I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

During the last week of November, a notice was posted at the post office entrance.

It reminded citizens that Christmas cards bound for the Imperial Capital had to be mailed by December 18th; any later, and pre-holiday delivery could not be guaranteed.

Beneath the notice, someone had scrawled a line in pencil: "What about to the New Continent?"

No one answered the question.

The atmosphere on the Greenwood Campus grew even more restless.

The chapel’s Priest added a segment to his morning sermon about the "Christmas spirit," the core message being a reminder for students not to pass gift lists around in class.

But the speech clearly had little effect.

The second class of the morning was geography. The teacher was on the blackboard, drawing a map of the Northern Imperial river systems.

In the back row, Warren and Mason were passing a piece of paper back and forth under their desks.

A long shopping list was written on the paper, the handwriting sloppy and corrected in several places.

Richard sat in the front row by the window, catching sight of the paper shuttling between the two out of the corner of his eye.

During the break, Warren came over, clutching the crumpled list in his hand.

"Richard, what gift are you planning to buy for Christmas?"

"I haven’t decided yet."

"What does your sister like?"

"Food."

Warren waited a moment. When Richard didn’t elaborate, he pressed, "That’s it?"

"It’s not easy to find the right kind of food to buy."

Mason poked his head over from the side. "I think you could buy a scarf. All girls like scarves."

"When did you become an expert on the female psyche?" Warren shot him a sideways glance.

"My sister told me," Mason said with righteous conviction. "She said if you don’t know what to get, scarves and gloves are never the wrong choice."

"Your sister received several scarves last year," Warren reminded him.

"See? Never the wrong choice. At worst, it’s just a repeat."

Hugh came running from the other end of the hall, one of his shoelaces untied and dragging on the floor, nearly tripping him at the threshold.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Christmas gifts."

"Oh." Hugh’s lips twitched. "Actually... my mom recently told me to knit a scarf for my cousin."

Warren and Mason turned to him in unison.

"You know how to knit a scarf?"

"Nope." Hugh pushed his bangs up, revealing a pained expression. "That’s why I’m so worried."

"Then why did your mom tell you to knit one?"

"Because we can’t afford to buy one."

That statement brought the conversation to a halt.

Warren tactfully didn’t press the issue and instead patted Hugh’s shoulder.

"I’ll teach you when the time comes. I learned from my nanny when I was little."

"You know how to knit, too?" Mason’s jaw dropped.

"I still remember the basic stitches. I don’t think I’ve forgotten the knit and purl stitches."

"A rich young master who knows how to knit. Is there anything impossible in this world?"

"Oh, shut up."

Richard listened to them bicker, finding it somewhat amusing.

He really hadn’t decided what Christmas gift to buy for Evelyn.

He had already bought her shoes and a coat last time, but those were daily necessities. A Christmas gift needed to be a little different.

After returning home and finishing dinner, Richard helped his Mother clear the dishes. He stood in the hallway for a while before going upstairs.

He glanced at the black rotary phone in the corner of the living room.

Nearly three weeks had passed since his arrangement with Clement.

The old man had said he would call him first upon receiving any unsold auction items marked "Category II."

But so far, the phone had remained quiet in its corner, never once ringing.

’Rather than wait for him to call, I should take the initiative and ask. I can’t just wait for a pie to fall from the sky.’

Richard pulled Mr. Clement’s business card from his pocket, walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number.

RING... RING... RING... It rang six times. No one answered.

RING... RING... On the eighth ring, the old man’s muffled voice finally came through the earpiece.

"Who is it?"

Clement was clearly very impatient, probably having been woken from a nap.

"Mr. Clement, it’s Williams."

"Which Williams? There are too many people with that name."

"Richard Williams. The student who bought the Sphinx Oil Lamp."

The other end of the line went quiet for a moment, followed by the sound of a chair shifting and something being knocked over.

"Oh, it’s you, kid."

The old man’s voice was much clearer now. "Calling me this late at night, what’s the matter?"

"I wanted to ask about the list of unsold items you mentioned last time. Have any new ones come in recently?"

"You’re still thinking about that?"

Clement seemed to be rummaging through something; pages rustled.

"The last list was sent over a week ago, but it was all just ordinary stuff.

A few porcelain vases, two completely rusted Ritual Daggers, a pile of old candlesticks dug up from who knows which parish..."

"There was only one tiny thing with a ’Category II’ mark."

Richard was pleasantly surprised. "What is it? I’m not picky!"

"A seal," Clement said, flipping to the corresponding page.

"Made of a tin-copper alloy, about the size of a thumbnail, with an engraved face.

The auction house’s standard appraisal report says ’no more than two hundred years old, origin suspected to be the southern colonial region, specific use unknown.’"

"The ’Category II’ mark was added later. The Appraiser drew a circle in the remarks column but didn’t write a reason."

He flipped the paper over.

"The valuation was very low. No one wanted it at the starting price of five shillings, so it was cleared out with a batch of leftover goods.

After the discount, it came to me for three shillings, not including shipping."

The old man sounded a bit apologetic. "I didn’t notify you before because the thing is just too insignificant."

"A tin-copper seal the size of a thumbnail... even if there’s really something to it, how much could there be? It’s not worth a special trip for you."

"But since you called yourself..."

Clement put the paper down.

"If you want it, take it for three shillings and five pence. The five pence is for shipping. Just like with the Oil Lamp, I’m not making a profit on you."

"Deal," Richard replied crisply. "I’ll come over tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" The old man sounded surprised. "Tomorrow is Tuesday, don’t you have school?"

"I’ll go after school. I should be able to get there before six."

"Alright, I’ll hold it for you then."

The call ended, and Richard placed the receiver back on the switch hook.

’A little thing worth a few shillings... Clement himself didn’t even think it was worth notifying me about.’

’A tin-copper seal the size of a thumbnail. The Stuart Appraiser only drew a circle, not even bothering to write a note.’

’This kind of scrap slipped through the cracks at the auction house, rolled all the way into an old alley in Brighton, and ended up collecting dust under Clement’s counter.’

’If I hadn’t made this call, that seal probably would have stayed under the counter until the old man threw it into a scrap heap while clearing out his inventory one day.’

But his panel wasn’t a picky eater.

Pendants, Divination Discs, silver coins, copper coins, Incense Burners, Gargoyles, Oil Lamps... objects of vastly different values were all the same in the eyes of the panel: carriers of Ether that could be converted into Points.

’Big items are a big bite, small items are a small bite. Even a mosquito leg is still meat.’

His current Available Points were 0.62. If that seal could contribute even 0.4, the total would cross the one-point threshold.

One point was enough to activate a new Skill or to advance an existing one.

Richard went upstairs, returned to his bedroom, and closed the door.

He sank his consciousness into the panel and re-examined the status of his Skills.

[Breathing Lv.2] Progress: 93.01%

The progress bar for Breathing was not far from full.

The latter two conditions for advancing to Level 3 were already met.

As long as he could scrape together one Available Point, Breathing could reach Level 3.

Level 3 Unlock Preview—Breath Healing: Where the breath flows, minor wounds self-repair, and chronic illness gradually recedes.

The weight of the words "chronic illness gradually recedes" was heavier to him than anything else.

The improvements brought by Breathing Lv.1 and Lv.2 were already obvious: increased oxygen efficiency, better sleep quality, and a lower frequency of coughing.

But these were all temporary fixes, just plugging the leaks.

The material of the barrel itself hadn’t changed. The thin parts were still thin.

Healing was the true cure.

’If Breathing itself can trigger minor self-repair, then with every breath, the walls of the barrel will grow a little thicker.’

’Twenty-four hours a day, non-stop. Repairing while awake, repairing while asleep.’

Combined with the synergistic effects of the three constitution Skills—Eating, Sleep, and Walking—his body’s fundamental condition would begin to improve from the roots up.

It would no longer be a matter of patch-up Maintenance, but a reconstruction in the truest sense.

.........

Richard woke up before the morning alarm went off.

As usual, the first thing he did upon waking was to assess his body.

His chest felt clear, his breathing was steady, and there was no residual dull ache at the back of his head.

Last night, before sleeping, he had performed three cycles of Quadruple Breathing using the method Old Big taught him. On the final exhale, he pushed his focus outward slightly.

It extended about an inch from the surface of his body, paused for less than a second, and then he pulled it back.

The sensation was subtle, like reaching out to touch a wall in the dark.

No specific information came in, but the act of "pushing out" itself was much smoother than the day before yesterday.

Downstairs, the aroma of toast and black tea filled the kitchen.

His Mother had already set out breakfast.

Today, there was an extra side dish: a small plate of pickled cucumbers.

His father sat in his usual spot, flipping through the newspaper with half a piece of toast in his mouth.

Evelyn wasn’t down yet.

Richard sat down in his chair, cracked open an eggshell, and ate it with a spoon.

As he was about to finish, a flurry of hurried footsteps sounded from the stairs.

Evelyn rushed into the dining room wrapped in her school uniform jacket, her tie only half-done, her hair in a lopsided ponytail.

"Aaaah, I overslept..."

She stuffed bread into her mouth while reaching for her teacup, her movements so fast that one worried she might pull the tablecloth off the table.

"Sit properly," her father said, turning a page of the newspaper.

Evelyn flopped crookedly onto her chair, her tie still hanging there, unfinished.

She chewed her bread a couple of times, then suddenly turned her head to glance at Richard.

"Brother, how are you up so early again today?"

"It’s about the same as usual. You’re the one who woke up late."

Evelyn pouted, lowered her head to continue wrestling with her bread, and mumbled something indistinctly.

Mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "Don’t talk with your mouth full, you’ll choke."

Richard had already finished breakfast and was gathering his things to head to the school bus stop.

On the bus, Richard leaned against the window and mentally reviewed his plan for the day.

’After school, I won’t take the bus. I’ll walk to Clement’s place, which should take about forty minutes.’

’I’ll pick up the seal at the shop, find a corner to hole up in for a bit, and see if the panel reacts.’

’If it reacts, I’ll absorb it on the spot.’

’If it doesn’t... I’ll just consider the three shillings tuition fees.’

At lunchtime, Warren ordered him his usual: roast lamb chops with mashed potatoes.

Mason sat beside them, flipping through a horse racing magazine and muttering about a certain horse’s odds from last week.

"...That number three horse, ’Son of the North Wind,’ was seven-to-one, and it actually finished second, by half a length."

"Did you bet on it?" Warren asked.

"I wanted to, but I didn’t dare." Mason turned a page. "My mom says anyone who bets on horses is a fool who’ll lose their pants."

"Your mom’s right."

"But seven-to-one! Seven-to-one! If I’d bet one pound, I would’ve won seven pounds!"

"And if you’d bet one pound and lost, you would’ve been out one pound," Richard interjected.

Mason glanced at him. "Richard, why do you have to be such a downer?"

"Because he has a clear head," Grey added from nearby.

Warren snorted with laughter, nearly spitting a mouthful of tea onto his lamb chops.

"Alright, alright." He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

"I’m telling you, Mason, just stop studying horse racing. You nearly failed geography on the last midterm."

"That’s because the test was way too obscure..."

"I know all the material from the textbook, but I forgot it during the exam."

"...That doesn’t count as knowing it."

Hugh leaned over from across the table, holding up a piece of bread.

The jam on the bread was spread like a painter’s palette, a layer of red over a layer of purple.

"Mason, what are you arguing with Richard for? Competing with him in brains is just asking for a beating."

"I’m not competing with him in brains, I’m talking about horse racing."

"Doesn’t horse racing require brains too?"

"Horse racing requires luck!"

"Well, your luck isn’t so great either. You said it yourself, you wanted to bet but didn’t dare."

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!