Chapter 70: A Veteran's Advice

"The Practitioner rank is the most comfortable stage on the entire path of ascension."

"You possess abilities far beyond ordinary people. You can cast Spell Formulas, perceive ether, and banish lower-tier evil creatures.

These abilities are more than enough to earn you a perfectly respectable status in the Surface World.

Whether teaching in a school as a Scholar, holding an official post as a Hunter, or taking private jobs as a Secret."

"You can live a richer, safer, and far more influential life than the vast majority of people."

"At the same time, the light you cast behind the veil remains shallow.

The things deep inside won't notice you, and naturally, they won't come looking for trouble.

Most can live out their days in peace and die safely in their own beds."

"If you ask me what advice I have for a fledgling Newcomer, it is this: stop once you reach Practitioner.

Build a good life from that position, take care of your family, and stick to what you can handle."

"That isn't cowardice; it's wisdom."

"I've seen too many Practitioners grow dissatisfied and push for more, only to feed themselves to waiting maws."

"The world behind the veil doesn't lack explorers. It lacks explorers who make it back alive."

"The survival rate at the Practitioner stage is far higher than at any Rank above it."

"Because at this stage, you don't have to perform any rituals."

Richard noticed the author mentioning rituals again.

The earlier text had focused heavily on the Signature, but a Signature was exactly that—signing a supernatural item, not a ritual.

From Newcomer to Practitioner, nothing in the entire process required you to "declare" yourself to whatever lay behind the veil.

You only had to wait for your micro-circulation to stabilize, pick a path, pass the probatio, and sign your name on a supernatural item.

The veil knew you existed, but it wouldn't open its door a single inch wider in response.

You stood outside. The light leaking through the crack was just enough for you to do your work, but the door itself remained shut.

But what about the Ranks above Practitioner?

He flipped back a page in his notebook to pick out the next batch of cipher words.

The moment his pencil touched the paper, a dull ache throbbed at the back of his head.

He paused and waited a few seconds. The pain didn't worsen, but it didn't fade, either.

Richard glanced at the sky through the gap in the curtains.

It was pitch black outside; even the streetlights were hard to make out.

He looked down at the loose sheets scattered across his desk. He had filled four pages top to bottom with comparative analysis and translation.

Over two hours had slipped by.

He checked his hand, finding a faint red mark rubbed into the skin between his thumb and index finger from the pencil.

He set the pencil down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

Fourfold Breathing activated.

Inhale for four beats, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four.

Warmth spread from the Seat of the Sun, traveling up his spine. When it cleared his neck and reached the back of his head, it collided head-on with the knot of dull pain.

The two sensations briefly intertwined.

A few breathing cycles later, the warmth enveloped the ache, dulling its edge without erasing it entirely.

It felt like a shard of ice on the tongue; it had melted down in the heat, but a hard, unyielding core remained to remind him it was there.

Mr. Hutton's words surfaced in his mind:

"Reading occult knowledge without the proper foundation creates a massive mental burden. Mild cases trigger headaches and hallucinations. Severe cases..."

He opened his eyes and studied the translated drafts on his desk.

Four sheets of paper, detailing the essence of Ranks, the complete Signature process, the qualitative shift of becoming a Practitioner, and the author's personal advice.

The information density wasn't exceptionally high. Half the text consisted of plain explanations rather than a dense pile-up of jargon.

Yet, he still felt its weight.

That weight wasn't a metaphor.

The words hadn't felt like much as he translated them.

But afterward, they began to settle in his mind. Once they piled up thick enough, his brain started issuing overload warnings.

He still had class tomorrow.

Friday's schedule was packed. He had Mr. Hutton's history class and Mr. Holland's Latin class in the morning, followed by a geography exam in the afternoon.

Forcing himself to keep decoding in this state would only wreck his efficiency and spike his error rate.

Furthermore, if he walked out of his bedroom tomorrow looking exhausted, his family would definitely interrogate him.

Richard stacked the drafts in order and locked them in a drawer with his notebook.

He switched off the desk lamp, and the room went dark.

He sat in the dark for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.

A faint sliver of light seeped through the curtains—likely moonlight reflecting off the opposite roof.

His brain was still chewing on what he had just read.

Practitioner was the most comfortable stage on the entire path of ascension.

The author's advice was earnest and frank—heartfelt words from someone who had walked the path.

He remembered his conversation with Phillips in the library after the Cicero Cup.

Going down was easy; coming back up was hard.

But if you didn't go down, could you really just stay where you were?

Logically, the two ideas didn't contradict each other.

Staying at Practitioner was indeed a wise choice—provided your circumstances allowed it.

What if the environment changed one day, and the things behind the veil started actively seeking you out?

Richard pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes.

In the quiet of the room, his breathing fell into its usual steady rhythm.

His last thought was: 'I'll continue tomorrow night. The second half should only take a single evening.'

...

Richard woke up on Friday morning before his alarm went off.

The first thing he did upon opening his eyes was check the back of his head.

The dull ache was completely gone, without a trace left behind.

A full night's sleep, combined with the passive recovery of his level-three [Body] skill, had digested last night's mental burden.

He rolled out of bed, dressed, and washed his face. His steps felt lighter than usual as he headed downstairs.

The sizzle of frying eggs and the aroma of black tea drifted from the kitchen to the stairs.

Evelyn was up even earlier today. She already had her apron tied and her hair pulled back in a crisp ponytail.

"Morning," she said without looking back, sliding a fried egg onto a plate.

"Morning."

Richard sat down at the dining table.

Evelyn set the plate in front of him, bent down, and leaned in to scrutinize his face.

"You have dark circles."

"Yeah."

"Stay up too late?"

"I was reading late."

"What book?"

"Latin."

The girl straightened up, her mouth pulling into a frown.

That word had become an exclusive code between the two siblings.

No matter what Richard was doing—locking his door, drawing the curtains, working up a sweat, or staying awake half the night—his final excuse was always Latin.

Evelyn tossed her apron over the back of a chair and sat across from him with a huff. "...Don't just dip your bread in the yolk. Eat the whites, too."

"Oh."