Chapter 108: New Supernatural Item

During the last week of November, a notice appeared at the post office entrance reminding citizens that Christmas cards bound for the Imperial Capital had to be sent by December 18 to guarantee delivery before the holiday.

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

No one answered that question.

The atmosphere on the Greenwood campus grew increasingly restless.

During morning prayers, the chapel pastor added a speech about the "Christmas spirit," essentially reminding students not to pass around gift lists during class.

The speech clearly had no effect.

The second class of the morning was geography. The teacher was drawing a distribution map of the Empire's northern water systems on the blackboard.

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

It was a long shopping list, the handwriting scribbled and crossed out in several places.

Sitting in the front row by the window, Richard caught the paper shuttling between them out of the corner of his eye.

During the break, Warren leaned over, clutching the crumpled list.

"Richard, what are you buying 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?"

"Finding the right food isn't exactly easy."

Mason poked his head over. "I think you should buy a scarf. Girls love scarves."

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

"My sister told me," Mason said with absolute confidence. "She said if you don't know what to get, scarves and gloves can never go wrong."

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

"That's why it never goes wrong. At worst, it's just a duplicate."

Hugh came running from the other end of the corridor, an untied shoelace dragging on the floor. He nearly tripped over the threshold.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Christmas presents."

"Oh." Hugh twitched his lips. "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?"

"No." Hugh pushed his bangs out of his eyes, looking utterly miserable. "That's why I'm stressed to death."

"Then why did your mom tell you to do it?"

"Because we can't afford to buy one."

That stopped the conversation dead.

Warren tactfully dropped the subject and patted Hugh on the shoulder.

"I'll teach you. I learned from my nanny when I was little."

"You can knit?" Mason's mouth dropped open.

"I remember the basic stitches. I haven't forgotten how to knit and purl."

"A rich young master who knits. What isn't possible in this world?"

"Shut up."

Richard found their bickering amusing.

He genuinely hadn't figured out what to get Evelyn for Christmas yet.

He had already bought her shoes and a coat, but those were everyday necessities. A Christmas present had to be special.

After returning home and eating dinner, Richard helped his mother clear the dishes. He stood in the hallway for a moment before heading upstairs.

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

It had been nearly three weeks since his agreement with Clement.

The old man had promised to call him if he received any unsold auction items designated as Category Two.

But so far, the phone had just sat silently in the corner.

He decided that rather than waiting for the call, he might as well take the initiative. He couldn't just sit around and wait for something to fall into his lap.

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

Ring... ring... ring... It rang six times without an answer.

Ring... ring... On the eighth ring, the old man's muffled voice finally came through the earpiece.

"Who is it?"

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

"Mr. Clement, it's Williams."

"Which Williams? There are too many people named Williams."

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

The line went quiet for a moment, followed by the sound of a scraping chair and something knocking over.

"Oh, it's you, kid."

The old man sounded much more awake now. "Calling me this late at night, what's the matter?"

"I wanted to ask if you've received any new lists of unsold auction items recently."

"You're still hung up on that?"

Clement seemed to be rummaging around, papers rustling loudly over the line.

"The last list was sent over a week ago, but it's all ordinary goods.

A few porcelain vases, two completely rusted ritual daggers, a pile of old candleholders dug out from who knows which parish..."

"There's only one really tiny thing with a Category Two label."

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

"A seal." Clement flipped to the corresponding page.

"Tin-copper alloy, about the size of a thumbnail, with characters engraved on the stamp face.

The standard appraisal report from the auction house says, 'Age no more than two hundred years, origin suspected to be the southern colonial region, specific purpose unknown.'

"The Category Two designation was added later. The appraiser drew a circle in the remarks column but didn't write a reason."

He flipped the paper over.

"The estimated value was very low. Nobody wanted it even at the reserve price of five shillings, so it was cleared out with a batch of leftover stock.

By the time it arrived in my hands at a discount, it was three shillings, not counting shipping."

The old man sounded slightly apologetic. "I didn't notify you because this thing is just too inconspicuous.

A thumbnail-sized tin-copper seal—even if it really holds something, how much could there be? It wasn't worth a special trip."

"But since you called me yourself..."

Clement set the paper down.

"If you want it, it's yours for three shillings and five pence. The five pence covers shipping. Just like with the oil lamp, I won't make a profit off you."

"Sure," Richard answered decisively. "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 there before six."

"Alright, I'll hold it for you then."

The call ended, and Richard set the receiver back onto the cradle.

It was a cheap trinket worth a few shillings—something even Clement hadn't felt was worth mentioning.

A thumbnail-sized tin-copper seal. The appraiser at Stuart had only drawn a circle, too lazy to even leave a remark.

These scraps slipped through the cracks of the auction house, rolling all the way to the old alleys of Briston to gather dust beneath Clement's counter.

If he hadn't made the call, that seal would probably have stayed under the counter forever, until the old man tossed it into the junk pile during an inventory sweep.

But his Panel wasn't a picky eater.

Pendants, the Spirit Board, the Silver Coin, copper coins, incense burners, the Gargoyle, the Sphinx Oil Lamp... Objects of vastly different values were all the exact same thing in the Panel's eyes: ether carriers that could be converted into points.

It took big bites out of the large items and small bites out of the small ones. Every little bit helped.

His current available points stood at 0.62. If that seal could contribute even 0.4, it would push him past the one-point mark.

One point was enough to light up another skill or upgrade an existing one.

Richard went upstairs to his bedroom and shut the door.

He sank his consciousness into the Panel and re-examined the status of his various skills.

[Breathing Lv.2] Progress: 93.01%

Breathing Lv.2 was not far from reaching maximum progress.

The final two requirements to advance to Lv.3 had already been met.

As long as he could scrape together one available point, his breathing could reach Lv.3.

The effect preview for the Lv.3 unlock—Breathing - Healing: Wherever breath flows, minor internal injuries self-repair, and chronic ailments gradually recede.

The weight of the words 'chronic ailments gradually recede' meant more to him than anything else.

The improvements brought by Breathing Lv.1 and Lv.2 were already obvious: increased oxygen supply, improved sleep quality, and a decreased frequency of coughing.

But those only treated the symptoms. They were just plugging leaks.

The material of the barrel itself hadn't changed; the thin spots remained thin.

Healing was the actual cure.

If the act of breathing itself could trigger the self-repair of minor trauma, it meant that with every breath, the walls of the barrel would grow a fraction thicker.

Twenty-four hours uninterrupted—repairing while awake, repairing while asleep.

Coupled with the synergistic effects of the three physical skills—eating, sleep, and walking—his foundational constitution would begin to improve from the root up.

It would no longer be a matter of patching things up for maintenance, but a genuine reconstruction.

...

In the morning, Richard woke up before his alarm clock even went off.

As usual, the first thing he did upon waking was check on his body.

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

Before going to bed last night, he had performed three cycles of Fourfold Breathing according to Old Biggs's method. On the final exhale, he had pushed his focus outward.

He pushed it about an inch past his skin, held it for less than a second, and then pulled it back.

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

No concrete information fed back to him, but the action of pushing out was much smoother than the day before.

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

His mother had already set out breakfast.

Today's side dish included a small extra plate of pickled cucumbers.

His father sat in his usual spot flipping through the newspaper, half a slice of toast hanging from his mouth.

Evelyn hadn't come down yet.

Richard sat down, cracked open a boiled egg, and scooped it out with a spoon.

Just as he was finishing, a flurry of hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Evelyn dashed into the dining room pulling on her uniform jacket, her tie only half-knotted and her hair in a crooked ponytail.

"Ahhh, I overslept..."

She shoved bread into her mouth while reaching for a teacup, moving so fast she threatened to yank the tablecloth off entirely.

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

Evelyn slumped sideways into her chair, her tie still dangling half-done.

She chewed her bread twice, then suddenly turned to look at Richard.

"Brother, why are you up so early again?"

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

Evelyn pouted and lowered her head to continue battling the bread, mumbling something incomprehensible.

Their mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "Don't talk while eating, you'll choke."

Richard finished his breakfast and gathered his things, ready to head to the school bus stop.

On the school bus, Richard leaned against the window and ran through his schedule for the day.

He wouldn't take the bus after classes. Instead, he would walk to Clement's shop, which would take about forty minutes.

Pick up the seal at the shop, find a quiet corner, and see if the Panel reacted.

If it did, he would absorb it on the spot;

If it didn't... he would just chalk the three shillings up as tuition fees.

During lunch, Warren ordered him a portion of roast lamb chops with mashed potatoes as usual.

Mason sat beside him, flipping through a horse racing magazine and muttering about a certain horse's odds from the previous week.

"...That horse in position three, 'Son of the North Wind', was seven-to-one, and it actually ran second in the end. It was only half a length behind."

"Did you bet on it?" Warren asked.

"I wanted to, but I didn't dare." Mason turned a page. "My mom says people who bet on horses are idiots who lose their shirts."

"Your mom is right."

"But seven-to-one! Seven-to-one! If I had bet one pound, I'd have made seven!"

"And if you bet one pound and lost, you'd be down a pound," Richard chimed in.

Mason gave him a look. "Richard, why do you have to be such a buzzkill?"

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

Warren burst out laughing, nearly spitting a mouthful of tea all over the lamb chops.

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

"I'm telling you, Mason, stop studying horse racing. You almost failed your geography midterm."

"That's because the questions were too obscure..."

"I knew everything in the textbook. I just 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 smeared on the bread looked like a painter's palette, a layer of red mixed with a layer of purple.

"Why are you arguing with Richard, Mason? Comparing your brain to his is just asking for torture."

"I'm not comparing brains with him, I'm talking about horse racing."

"Doesn't horse racing require brains too?"

"Horse racing requires luck!"

"Well, your luck isn't very good either. You said it yourself, you wanted to bet but didn't dare."