Chapter 227: Keep Writing, Don't Stop

On Saturday, Richard went to the Dawn residence as usual to tutor Tom.

When Charlotte brought him to the living room, Mrs. Dawn was already sitting there.

"Mr. Williams." Mrs. Dawn gave him a nod.

"Mrs. Dawn."

"Tom has been doing very well lately." Mrs. Dawn set her teacup down.

"My husband and I are both very pleased."

"Tom is very bright; I just found the right approach," Richard replied politely.

"Mm."

Mrs. Dawn's gaze lingered on his face for a moment.

"I read your essay a few days ago."

Richard felt a flicker of surprise.

"What did you think of it?"

"It was exceptionally well written." Her tone gave nothing else away.

"My husband read it too. He even wrote a letter specifically to the editor-in-chief."

"Then please thank Mr. Dawn for me."

"But a few gentlemen found it rather uncomfortable to read."

Richard said nothing.

"A few days ago, we hosted a dinner. Among the guests were several proprietors from the Western Suburbs."

Mrs. Dawn spoke slowly.

"They mentioned your name."

Richard wasn't too surprised.

"...What did they say?"

"Nothing specific," Mrs. Dawn replied.

"They just asked, 'That kid from Greenwood—whose family does he belong to?'"

"I told them you were the grandson of the Ashford patriarch."

"They just gave an 'oh' and didn't ask anything else."

Richard understood.

"...Thank you."

"Richard." Mrs. Dawn suddenly used his first name. "I want to tell you something."

Richard was slightly surprised.

"...What is it?"

"If you are going to write, keep writing—one piece after another."

Mrs. Dawn set her teacup down.

"A few gentlemen remembering your name—they will remember it.

But the chill that grips the backs of thousands of readers' necks—they will remember that, too.

When both sides remember you, you become a 'brand.'

When only one side remembers you, you are just a 'target.'"

"...You mean?"

"Either stop completely, or keep writing.

Stopping halfway is the most dangerous."

Richard had not expected such words from Mrs. Dawn.

Mrs. Dawn smiled. "Go give Tom his lesson."

...

On Monday, Richard began processing the box for the second time.

His [Spiritual Capacity] had just replenished slightly.

Lillian had a mandatory minor class that day which she would never skip.

This time, Richard's ether injection was much more precise.

He kept the crack controlled to a hair's breadth.

[Available Points] climbed to 1.53.

[Spiritual Capacity] only dropped to 4, slightly more efficient than before.

On Friday, he opened the box again. The few wisps of "whispers" leaking from inside struggled even harder this time.

Although those whispers were incredibly faint, they were completely different from the residue of the "Correspondence Curse" in the Bronze Mirror.

The words inside the Bronze Mirror had been truncated, their beginnings and ends severed; centuries of erosion had ground away even their emotions.

But the voices leaking from the box were alive, carrying both emotion and intent.

The first lines he heard went like this:

"Who is it..."

"It's so cold here..."

"Come a little closer..."

"...Let me look at you..."

The voice was very light, its tone soft.

It sounded like someone who had been imprisoned for so long that even their malice had been ground down into pleading.

Richard did not respond.

[Erudition] immediately laid out several matching entries in his mind.

Common baiting tactics. For all sealed artifacts that required "contact" to take effect, the first stage was almost always exactly this.

First win sympathy, then ask the victim to come closer, and finally set the hook.

He did not get any closer.

He maintained that Silence vacuum, letting those words float out and naturally dissipate within the void.

For the fourth processing of the box, he waited until the last day of March.

[Spiritual Capacity] was full again. This would also be the final time he processed the box.

Lillian was heading near the old train station in the north that day.

She said that sparrows had been constantly crashing to their deaths against the newly installed steel frames in that area lately.

But Richard suspected the girl had probably noticed something and was deliberately finding an excuse to give him some private space.

He entered his room on time as usual, locked the door, and erected the vacuum.

This time, the moment the crack opened a hair's breadth, the voice inside the box actively reached out to him.

"...You're here again."

The voice sounded a bit more energetic than last time.

"...I know you can hear me."

"...I can feel your thread."

Thread.

[Erudition] immediately pulled up the core terminology of the Web Weaving Tradition. In that lineage's vocabulary, "thread" specifically referred to the traces of destiny a human body cast on the other side of the veil.

As long as a person lived, they were a single thread on the other side of the veil;

The paths walked, the deeds owed, the people loved, and the debts to be repaid were all woven into this thread.

A chill ran down Richard's spine.

From the other side of the veil, taking advantage of the hair-thin crack he had pried open, it was probing outward in reverse.

It couldn't probe far. Right now, all it could likely see was the segment exposed outside the crack.

But the fact that it could see his "thread" meant it didn't need him to come any closer at all.

The moment his ether touched the box, his thread was within its reach.

Richard maintained the vacuum, waiting for that wisp of words to finish drifting.

The vacuum pinned the ether down completely; even Richard's own Micro-circulation made almost no sound within the void.

The voice sighed again.

"...You refuse to come over."

The voice in the box fell quiet for a moment before beginning to offer temptations.

"...Just a wisp is fine."

"Just one wisp is enough."

"If you spare just one wisp from a thread as thick as yours, you won't even feel the loss..."

"...I'll give you a reward."

Hearing the word "reward," Richard slowed his breathing.

"...If you want power, I have it."

"...If you want someone to stay by your side forever unchanging, I have that too."

"...If you want that girl named Lillian, I can tie a knot for you..."

Richard's temples throbbed wildly.

This thing had actually read Lillian's name.

[Speculation] immediately stripped the matter down for him layer by layer:

Through the crack he had pried open, it had only read a single segment of his thread.

What it read were simply the most recent entanglements on this thread.

The reason Lillian's name appeared at this time was because of this room, this key, and every afternoon Richard had spent here over the past few weeks.

Richard didn't move, nor did he make a sound.

He silently sped up his absorption. There wasn't much residue left inside.

Seeing no reaction from him, the voice in the box floated another wisp out:

"...If you don't want this, something else is fine too."

"There are many kinds of knots I can tie for you..."

Right there, the voice came to an abrupt halt.

Richard steadily and thoroughly drained all the ether it could possibly seep out.

This time, he didn't leave a single trace behind.

[Available Points: 2.02]

Hard work paid off. This thing had contributed nearly 1.3 points in total, almost catching up to the Sphinx Lamp.

...

The low red-brick wall in the Coleman backyard had been soaked soft by the spring dampness.

A few tufts of cogon grass poked out from the cracks between the bricks, their fuzzy tips leaning toward the northern sun.

Richard placed the long Silver Needle box on the lid of the water vat and watched Coleman roll his sleeve up past his elbow.

Richard's Spirit Vision was already locked onto it.

This needle of [Moon Nail: Reflection] bridged the circuit at the breaking point, pushing it up by a large margin.

The circuit caught the stimulation, and a reverse current of warmth surged toward the breaking point.

Richard watched as the scar, which had been stiff for over three years, extended outward once again.

"...It's grown out further than last time." Coleman turned that section of his hand over and over to look at it.

In his mind, Richard drew a circle around his hypothesis of "indirect restoration."

It wasn't a hypothesis anymore.

"...How is it?" Coleman stared at him.

"Mm."

"Just an 'Mm'?"

"Don't get cocky too early." Richard locked the long box.

"It grows fast at first, but it will get slower and slower later on.

The break itself is an old scar. The outer layer of skin grows over first, but the deepest layer is the hardest to close."

"I know." Coleman rolled his sleeve back down. "But as long as it's growing, I..."

He looked into the backyard at the collie lying by the water vat, basking in the sun.

The dog's coat was glossy, its belly rising and falling in a steady rhythm. It couldn't even be bothered to lift its head when it saw Richard arrive.

Coleman cast a glance toward the collie.

"It ate a spoonful of oatmeal pudding this morning."

"...Oatmeal pudding?"

"My mom made it."

"And you?"

"Oatmeal porridge."

Richard couldn't help but laugh.

Coleman let out a laugh too, though it was a bit bitter.

"When I'm cured, I'm treating you to a meal. Don't forget."

"I know. I'll definitely eat my fill."

"Mm."

"What about the collie?"

"It's coming too," Coleman said deadpan. "To eat the bones we spit out."

...

April arrived, and the rain fell on and off.

The rainy season on the Empire's mainland always arrived somewhat inexplicably.

One day it would be dry, cold northwesterly winds, and the next morning, the streets would be soaking wet.

When his mother saw him off in the morning, she told him:

"Richard, your break starts in two days.

You've been running around too much lately. Sleep in a bit more during the holidays."

He answered with an "Mm."

His mother spoke again:

"Your sister asked me yesterday, 'Is my brother leaving for the Imperial Capital in two months?'"

"...Mom, what did you say?"

"I said, 'Whether he goes to the Imperial Capital then is up to him.'"

His mother stood at the doorway.

"But then she asked me another question."

"...What?"

"She asked, 'If he goes to the Imperial Capital, will he come back?'"

Richard didn't answer.

His mother hadn't pressed him for an answer, either.

She tugged her son's collar up slightly, then smoothed it out.

"Hurry off to school, don't be late."

For the vast majority of students, the end of this semester marked the time their paths would diverge.

Those aiming for prep classes would continue pushing hard in the final semester, aiming for the Imperial Capital or a few universities in the North;

Those not finishing would either enter a technical college to study drafting and mechanics, or be taken directly by their families to sign apprenticeship contracts.

Hugh's father was a post office dispatcher, and Hugh himself wanted to study drafting;

Warren's family was in the Coal Mining Association, and that path had been laid out beneath his feet since the day he was born;

Mason's older brother had entered a textile factory as a foreman, and it was expected that Mason would end up in the exact same place.

As for Grey... Richard didn't think about Grey.

"What about you?" Warren reached over and nudged Richard's elbow.

"Me?"

"Where are you going?"

Richard lowered his eyes, twirling his pencil half a turn on the desk.

"I'm still filling out the applications. I have to apply to several universities over in the Imperial Capital."

Hugh leaned in. "With the grades on your transcript, Old West says they're in the top tier out of his twenty years teaching at Greenwood."

"Just good luck."

"Tch, you hogged all the luck for yourself."

Warren snapped his textbook shut. "Leave a bite of food for the rest of us."

"Let me get a bite of food first."

A few more laughs echoed in the classroom, though the relaxed atmosphere felt a bit forced.

Richard looked out the window.

Rainwater trickled down the glass panes. In the distance, dark chimneys belched smoke.

What he read on the faces of these youths wasn't the unconcealable excitement and anxiety that seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds ought to have.

Rather, it was an overly quiet acceptance, as if they had already seen straight to the very end of their next twenty years.

For the children of this small industrial city, their forties had already been sketched out for them by others while they were still young:

The son of the post office dispatcher would highly likely enter a related industry;

The son of the Coal Mining Association's director would highly likely head to the coal mines;

The younger brother of the textile factory foreman would highly likely end up in the textile factory.

Even at a private school like Greenwood, the kids in each graduating class who could truly jump off this predetermined track couldn't even fill a single table.

Richard was one of the people at that table.