Chapter 248: Sorting Mechanism

The door to Number 17 Flower Moon Street closed behind him. As Richard walked out along the bluestone pavement, the voices from the main street washed over him in waves.

The Ashford House carriage was parked at the corner of Flower Moon Street. The driver was curled up on the shafts, dozing.

Hearing footsteps, he jolted awake and hopped down to open the door.

"Young Master, back to the estate?"

"Back to the estate."

Richard leaned back against the carriage wall, turning Madam Marie's words over in his mind.

The Micro-circulation is stable. You can consider completing your Signature directly during the summer seminar.

A judgment delivered personally by a Major Adept medium naturally carried significant weight.

But taking a Signature was a matter of immense consequence. He didn't dare finalize the decision based on one person's word alone.

By the time he returned to Ashford House, it was past lunchtime.

Richard hastily ate a couple of sandwiches, then had the butler show him into the study.

Gerard was sitting by the fireplace, a newspaper spread across his lap.

"You're back." The old man didn't look up. "Are your matters on Flower Moon Street finished?"

"They are." Richard sat down opposite him. "Grandfather, I have something I want to discuss with you."

"Go on."

"I want to... take my Signature early."

The evening paper snapped shut.

Gerard set it aside, his gaze lingering on his grandson.

The room fell silent for several breaths before the old man finally spoke, his tone slow and deliberate.

"Don't rush to explain your reasons," he said, raising a hand. "Stand up. Take a couple of steps toward the center."

Richard did as told, moving to the middle of the study.

Gerard reached out his right hand, his five fingers closing in a loose grip.

An extremely restrained ether field surged from the old man, enveloping Richard alone.

It lasted no more than two seconds—the exact same technique used during their first meeting in the parlor the previous year.

Richard's Seat of the Sun gave a faint tremor.

Gerard withdrew his hand.

"Mm. Acceptable."

The old man settled back into his armchair, picked up the teacup beside him, and took a sip.

"To put it bluntly, taking a Signature comes down to two things: the supernatural item acknowledging you as its master, and this side of the veil knowing you've arrived.

"The work on the physical body's end never really required such a long wait; it's primarily to leave an ample margin.

"If your circulation disperses at the critical moment of the Signature, leaving the brand only half-carved, you'd be crippled."

Richard listened intently.

"This foundation of yours," Gerard said, looking at him. "It's vastly more stable than the norm. You've had a sufficient margin for a long time."

A weight lifted from Richard's chest.

"Then I..."

"Don't celebrate just yet." The old man cut him off.

"I can make the call regarding your Micro-circulation, but you're walking the Scholar path."

Gerard stood up and strolled over to the telephone.

"A Scholar's matters must be decided by a Scholar."

He dialed the number.

It was lunch break, so someone from the Department of Classics office had to go knock on a door to fetch her.

After a long wait, Isabella's somewhat impatient voice came through the receiver.

Gerard was concise, explaining the situation in just a few sentences.

On the other end of the line, Isabella answered briskly.

"Send him over. Have him come to my dormitory."

...

The faculty dormitory for the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University was hidden amidst a grove of old plane trees behind the Petrie Building.

Richard followed the room numbers to his aunt's door and knocked.

The door opened.

Isabella was still wearing her nightgown, clutching the stub of a pencil.

She stepped aside to let him in.

"Come in. Don't just stand there."

Richard stepped inside, sweeping a quick glance around.

No matter how one looked at it, the room did not resemble a single woman's residence.

There were no flowers or vanity mirrors, nor any of the delicate ornaments commonly found in a lady's bedroom.

A row of bookshelves against the wall was crammed full. The topmost shelf held supplementary materials stacked all the way to the ceiling.

Three or four wooden fieldwork crates were piled in the corner. Their seals remained unbroken, with collection locations and dates written across the wood in charcoal.

A writing desk took up half the room. Rubbings, reference charts, and half-written manuscript pages were spread across its surface, with a coffee pot sitting next to an ink bottle.

Aside from the dresses hanging in the wardrobe, it was nearly impossible to find a single feminine object in the entire room.

"Sit." By now, Isabella had changed into formal attire.

"This place is just where I sleep and finish whatever work I bring back from the office."

Richard sat down on the hardwood chair in front of the desk.

His gaze swept the room before landing on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

That shelf was blocked by several intimidatingly thick Inscriptiology tomes. Behind them, the corner of a tin box peeked out.

The lid bore the trademark of a time-honored pastry shop in the Imperial Capital—a gold-traced iris.

Tucked beside it were two unopened packets of toffee.

The bulging candy wrappers had been flattened out beneath other books, hidden quite discreetly.

The corners of Richard's mouth curled up.

Isabella followed his line of sight, a brief flash of awkwardness crossing her face.

She reached out and pulled the Inscriptiology tomes outward, completely concealing the tin box and the candy.

"Let's look at your lamp first," his aunt said, clearing her throat. "Did you bring the signature artifact?"

"I did." Richard took the Bronze Sphinx Lamp out of his satchel.

Isabella took out a brass instrument densely covered in knobs and dials.

"Give me your hand."

Richard offered his wrist.

She pressed the instrument against his pulse. A fine needle inside wobbled a few times before coming to a stop.

Isabella stared at the dial for a moment, her eyebrows arching.

She withdrew the device. "Not bad. Your circulation foundation is indeed sufficient."

Only then did she look at the lamp.

"Nurture it once, right in front of me."

Richard placed the bronze lamp in the center of the desk. Guiding ether along the inside of his right arm, he channeled it into his palm and injected it into the lamp.

Isabella's eyes were glued to the lamp.

The moment Richard pushed his ether into his palm, the lamp reacted.

Its body shifted from cold to warm, and within that warmth lay a hint of urgency as it actively drew the ether toward Richard's palm.

"...Just as I thought."

Richard pulled his hand back.

"What is it, Aunt?"

"Nothing."

She sat on the edge of the desk and poured herself half a cup of tea.

"Your Signature can be moved up. You met the requirements long ago."

Richard was just about to breathe a sigh of relief.

"However."

Isabella set down the cold tea.

"The probatio text for a Scholar's Signature—this manuscript—must pass through the academic review platform and gain the approval of at least two relevant Scholars."

"Review platform?"

"Yes," Isabella nodded.

"Once your probatio manuscript is submitted, dedicated specialists will review it."

Richard frowned.

"Isn't the Signature a matter between the veil and myself? If the veil recognizes me, why do I need anyone else's approval?"

Isabella set her teacup down and glanced at him.

"You sound exactly like me from over a decade ago.

"The Signature is indeed a matter between you and the veil. What it perceives is the trace that 'decipherment' leaves behind on the etheric plane.

"That step cannot be faked, nor does it require anyone's stamp of approval.

"But the moment you carve that brand, you are no longer alone.

"If this interpretation manuscript of yours is wrong, plagiarized, or cannot stand up to scrutiny... the veil will still acknowledge it, but as you advance, tradition will reject you."

Her tone grew solemn.

"When Vincent and his lot take their Signatures, their probatio is cleanly and efficiently eradicating an evil creature.

"Truth and falsehood are decided on the spot. If the evil creature is dead, it's dead."

"A Scholar's probatio is a 'judgment.' Whether a judgment is right or wrong cannot be seen until a certain amount of time has passed."

"Therefore, for the first interpretation you submit, you need two people willing to stake their names beside your judgment.

"Their approval is a guarantee on your behalf. If something truly goes wrong down the line, they will shoulder the blame with you."

Richard fell quiet.

A Hunter entrusted their life to the training camp and their back to their comrades.

A Scholar entrusted their first judgment to two seniors willing to endorse them.

He understood the weight of it now.

"On that point, I'm actually not worried about you. It's merely a matter of how long it will take."

Isabella placed the manuscript Richard had given her last time on the desk, tapping her finger against a specific passage.

"Your argument lands on the 'veil's annual decay rate,' which is currently the most pressing topic, and it is backed by Whitcom's firsthand data.

"The reviewers will likely have to credit you for it."

Before the afternoon remedial classes, Isabella sat down again in front of the dedicated line in the department office and connected to Mr. Hutton.

"If that is the case, I approve of moving it up." Mr. Hutton's voice crackled through the static on the line.

"The Old Continent is going to war," the old gentleman stated plainly.

"A Practitioner has at least the most basic means of self-preservation. They can use the industry credit system, enter more locations on the mystical side, and take on proper jobs."

Richard stood off to the side, listening.

"Let's hammer out the timeline," Isabella said, steering the conversation toward practical matters.

"The first three weeks of the seminar are lectures and exams. I will submit his probatio manuscript to the review platform in the first few days. We should have the results in less than half a month."

"Half a month." Mr. Hutton calculated briefly. "The final two weeks are practical application, right?"

"Right," Isabella replied. "Once the review passes, he can complete his Signature right before the practical application begins."

"Then it's settled," Mr. Hutton concluded from his end.

The call disconnected.

The room quieted down, leaving only the faint rustle of plane tree leaves fluttering in the evening breeze outside the window.

Isabella noticed the expression on his face.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was just thinking..." Richard weighed his words carefully. "In the past, you all told me to take things slow. Yet today, you're all pushing me to hurry."

"Taking it slow is a way of life for peacetime." His aunt's expression grew grim.

"During peacetime, moving slowly and steadily lets you live a few years longer."

"Things are no longer peaceful."

She shoved the rolled-up manuscript from the desk into his arms.

"Go on. Copy out the final draft."

...

Registration for the seminar was on Friday.

Imperial Capital University was on summer break, leaving the massive campus completely empty.

The row of Greek-style colonnades at the Department of Classics lacked the usual bustle of passing students.

As Richard walked across the stone slabs beneath the colonnade, the vast, empty cloister amplified each of his footsteps, echoing far into the distance.

The registration area was set up in the main hall just inside the entrance.

A long table stretched across the center of the hall, bearing two registration ledgers.

The ledgers had different colored covers.

The one on the far left was a crimson hardcover, with the words "Recommended Student" stamped in gold.

The one in the middle was plainer, bound in grayish-blue, and read "scholarship student."

Different registrars sat behind each ledger.

Standing in the corner of the hall, Richard quietly spread out his [Concealed Spirit Vision].

Using the ether naturally flowing through the hall, he let his threads of Inspiration drift over the crowd.

There were quite a few people registering—around a hundred in total.

Most were top students handpicked from various elite academies; their speech and attire were impeccable.

Yet, as Richard swept his gaze over them, he found that not even half of the hundred-odd students possessed actual ether circuits.

For the vast majority, his Inspiration threads swept past them without registering any difference from ordinary people.

They could study, they could memorize, and they could fight their way to the top in exam halls, but they had absolutely no connection to the world behind the veil.

On the surface, this was an academic selection; beneath it all, it was a process of labeling.

The moment they handed in their materials, everyone was silently categorized.

The scions of noble families placed their materials on the red ledger for the "Recommended Student" track.

Attendants immediately approached, guiding them to a waiting lounge on the side of the hall fitted with soft cushions.

The lounge was stocked with tea and pastries, offering a comfortable place to sit.

The hardworking commoner students lined up in front of the grayish-blue ledger for the "scholarship student" track. After registering, they were directed to wait on a row of benches in the corridor.

The benches were bare hardwood, devoid of any cushions.

Amid the crowd, Richard spotted the girl named Edith Carter.

She answered each of the registrar's questions one by one, her voice kept low, her spine perfectly straight.

After completing the procedures, she was directed to the very last seat on the hardwood benches in the corridor.

The other commoner students managed to exchange a few words with one another, gathering in twos and threes to whisper among themselves.

She sat at the very end. No one struck up a conversation with her, and she didn't try to mingle with anyone else.

Richard walked up to the long table. He was a recommended student.

The verification of recommendation letters was scheduled to take place after registration.

Pendleton sat behind the registration desk.

The administrative supervisor had changed into formal attire today, buttoned all the way to the top.

He accepted everyone's materials, flipped through them, and then handed them over for the seated person beside him to review.

That person wore a dusty-gray suit and remained expressionless, not speaking a single word from beginning to end.

A tiny emblem was pinned to his chest. Richard recognized it as the insignia of the Department of Internal Affairs.

The line moved forward.

It was Richard's turn.

He handed over his materials.

Pendleton took them and flipped through them page by page.

When he reached the letter tucked at the very back, his movements slowed.

It was sealed with wax, bearing Professor Mortimer's personal seal on the envelope.

Pendleton pulled the letter out and handed it to the Department of Internal Affairs representative beside him.

The several people behind the registration desk paused for half a second simultaneously.

Class sorting was scheduled for the day after registration. Nominally, it was an "academic proficiency test."

However, the testing method was extremely bizarre.

In an empty classroom, a few silver-backed engraved plates that Richard couldn't quite decipher were embedded in the walls.

The examinees entered one by one. Two elderly examiners sat inside.

They would have you press your hand against a copper plate on the desk and then recite a passage in Latin.

Whether you stumbled through it or recited it fluently, the examiners made no comment. They simply noted something in the roster and dismissed you.

When Richard went in, he spread his [Concealed Spirit Vision] very thinly.

He understood what was happening. That copper plate was for testing circuits.

The moment a hand pressed against it, the inscriptions on the plate would provide feedback on whether or not an ether circuit was present.

Reciting Latin was merely a smokescreen, a diversion to keep the ordinary children lacking circuits from catching on.

After the test, the class assignments were posted the next day.

There were two classes. Richard was sorted into the "Special Class."

The roster for the Ordinary Class was very long.

Those top students who had studied bitterly for years, believing they had finally squeezed into the Imperial Capital's highest institution of learning, crowded around the noticeboard searching for their names.

They breathed a sigh of relief upon finding them, only to turn around and realize they had been separated.

The notice did not state the reason for the separation.

"Both classes will share Basic Learning lectures."

When the schedules were handed out, Pendleton privately gave Richard the bottom line.

"The Special Class has an 'Additional Seminar' that the Ordinary Class cannot attend."

"What does the Additional Seminar cover?"

"You will find out in a few days."

Pendleton evaded the question, continuing:

"A Scholar originating from the Ordinary Class," he said, holding up a single finger, "will peak as a lecturer in this lifetime."

Richard's breathing slowed.

"Only those from the Special Class," Pendleton said, raising a second finger, "can ever reach associate professor."

"The work required of a full professor is entirely invisible to the people in the Ordinary Class."

Richard understood.

Those top students in the Ordinary Class who had studied so hard for years were shut out by an invisible glass wall.

They thought they had entered Imperial Capital University and that their futures were boundless, utterly unaware that a ceiling had already been sealed above their heads.

As Richard walked out, he bumped into one of the people shut out by that wall.

A boy was reading the class roster over and over again, confirming that his name had fallen into the Ordinary Class column.

He stood motionless in front of the noticeboard for a long time, an indescribable look of bewilderment on his face.

He didn't even know where he had been eliminated.