Chapter 71: Summer Research Program

Mr. Hutton's class fell on a Friday.

The old gentleman taught as usual, rubbing his pipe at the podium and dropping half-finished, leading remarks at seemingly ordinary junctures.

Today's lecture covered the resource allocation systems of early colonies on the New Continent—pure administrative history, without the slightest connection to anything behind the veil.

The bell rang, and the students packed their bags, ready to stream out of the room.

"Williams, stay behind for a moment."

At those familiar words, the last few stragglers in the classroom tactfully quickened their pace and left.

Mr. Hutton waited until the voices in the corridor faded away before snapping his lesson folder shut and setting it on the corner of the podium.

"Did you make the list?"

"I did."

"Good."

The old gentleman rose from his chair and walked over to open the window.

The latch was rusted shut; it took him two hard shoves to force it open. A bitter wind carrying the scent of coal ash immediately poured into the room.

"Those on the recommendation list will have the opportunity to join the Imperial Capital Joint Higher Education Summer Research Program."

He pushed the window open another notch.

"You'll see the true value of that program once you get there."

Richard mentally filed the information away.

A summer research program co-hosted by higher education institutions.

The Classical Society was only an outer circle within the academic system behind the veil. A program co-hosted by these elite institutions would likely lead much deeper.

True to form, Mr. Hutton elaborated no further. He wedged the window half-open:

"Has the prize money from the Cicero Cup arrived?"

"I still need to pick it up from the bank."

"Mm." The old man nodded. "As long as you have a plan for it."

Richard smiled.

He certainly wouldn't squander the money once he had it; every last copper had already been earmarked.

With that in mind, he brought up a question he had been wondering about for quite some time.

"Sir, do you know any practitioners of the Path of the Abyss?"

Mr. Hutton paused, his pen suddenly still. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," Richard said. "And also... to be prepared."

"Practitioners of the Path of the Abyss aren't easy to spot," Mr. Hutton said, frowning.

"They don't emit ether fluctuations. That's because their ether isn't stored inside their bodies; it flows continuously through the channel connecting them to the veil.

You can't sense ether on them, just as you can't sense water on a riverbed after it's already flowed past."

"Then how do you identify them?"

"Through indirect evidence," Mr. Hutton said.

"Practitioners of the Path of the Abyss share a few behavioral quirks. It isn't an absolute rule, but they occur very frequently."

"First, they have an obsessive need to control their personal space.

Their homes, workspaces, and personal belongings are kept in immaculate order."

"This is because those on the Path of the Abyss spend extensive amounts of time operating at the very edge of the veil. The ether field behind the veil is chaotic, disordered, and drowning in noise.

To hold onto their sense of self in that environment, they have to establish a highly ordered 'anchor' in the real world. Their living space serves as that anchor."

"Second, they are unusually sensitive to sound and rhythm.

Practitioners on this path spend their time 'listening' to the flow of ether behind the veil. Over time, this intense training enhances their auditory perception in the real world to a terrifying degree."

"Third, and most importantly—they are incredibly lucid."

That last point caught Richard off guard.

"Practitioners of the Path of the Abyss are neither lunatics nor poor, tragic souls whose minds have been consumed by the darkness behind the veil.

Quite the opposite. They are more lucid than anyone else.

They know exactly what they are facing, what waits for them behind the veil, and the exact risks of sinking too deep."

"This clarity makes them remarkably... detached in their daily lives. They rarely show any emotional shifts when they speak or act, and they never do anything on impulse."

The old man sighed. "But it is precisely this lucidity that makes them more dangerous than anyone else."

"When a man who doesn't know the depth of a cliff stands at its edge, you can count on his fear to make him step back."

"But a man who knows exactly how far the drop is—who knows exactly what will happen when he hits the bottom—he will never step back."

"The problem is, the edge of the cliff is always moving."

"Because of all this, a practitioner of the Path of the Abyss isn't necessarily an enemy," the old man concluded.

"At least, not all of them."

After bidding Mr. Hutton farewell, Richard returned to his seat to pack his bag, only to find a brown paper parcel sitting dead center on his desk.

The parcel was tied tightly with thin twine in a neat bow, the frayed ends snipped perfectly even.

There was no writing on the paper, not so much as a single stray ink droplet.

He untied the twine and unfolded the paper.

Inside sat a rectangular Tin Box. A small, circular label was pasted to the lid, bearing a handwritten word: "Congratulations."

He opened the Tin Box to find three rows of neatly arranged pastries.

The first row held six lemon scones, slightly smaller than the ones she had previously brought to school. They were brushed with egg wash and baked to an even, golden brown.

The second row consisted of eight butter cookies cut into various shapes: stars, crescent moons, oak leaves, and one outline he had to study for a moment before recognizing it as an owl.

The bottom row held four fruit tarts, stuffed with fresh strawberries and blueberries.

The Tin Box was lined with parchment paper, and a few mint leaves were tucked underneath to keep the flavors from mixing.

Holding the Tin Box, Richard felt almost reluctant to eat them.

Putting this together had to have taken several times longer than baking a standard batch of scones.

The cookie shapes alone weren't something you could buy off the shelf. Grey had likely cut the molds herself from sheets of tin; there simply weren't any owl-shaped cookie cutters on the market.

He closed the Tin Box and slipped it into the side pocket of his bag.

Grey had left without saying a word, perfectly in character with how she always gave gifts.

She dropped the pastries on the desk and vanished. She didn't wait for him to open the box, and she didn't wait for a thank-you.

Richard shouldered his bag and headed out, nearly colliding with Hugh at the corner of the corridor.

The boy had been squatting by the base of the wall, his bangs once again flopping over his forehead.

Seeing Richard, he abruptly shot to his feet and slapped his thigh hard with his right hand.

"I told you that you could do it!"

Immediately after slapping his thigh, he tacked on an addendum, his voice dropping significantly:

"...Even though I spent most of the time convinced you couldn't."

He pulled his hand back and scratched the back of his head.

"But still, second place in the entire Empire... It almost sounds like a dream."

"Thanks."

"What are you thanking me for? I didn't help with anything."

Hugh plopped down onto the stairs. The bandages on his knees had been changed for fresh ones.

"I wasn't even a decent audience member when you were practicing your speeches. I just sat there nodding off and doodling chicken drumsticks."

"Your nodding off actually helped me calibrate my pacing," Richard said, pulling the Tin Box from the side pocket of his bag. "Do you want some?"

"Who made those?"

"Grey."

Hugh glanced at him but didn't reach out. He just sighed.

"Look at you. You get great grades, you're good at sports, you've got rich friends buying you dinner, and now the girls in class are regularly baking you pastries."

"Leave some room for the rest of us to survive, would you?"

"Do you want this owl one?"

"An owl... oh, this thing. This is an owl?"

Hugh studied it for a long moment. "I thought it was a fat pigeon."

"Forget it. A girl put her heart into making those for you. It wouldn't be right for me to take one."