Chapter 271: By Royal Appointment

Richard locked his Spirit Vision on it.

The shadow chose the sparsest cluster of fragments and walked right into them.

The first fragment brushed past the shadow's left shoulder.

A barely visible burr instantly appeared along the edge of its left shoulder.

The second fragment grazed its right arm.

A third, a fourth—the shadow passed straight through the cluster of fragments.

Its entire outline—left shoulder, right arm, side of the waist, back of the knees... all those spots began to fray.

Yet the shadow stood steady. It hadn't dispersed.

Richard's tension eased.

He immediately applied [Breathing: Healing] to the shadow.

A wisp of warm ether flowed along the connecting thread between the two realms, seeping into the shadow.

The frayed edges smoothed out one by one, ending up even cleaner than before.

The shadow waded deeper from the edge of the shallows.

After a short distance, its movements turned erratic, swaying so much it could barely stand.

But it held together. Richard now had his baseline.

The shadow could withstand the first two types of training, and the improvement over his old method was visible to the naked eye.

As for swallowing the light, Richard decided to hold off a bit longer.

He ordered the shadow to train independently, then began flipping through Tide-Shifting Breathing.

Following the diagrams in the book, Richard adjusted his respiration.

His first inhalation was shorter than in Fourfold Breathing, and he held it for far less time.

On the second breath... things started feeling wrong.

As the second breath entered his lungs, his entire chest cavity jolted from the inside.

Pushed by the new breathing rhythm, the main circuit briefly faltered.

Richard's chest felt tight, like a stitch from running too hard.

He took the third breath much slower, and the trembling in his main circuit eased.

Richard roughly understood the process now. Sitting in his chair, he completed a dozen full breathing cycles.

The jolt in his chest gradually faded.

Stopping his Tide-Shifting Breathing, he leaned back in his chair.

After less than half an hour, his entire body ached.

Gripping the back of the chair, he panted for a long while before finally settling the rebellious breath in his lungs.

...

After breakfast the next day, Richard arrived at the lobby of the Royal Grand Hotel.

The lobby was relatively empty.

The red carpet had just been cleaned; the tips of the fibers were still damp, sinking softly underfoot.

A young woman in gold-rimmed glasses at the front desk glanced up at him before looking back down to organize the registry.

He headed toward the restaurant on the west side of the lobby.

"Are you here for breakfast, sir?"

A waiter stood behind the restaurant counter, a small copper nameplate pinned to his chest.

He was in his early forties, his posture impeccably straight.

"I'd like to order something to go."

"Certainly, sir. What would you like?"

"One portion of the Madagascar vanilla bean caramel pudding."

The waiter nodded but didn't immediately relay the order to the kitchen.

"How far will you be traveling with it?"

"Briston. On the ten o'clock train."

The waiter pulled a jar from beneath the counter.

It was cylindrical, with glass thick enough to reflect a person's silhouette, and a cork ring embedded in the lid.

The hotel's griffin crest was printed on the jar, with a gold-stamped label beneath it:

By Royal Appointment.

"This is indeed the model used by the royal family," the waiter explained proudly.

"Since 1862. Back when the hotel's old owner was still around."

Richard didn't care about that. 'By Royal Appointment' was just a merchant's excuse for a markup.

"How long can it preserve food?"

"Eight hours at room temperature." The waiter gestured toward the jar's seal.

"The cork ring inside the lid absorbs moisture and keeps the aroma intact. Beyond eight hours, however, we can't guarantee anything."

"How much?"

"Three shillings and sixpence for the jar, and one shilling and twopence for the pudding itself."

Richard smiled.

"The jar costs more than the pudding."

The waiter corrected him, deadpan.

"Sir, the jar will last a long time. The pudding will be gone in a single meal."

Richard nodded, not bothering to haggle at the restaurant entrance.

He simply pulled a sovereign gold coin from his inside pocket and placed it on the counter.

The waiter collected the coin and sent someone to the kitchen for the pudding.

While they waited, the waiter took a sheet of brown paper from under the counter and lined the jar.

The pudding was brought out on a small silver plate.

Its caramel surface was smooth and even, topped with a stiff dollop of whipped cream—clearly freshly made.

Using a silver spoon, the waiter slowly transferred the pudding into the glass jar.

Finally, he carefully nudged the dollop of cream into the center of the jar with the tip of the spoon.

He secured the lid tight, the cork ring giving off a very faint pop.

"Try not to shake it on your journey," the waiter said, counting out the change. "The cream on top will collapse."

"Thank you."

"Have a safe trip."

Richard carried the jar out of the lobby, imagining the look on Evelyn's face when she opened the lid.

She would probably squeal, then narrow her eyes in a greedy, cat-like smile.

His sister's smile was worth the price.

...

Inside the Imperial Capital Central Station, the waiting hall was packed.

Travelers with leather suitcases, clerks in black woolen suits, and elderly couples waiting arm in arm.

Newsboys held up today's "Imperial Morning Post," shouting the front-page headlines.

Trouble had broken out on Hemus Island again last night, but the papers didn't dare print the truth. They only stated, "The situation in the south remains to be observed."

Richard walked over to the ticket window and got in line.

Ahead of him was a woman with three children, haggling with the ticket seller.

Whether the youngest child qualified for a half-price ticket depended on his height.

The woman insisted her son was still an inch short of the half-ticket mark, while the ticket seller told her to go measure him against the ruler at the other end of the platform.

The line shuffled forward.

When his turn came, Richard passed his Imperial Capital University admission papers and identification through the window.

The railway company had an old rule.

Admission documents from any of the imperial capital's five great institutions of higher learning—Imperial Capital University, the Royal Academy, Trinity College, the Imperial School of Political Science and Economics, and the Imperial Medical College—granted a free second-class ticket.

It was supposedly the dying wish of a certain railway company director: "Let scholars afford the train."

In reality, it was nothing more than a polished public relations tactic by the company.

Only a few dozen students made use of it each year, making the cost negligible, but the boost to their reputation was immense.

But as someone benefiting from the perk, it certainly improved Richard's impression of the railway company.

The ticket seller, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache, took the documents and glanced at them. His movements paused for a beat.

"Imperial Capital University." He looked up at Richard. "The Department of Classics?"

"Yes."

"Heading to Briston?"

"Yes."

The ticket seller flipped to the last page of the document and checked the official seal at the bottom.

Looking down, he pulled a second-class ticket from a drawer and stamped it with a loud thwack.

"Second-class, fare waived."

"Congratulations, young man."

"Thank you." Richard tucked the ticket into his inside pocket and walked away.

A middle-aged man waiting in line behind him stepped up to the window.

"Was that young fellow just now on a free student ticket?"

"He's from the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University."

"Hah," the man clicked his tongue from beneath the brim of his hat. "You don't see many of those in a year."

"Classics is the hardest to test into," the ticket seller replied as he collected money.

"The Department of Classics only admitted fewer than forty people this year. You can count the ones coming up from the north on one hand."

(In addition to the special class, the regular class also admitted a small number of students.)

The man paid his fare and walked deeper into the waiting hall, glancing back at Richard on the way.

After boarding the train, Richard found his seat.

Sitting across from him was a middle-aged man in a gray coat and pince-nez glasses, holding today's evening paper spread open.

Beside him was an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard, smelling of cigars mixed with cologne.

Richard stowed his suitcase on the luggage rack and settled the glass jar securely on his lap.

He pulled out the reading list his aunt had written for him from his satchel, pondering his study plans for when school started in the autumn.

The train's whistle blew.

The carriage gave a jolt before slowly gliding out of the station.

The gray-coated man glanced over the top of his newspaper.

His eyes landed on the glass jar in Richard's lap, specifically the griffin crest on it.

"Did you dine at the Royal Grand Hotel, young man?"

"Just bought a pudding to take home."

The man in the gray coat nudged his pince-nez lower down his nose.

"The chef at the Royal Grand Hotel was poached from the Westminster Club. His skills certainly aren't lacking."

Richard offered a polite murmur in response and buried his head back in his reading list.

The white-bearded gentleman's gaze fell upon the list.

He squinted at the lines of Latin and Ancient Greek book titles for a moment.

"Still a student?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which school do you attend?"

"Imperial Capital University. Preparatory course for the Department of Classics."

At the mention of Imperial Capital University, the white-bearded gentleman's expression instantly changed.

He looked Richard up and down.

Young, very young. Holding serious academic material in his hands, with a container from the Royal Grand Hotel resting on his lap.

The fabric of his cuffs was simply tailored, lacking any flashiness of the nouveau riche.

"Impressive," he said sincerely. "Taking this train... are you heading north?"

"My home is in Briston."

The white-bearded gentleman nodded. "I know it. Famous for its mines, textiles, and ironworks."

"Yes."

"For a child from there to test into the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University takes real talent."

The man in the gray coat set down his newspaper and fully joined the conversation.

"My nephew took the exam three times the year before last and still didn't get in." He shook his head.

"The threshold for that university isn't something money can force open."

Richard offered a small smile and didn't reply.

"How old are you?" the white-bearded gentleman asked.

"Seventeen."

The white-bearded gentleman did the math in his head and clicked his tongue again.

"A seventeen-year-old prep student. The Cicero Cup... did you participate last year?"

The tip of Richard's pen paused at the edge of his reading list.

"I did."

"I believe first place last year went to a boy from Eton College, from the Montagu family."

"Yes."

"And where was the second-place winner from again?" The white-bearded gentleman tapped his forehead.

"I can never remember names."

Richard politely chimed in.

"Greenwood School."

"Oh, right, right."

The white-bearded gentleman's gaze lingered on Richard's face for a moment.

The gentleman in the gray coat had now fully put down his paper and was looking over.

"Young man, what is your name?"