind the scenes, so projects jointly run by higher education institutions are likely to lead to deeper levels.

Mr. Hutton, as usual, said nothing more and left the window half-open:

"Has the Cicero Cup prize money arrived yet?"

"I still need to go to the bank to withdraw it."

"Yes." The old man nodded. "As long as you have your own plan, that's fine."

Richard smiled.

Once the money arrived, it certainly wouldn't be spent recklessly; every penny had been put to use.

As he thought this, he asked a question that he had been curious about for a long time.

"Sir, do you know any practitioners of the Path of the Abyss?"

Mr. Hutton stopped twirling his pen: "Why are you suddenly asking this?"

"Curious, and... to be on the safe side," Richard said.

"Practitioners of the Abyss Path are not easy to identify," Mr. Hutton frowned.

"They do not emit etheric waves because their ether is not stored within their bodies, but flows continuously in the channel between them and the veil."

You can't sense ether in them, just as you can't sense the water that has already flowed away from a riverbed.

"Then how do we identify it?"

"Based on circumstantial evidence," Mr. Hutton said.

"Practitioners of the Abyss Path share some common behavioral patterns, which are not absolute but occur very frequently."

First, they have an extremely strong desire to control their personal space.

Their residences, offices, and personal belongings are all kept extremely organized.

"The reason is that practitioners of the Abyss Path have long been active on the edge of the veil, and the etheric field behind the veil is chaotic, disordered, and full of noise."

In order to maintain their identity in that environment, they need to establish a highly ordered 'anchor' in the real world; their living space is their anchor.

"Secondly, they are exceptionally sensitive to sound and rhythm."

Practitioners of the Abyss 'listen' to the flow of ether behind the veil; through long-term training, their auditory perception in the real world is also enhanced to a terrifying degree.

"Third, and most importantly, they are exceptionally clear-headed."

Mr. Hutton's words surprised Richard.

"The practitioners of the Abyss Path are neither madmen nor pitiful people whose minds have been devoured by the darkness behind the veil."

On the contrary, they are more clear-headed than anyone else.

They knew perfectly well what they were facing, what awaited them behind the veil, and the risks of sinking into the depths.

"This clarity makes them appear exceptionally calm in their daily lives; they rarely show emotional fluctuations or act impulsively in their speech and actions."

The old man sighed: "But it is precisely this clarity that makes them more dangerous than anyone else."

"If someone stands on the edge of a cliff and doesn't know how deep it is, you can count on their fear to make them back down."

"A person who knows exactly how deep the cliff is and what it will be like to fall will not back down."

The problem is, the cliff isn't fixed.

"Therefore, practitioners of the Abyss Path are not necessarily enemies," the old man concluded.

"At least, not entirely."

After saying goodbye to Mr. Hutton, Richard returned to his seat to pack his schoolbag and found a brown paper package in the middle of his desk.

The paper package was tied with thin hemp rope in a tight bow, and the ends of the rope were neatly trimmed.

There was no writing on the paper; it was so clean that there wasn't even a drop of ink.

He untied the hemp rope and lifted the brown paper.

Inside was a rectangular tin box with a small, handwritten round label on the lid that read "Congratulations".

Open the tin box, and you'll find three rows of pastries inside.

The first row consists of six lemon scones, smaller than the ones she brought to school last time. They were brushed with egg wash and baked to a golden brown and even color.

The second row consisted of eight butter cookies, cut into different shapes: stars, crescent moons, oak leaves, and the outline of an owl, which he recognized after a moment.

The bottom row has four fruit tarts filled with strawberries and blueberries.

The tin box was lined with a layer of oil paper, and under the oil paper were a few mint leaves to prevent flavors from mixing.

Richard held the tin box, feeling almost reluctant to eat from it.

This takes several times longer than baking a batch of regular scones.

The shapes of those cookie cutters alone were not bought ready-made; they were most likely cut by Grey herself from sheet metal, since owl-shaped cookie cutters do not exist on the market.

He closed the tin box and put it into the side pocket of his schoolbag.

Grey left without saying anything, just like she would when delivering something.

The snacks were placed on the table, and then the person disappeared, without waiting for you to open them or say thank you.

Richard slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out, nearly bumping into Hugh at the corner of the corridor.

The boy squatted against the wall, his bangs falling down again.

When he saw Richard come out, he suddenly stood up straight and slapped his thigh hard with his right hand.

"I told you you could do it!"

After the filming was finished, he added another sentence, his voice noticeably lower:

"...Although I've always thought you weren't very capable."

He withdrew his hand and scratched the back of his head:

"But then again, second in the entire empire, it sounds like a dream."

Thanks.

"No need to thank me, I didn't help at all."

Xiu sat down on the steps; the bandage on his knee had been replaced.

"When you were practicing your speech, I wasn't even a very good audience member. I was just sitting there dozing off and drawing chicken legs."

"Your nodding when you were dozing off helped me get into rhythm." Richard pulled a tin box from the side pocket of his backpack. "Want it?"

"Who made this?"

"Grey made it."

Xiu glanced at him but didn't reach out; he just sighed:

"You said that besides being good at studying, good at sports, and having rich friends who treat you to meals, now even your female classmates often make you snacks."

"Please leave me a way out."

"Would you like this owl-shaped one?"

"An owl... Oh, this is an owl."

Hugh examined it for a while: "I thought it was a fat pigeon."

"Never mind, it's not appropriate for me to accept a gift from a girl who has given you her heart."