Chapter Three on your own. Write down what you don't understand—don't pretend you do."

[Learning Lv.4, Progress 100%.]

He invested two points into it.

[Learning Lv.4 -> Lv.5.]

[Available Points: 1.61.]

The change arrived quietly. He looked back down at the stack of palm leaves. The remaining sixteen symbols fell into their proper places, one after another, all on their own.

There was no blind guessing. Propelled by the thousands of knowledge nodes already in his repository, those never-before-seen symbols naturally settled right where they belonged.

[Learning: General Knowledge]

[Increases decryption and learning speed for unseen languages, codes, and inscriptions. The magnitude depends on the user's existing knowledge reserves.]

That last half of the sentence was the key.

[Erudition] resolved his existing stock, ensuring he remembered everything he read.

[General Knowledge] resolved the new additions. For what he hadn't read, he could deduce it using what he had.

Whether he could deduce something, and how fast, depended entirely on the capacity of his knowledge base.

From the twenty-six books on Greenwood's third floor, to the Imperial Capital University Library, to his aunt's thirty-six-book reading list, to the discarded drafts in Mortimer's office, to every antique he had wiped down in the back room of Donner Antiquities and Sundries.

Things he had simply glossed over at the time, assuming they were completely useless, now served as the fuel to deduce his next piece of knowledge.

Richard restrung the palm leaves with hemp rope and got up, heading toward the seventh row.

The two easternmost shelves in the ancient texts section bore a label reading: "Astronomy and Calendars (Unclassified)."

He had visited once last year and flipped through two books, but left when he found them incomprehensible.

He walked over and pulled out the top one.

A passage on the third page discussed how to use the difference between two observations to deduce a previously unrecorded position.

The same concept appeared in the second chapter of the handwritten copy of the Condensed Mirror Method that his aunt had given him.

That chapter explained the transition from other breathing methods to the Condensed Mirror Method. At the bottom was a small note from the transcriber that he hadn't understood at the time:

"The difference between any two reflections is the locus of deduction."

Last winter in Room 314, his aunt had explained the Tradition of Change and its three directions—Reflection, Observation, and Substitution.

The Reflection branch became the Mirror Tradition, while the Observation branch became the Star Map.

Back then, Richard had only listened to it as an old story to broaden his knowledge. Now, holding the concepts of both sides simultaneously, he realized that even after centuries, the two techniques shared the same origin.

The Star Map governed Observation; the Mirror governed Reflection.

From start to finish, both were doing the exact same thing: using what was already seen to deduce what was not yet seen.

Richard closed the book and put it back. Not far away, he saw Director Wetherby dabbing at some damp patches with a dry cloth.

Many of the texts kept here were the only surviving copies. The director didn't trust outsiders to clean the area, so he personally handled much of the cleaning and maintenance of the ancient volumes.

Richard walked over. "Let me help you with that."

The white-bearded director waved his hand, signaling there was no need.

"I'm just looking for something to do. Sitting and reading in the study for too long makes my joints rust."

Beneath the steps of the museum's main entrance, a newsboy shouted in the rain.

Richard handed over a penny. The newspaper was already soggy when it reached his hands.

The front page featured a front-line situation report from a sector south of Ypres:

"The lowlands are muddy; offensives are temporarily halted. According to front-line correspondents, drainage operations in our military positions are proceeding smoothly."

The following paragraph had been deleted, leaving a small patch of blank space.

The blank space had been filled by the typesetter with an advertisement: a rheumatism cure for three shillings a bottle.

Richard tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked toward the bus stop.

The fifth draft of his paper was scheduled for August 24th.

That afternoon, MacFie and Mortimer were both at the Petrie Building—a rare occurrence.

The third-floor office had developed a new problem this year: the paint on the wall near the window had blistered and was seeping water.

Mortimer had asked a school groundskeeper to bring in an enamel basin to catch the drips, emptying it twice a day.

When Richard walked in, he noticed the basin was already nearly half full.

The old professor sat in his worn armchair, currently struggling with a pair of scissors and some paper.

"Professor."

"Don't come over. I've already ruined this piece."

Richard drew closer and saw clearly: the paper had absorbed moisture and turned soft as cloth. The moment the scissors pressed down, it crumpled, leaving frayed edges.

"...This joke collection of yours."

"I can't compile it this year." The old professor rested the scissors on his lap.

"In previous years, I could clip two hundred entries a year. This year, one clipping takes three minutes, and then I have to press it in a book overnight."

MacFie sat opposite him, arms crossed over his chest.

"Old Mo, you haven't gone fishing in half a month."

"The river has flooded."

"You still went when it flooded in previous years."

"..." Mortimer pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "The old man who sells fish stopped setting up his stall."

MacFie roared with laughter, making his chair creak under his weight.

"So where did those two you got last week come from?"

The old professor answered honestly, "The shop on Central Avenue had them. The price went up to six pence a fish."

"It's only four pence down by the river."

Richard sat down behind the desk by the window and spread out his draft, holding back a laugh.

MacFie began talking about his own experiences on field seal patrols.

"The stones up north are damp, too. The wax looks perfectly fine when you paste it on, but over a single night, it drips right down.

"We tried multiple times to no avail. In the end, I chased those two grad students off to sleep and kept watch myself until dawn."

"Why chase them off to sleep?"

"Because one of them yawned while chanting an incantation."

The white-haired giant threw his hands up.

"If the person reciting the judgment yawns, you have to start all over."

Mortimer polished his reading glasses.

"It's wet up north eight months out of the year. Aren't you folks used to it by now?"

MacFie said, "In previous years it was just wet. This year is different; everything's practically soaking in it."

The room quieted down. A drip echoed in the enamel basin.

"...Alright."

MacFie stretched a massive hand toward Richard. "Bring it over. Old Mo and I will take a look at it together."

The two professors took a copy each and flipped through it for about twenty minutes.

When they finished, MacFie was the first to speak.

"Old Mo, do you think anyone else can use Richard's technique?"

Mortimer grunted but said nothing.

MacFie turned his head. "Kid, have you thought about that yourself?"

"I have."

"Speak."

"They can't."

"Why not?"

Richard had prepared his answer long ago.

"This was inherently designed as a specialized modification of your Broken Branch Spell Formula. Reading reflections requires at least the Second Stage of an advanced breathing method from the Mirror Tradition."

MacFie's brow twitched.

"Furthermore, they need to be able to bring back whatever they can't finish reading on-site to analyze slowly."

"I have a few recording methods now. Once it's recorded, I can sit at a desk and study it for three days, reading it until I can draw exactly where the strokes start and finish with my eyes closed."

"What about Catherine?"

Richard shook his head.

"She follows Moon-Hunting. She's much more familiar with the Broken Branch than I am.

"But if I teach her how to strike a glass plane, her blade will only scratch the glass."

MacFie waved his hand, not looking terribly disappointed.

"...Fair enough, I wouldn't have much use for it myself anyway. If I want to kill someone, I just raise my hand and wipe them out. Why bother taking a detour through a mirror?"

"Old Mac, you've got that wrong."

Mortimer saw through to the core of the matter instantly. "The point of reading reflections isn't speed. It means he can hide first and strike later."

"You told me about that night at Ash Weir. From the moment Richard entered that shed, the evil creature never turned to look at him once."

"That was because he had a lot of concealment on him."

"Concealment is one thing; making a move is another." Mortimer pointed at Richard's hand.

"The moment his blade came down, the evil creature immediately spun around, but it was already too late."

"When that thing charged, it had to cross those dozens of meters first."

"Once this boy grows proficient and his Rank goes up, it definitely won't just be a few dozen meters."

Richard stood by the window, saying nothing.

The greatest advantage, which had taken him a long time to figure out, Mortimer had laid bare in a single sentence.

"Alright." Mortimer closed the draft and placed it on the corner of the desk.

"I'll seal this up for you for now. You might consider submitting it to the department archives; we can provide you with some compensation accordingly."

"What kind of compensation?"

"It depends on the final evaluation grade. Usually, it's access privileges to the reference room, or a batch of Spellcasting Mediums... If you're lucky, you could trade it for a decent artifact, or a spot on a field mission led by a Major Adept."

MacFie chimed in from the side, "With this piece of yours, an artifact is guaranteed. You just might have to wait for the quota."

Richard did the math in his head and declined.

"Professors, I won't submit this one for the time being."

"Why not?"

"Because it's one of the few capable methods I have at my disposal right now."

Richard made no secret of his reasoning.

"As soon as the materials are submitted, they enter the archives for others to read. I want to keep this hidden up my sleeve for now."

"Then when do you plan to submit it?"

"Once I reach Minor Adept, I'll turn in this original version. By then, I'll definitely have researched something else."

Mortimer held his chipped teacup and laughed.

"...You clever brat."

Heading down from the third floor, Richard bumped into Fischer at the second-floor corner.

It was nearing the end of August, and students were trickling back to campus.

The guy was clutching a stack of papers in his arms, the corners all wavy with moisture.

"Williams!"

"Your papers are wet."

"I know!" Fischer hitched the stack up in his arms. "My scores are completely smeared."

"But I came up with something new over the summer. Do you want to hear it?"

"...No." Richard waved him off and quickened his pace.

"I haven't even told you what it is!"

"I don't want to hear it no matter what it is."

"This one is called 'Rain.'"

Richard paused on the stairs.

"...That was the same concept as your last piece."

"It's different!" Fischer took a large stride in front of him and unfurled the wavy stack of paper.

"'The Silent Williams' was a single note drawn out to the very end to mimic your soundless walking. This one holds a single note for eight solid minutes."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is that it lasts longer."

Richard stared at him, thinking the guy's thought process was truly unique.

"Fischer, have you ever considered that a single note for eight minutes will put the audience to sleep?"

Fischer pulled the papers back to his chest and stood perfectly straight.

"That is exactly my theme."

Richard was momentarily stunned.

"It's been raining for over ten days. Do you even hear it anymore?"

Richard turned his head. The rain had been drumming incessantly, never stopping since he went upstairs, yet he had already grown completely accustomed to it.

"...I didn't expect it, but you actually have caught the creative bug."

Fischer took it strictly as a compliment and fished a pencil from his pocket.

"Then write the title for me! My handwriting is awful!"

...

On Saturday, Richard took Hugh out to eat.

He arrived early and took a seat at the table by the window.

Richard flipped through the menu and then closed it.

"Two roast chicken legs."

"Sir, just the chicken legs?"

"Bring these two first. I'll order the rest when my guest arrives."

The chicken legs were still steaming when they were brought out, the skins blistered from the roast.

Richard set the two plates apart—one in front of him, the other opposite.

After a short wait, the door curtain was lifted.

"Richard!"

Hugh stood in the doorway, dripping wet from head to toe.

He hadn't brought an umbrella. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and water clung to his eyelashes.

But the hard cardboard tube cradled in his arms was completely dry. It was wrapped in two layers of oilcloth, which were in turn enveloped in his own coat.

"...Where is your umbrella?"

Richard quickly got up and hailed a waiter for a dry towel.

"The umbrella is covering the tube."

Hugh spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Then I realized the rain was coming down sideways, and the umbrella was useless, so I just shoved it in my bag."

The waiter brought a towel. Hugh wiped his face a few times and, seeing the plate on the table, didn't stand on ceremony.

He grabbed the chicken leg, took a massive bite, and mumbled with bulging cheeks, "...You still remembered."

"Of course. You never cashed in that chicken leg coupon I gave you for Christmas, so I had to take the initiative."

Hugh gave an embarrassed laugh. He truly hadn't been able to bring himself to use it.

Richard picked up his own chicken leg.

The two of them sat facing each other, gnawing on their chicken legs in silence.

"Do you still remember our lunches back then?" Hugh asked suddenly.

"I do."

"The cheapest black bread. Two pence for a huge chunk."

Hugh held up his hands to show the thickness. "The soup was free, but you couldn't really call it soup."

"It was just hot water. They wouldn't even spare enough salt for it." Richard also had plenty of complaints when he thought back to it.

Hugh put his chicken leg down. "One day you pushed the salt shaker over to me and said something. Do you remember?"

Of course Richard remembered.

At the time, he had told Hugh: "Sprinkle some salt, close your eyes, and pretend it's soup."

"Hugh, I have money now."

"Yeah."

"This meal is my treat."

"I know."

"From now on, every meal is on me."

Hugh looked up, his eyes a little red, though he was still smiling.

"Then I'll definitely order something expensive."

After they finished eating, the waiter cleared the plates, leaving an empty expanse on the table.

Hugh pulled out the cardboard tube. Richard had mailed his manuscript along with a letter earlier.

"Richard, I spent all summer working a part-time job drawing soap for a factory.

"They wanted the suds to look white, soft, and gleaming.

"When I first started, I told them the suds in the sample drawings were too dense and looked fake."

"What did they say?"

"They said: 'Little sir, this is an artistic consideration.'"

This time, Richard genuinely laughed out loud.

"So when I read about your Vice Minister..." Hugh threw his hands up.

"When I read about him, I realized that people like this are everywhere in the Empire."

Richard took the drawings and stared at them for a long while, somewhat baffled.

"...You drew the Minister to look like our school's Dean of Studies."

Hugh scratched his head.

"I don't know how it ended up like that. After I read your manuscript, the first person that popped into my head was that man standing at our school's podium."

"And this Vice Minister?"

"...I drew him like the Vice Principal."

The second version featured two fat men. The third version was one fat man and one thin man.

When he flipped to the fourth drawing, Richard shook his head.

"The Vice Minister's eyes are too venomous in this version."

"Is venomous bad?"

"If they're venomous, he just becomes a villain." Richard pushed the drawing back.

"He isn't a villain. He's lived this way for twenty-seven years, and he genuinely believes he's the one holding this country together."

"Honestly, making him look like anyone specific won't work."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Richard felt a pang of guilt. How had he become the exact kind of difficult, demanding client he used to despise?

Fortunately, Hugh didn't mind. He simply waited with a look of utter confusion for Richard to continue.

"Why not?"

"If you draw him like our Dean of Studies, the students will take one look and laugh."

"Isn't that good?"

"It's bad. Because then only people from Greenwood would enjoy reading the magazine."

Hugh drew in a sharp breath, seeming to grasp something.

Richard set down his cup.

"Hugh, don't draw him to look like someone. Draw him to look like everyone."

Hugh sat there, hands resting on his knees.

"...I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I've been drawing a person. What you want isn't a specific person."

He gathered the drawings from the table, rolling them back into the tube one by one.

"Give me two days."

"There's no rush."

"I'm in a rush." Hugh hugged the tube to his chest and stood up. "I want to go back and draw right now."

"It's still raining outside."

Hugh unbuttoned his coat and tucked the tube back inside.

"It's fine, the drawings won't get wet."

Two days turned into four. On the evening of the fourth day, Hugh knocked on Richard's dorm door.

When Richard opened the door, he found Hugh with dark circles under his eyes and cracked lips; he had clearly pulled multiple all-nighters.

"This time I've brought the eighteenth version. I tore up the first seventeen."

Hugh shoved the cardboard tube into Richard's hands and leaned heavily against the doorframe without another word.

Richard unrolled it on the desk. There were two drawings in total.

On the left was a man with a protruding belly, his chin raised high, one hand stretching forward as if delivering some grandiose speech.

On the right was a man standing half a step behind him, eyes narrowed, both hands tucked away inside his sleeves.

Neither face possessed any concrete facial features.

Richard held up the paper, studying it for a long time.

He suddenly remembered last year, when he had pinned the first name onto the Shadow.

The Shadow had no face, and precisely because it had no face, if you called it a shield, it was a shield; if you called it a nail, it was a nail.

The two faces spread across his desk now were exactly the same. Anyone could fill in the blanks with the specific person they knew.

"...Hugh."

"How is it?" Hugh still leaned against the doorframe, his voice weak.

"How much have you slept these past five days?"

"...Just tell me how the drawings are first."

Richard turned around.

"They're excellent. I have to treat you to another meal."

Hugh's entire body rebounded off the doorframe.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then I want..."

"Don't order chicken legs."

"...Why!"

"I'm sick of them."

When they arrived at the editor-in-chief's office of the Century Review, the chief originally only intended to pay for the column, claiming illustrations were mere page decorations and the editorial department would find someone themselves.

Richard put his silver tongue to work.

"Sir, once these two faces appear, it will leave a far deeper impression on the readers."

The editor-in-chief adjusted his reading glasses.

"Young man, I've been in this business for thirty years."

"Then you should know better than I do."

Richard refused to yield an inch. "The last time the entire Empire remembered something, it was a recruitment poster depicting a mother holding her child, and it didn't have a single word on it."

He and the editor-in-chief bickered for a long time. The final agreement they signed stipulated a combined payment for text and illustration, with the artist's name credited next to the drawing.

Leaving the editorial office, Richard spread the settlement slip on the restaurant table.

"A thirty-seventy split. You get thirty."

Hugh immediately set his plate down.

"No way. You wrote it; I just drew based on your content."

"Your share for this issue comes out to three pounds and two shillings."

Richard pushed the slip forward.

Staring at the figure, Hugh's face slowly turned red.

"...Richard, that's four months' worth of soap advertisements for me."

"Perfect. Then you can stop drawing soap."

Richard handed over the pen for him to sign. "If you refuse to take it, I'll illustrate the next piece myself."

"You know how to draw?"

"I don't."

"Then how will you..."

"I'll draw a stick figure," Richard said with complete deadpan sincerity.

Hugh couldn't hold back his laughter.

In the signature column, he wrote a single letter.

"h."

"Why not write your full name?"

"You didn't write yours either."

For "Prudent Gentlemen," both the original text and the comic had been placed on the serialization roster for the next batch of magazines.

Meanwhile, the sample booklets mailed from Duckworth Printing Factory had arrived.

Richard opened the package in his dorm room, with Sophia and Clara present.

Isabella had dispatched the two of them to deliver the autumn reading list, and after dropping it off, they had unapologetically loitered.

Collection of Strange Tales: Co-Authored Edition, Volume One.

It was much thicker than the previous penny booklets, and the paper stock had been upgraded.

"It's dry," Clara said first.

She picked up the booklet and flipped through it. "That printing boss of yours has a lot of pride in his work."

Sophia snatched it away and turned straight to the copyright page.

"Wow."

That row of names had essentially roped in everyone they knew:

Mr. L (Editor), Corbin (Folklore Recording), Croft (Folklore Consultant; Not Responsible for Proofreading), Edith Carter (Oral Dictation Arranger), Charlotte Dawn (Editor).

Beneath that was another row of other people's names, where Sophia located herself and Clara.

Richard hadn't dared to include the full professors' names.

Professor Mortimer had said, "I won't sign it. If I sign it, it becomes an official publication, and nobody trusts the officials."

Richard slowly traced the pad of his finger over that row of names.

If a booklet is written by only one person, crushing it only requires crushing one person.

To crush it now, one would first have to crush a full professor's student, two associate professors, a recommendation quota student newly registered with the department, the Dawn Family paper mill, Duckworth Printing Factory, and a whole slew of other appended names.

And after crushing all of that, they still had to answer a single question: exactly which line in this booklet was wrong?

Richard closed the booklet and got up to shut the window.

It was still raining outside.

...

On the first day of school, it rained all night in the Imperial Capital, yet by morning it had cleared up with unreasonable brightness.

At the very top of the row of notices on the bulletin board sat a new one:

"Wartime Course Merger Notice: Due to faculty reallocation, this academic year's Inscriptiology: Introduction to Seal Structures will be taught as a combined class for first-year undergraduates and the special preparatory class.

"Instructor: Lecturer Silas Penrose."

Richard searched his memory for the name.

This Silas Penrose should be the champion from the last Debate Week.

Senior Clara seemed to have mentioned that he had advanced to Minor Adept and had been rehired by the university, but Richard hadn't expected him to be teaching so soon.

The large lecture hall on the east wing had been used for general classes for all preparatory students last year.

This year, the long desks had been rearranged. The front four rows were empty, with brass plates nailed to the backs of the chairs reading: "First-Year Undergraduates."

Richard sat in the second row by the window. Fischer plopped down next to him, only realizing where he was after he sat.

"...Is it against the rules for me to sit here?"

"Combined class means combined class."

"Then I won't stand on ceremony."

Montagu entered through the back door, gave a slight nod in their direction, and sat down diagonally behind them.

He appeared indifferent on the surface, but in truth, he had endured quite a few lectures at home over the summer.

His family was rushing him to finish his preparatory studies and enter the undergraduate program, but Montagu suffered in silence.

Edith, hugging her illustrated bestiary, sat in the seat closest to the window.

Catherine was the last to walk in. As she passed down the aisle, she glanced at Richard but didn't sit next to him.

At eight o'clock on the dot, the door opened.

The person who walked in was younger than Richard had imagined.

Twenty-five or twenty-six, with light brown hair combed casually, his dark gray suit looking slightly loose on his frame.

He carried no lecture notes, simply greeting the students below with a pulse of ether.

"Silas Penrose. This class is mine this year."

As that ether pressed down, the faint rustling in the classroom ceased entirely.

Sitting in the second row, the water mirror in Richard's chest reflected it perfectly clearly.

A Practitioner's ether was supposed to seep outward, rubbing off wherever they went, leaving traces along the way.

Richard had reflected far too many people this past year—Montagu, Catherine, Fischer... Every single one of them seeped outward. The only difference was how much.

Silas did not.

"I won't be handing out lecture notes."

The man unrolled a bundle of rubbings in his hand.

"In the subject of Inscriptiology, lecture notes ruin people.

"You copy down the conclusion, and the conclusion becomes yours, but you never actually experienced the process of reaching it."

"The first task: dating."

He distributed the rubbings to the first few rows.

"Take one each and look at it. Do not flip it over. The answer is written on the back. If you flip it, you'll have wasted your time coming here."

The rubbing Richard received was covered from top to bottom with creeping arcs, with several rigid square folds embedded within them.

Fischer held his up to his eyes, his face slowly falling.

"...What is this?"

"Take a guess." Silas had his back to them, writing something on the blackboard.

"I guess the fourteenth century."

"Why?"

"Because half the answers are always the fourteenth century."

A few people in the classroom chuckled. Silas laughed too, turning around.

"Late eleventh to early twelfth century. The one in your hand was rubbed from the lintel of a Norman church cellar.

"The person taking the rubbing had a shaky hand, so the left column is half a point lower than the right."

Fischer flipped the rubbing over, somewhat surprised.

"...Sir, you didn't even look at it just now."

"I did look."

"When did you look?"

"When I handed it to you."

Silas stepped down from the podium and walked down the aisle.

He didn't walk fast. As he passed the first row, before the undergraduate student could even hold his rubbing steady, Silas already announced:

"Late Alexandrian School, around 1430. The transcriber was left-handed."

Second row: "Carolingian minuscule, mid-ninth century. This one was rubbed from the base of a bronze statue."

Third row, Edith's copy: "...Pre-Roman."

He stopped. Edith raised the rubbing slightly higher.

"This one is interesting," Silas said.

"The base is Pre-Roman Celtic. The middle was Romanized once, and the third layer is medieval Church Latin stamped on top. Three layers spanning nearly two thousand years."

"Sir, can you tell which specific location it's from?"

"I can't tell."

He answered crisply.

"Dating an era and identifying a location are two different things. The era is carved into the strokes; the region is carved into the hand.

"I haven't spent time in the Highlands."

Edith lowered the rubbing, a gleam in her eyes.

When it was Richard's turn, Silas stood by the aisle and glanced across half the desk.

"Late twelfth century, Frankish."

Richard nodded.

"What year did you just date it to?"

"Late twelfth century."

Silas's brow twitched.

"How did you date it?"

"The finishing strokes of the arcs hook back." Richard pointed.

"The Romanized batch doesn't hook. Hooking back means later people were copying it, and they brought their own habitual strokes into it as they transcribed."

A wave of whispers rippled through the classroom.

"...What is your name?"

"Richard Williams."

"Oh," Silas said. "The one who graduated early."

He didn't probe further, turning around to return to the podium.

In the second half of the class, Silas drafted a seal structure on the blackboard.

From the first stroke to the last, he completed it in one continuous motion. There were no pauses to cross-reference, nor did he use chalk to draft it on the side first.

When he finished, he dropped the chalk into the tray and turned around.

"This structure is on page forty-seven of your textbook."

Below the podium came a flurry of flipping pages.

Then, without utilizing any medium whatsoever, Silas directly constructed a three-dimensional model out of thin air using ether.

And right until the dismissal bell rang, that model didn't shift a single inch—something the vast majority of lecturers could not do.

Richard looked at the model. He had seen plenty of Minor Adepts, but this seemed to be the first Minor Adept Scholar he had met at such a young age.

"Alright."

Silas gave his five fingers a faint squeeze, and the model dissolved.

"That's it for today. For the next class, read Chapter Three on your own. Write down what you don't understand—don't pretend you do."

About half a minute after the bell rang, the back door opened.

Associate Professor Hollis came in hugging a stack of old blueprints. His back was somewhat hunched, and he had to support himself on the edges of the desks as he walked.

Richard had seen him several times last year in the Compilation Group. He was a veteran of the Department of Classics who had taught seal studies for decades; his hair was mostly white, and his slow manner of speaking could put someone to sleep.

The old man walked to the front of the podium and set down the stack of blueprints.

"Penrose."

"Sir."

"That finishing stroke you were just lecturing about." Hollis pulled out the top blueprint and pushed it forward.

"I have an original sketch from 1869 here."

Silas looked down at it.

"This one is correct."

"Yes." The old man nodded.

"From now on, for this course, you lecture your way, and I'll lecture mine. The students can compare for themselves."

With that, he turned to wipe the blackboard. Silas took the eraser from his hand.

The two of them stood there—one erasing, one watching—and neither said another word.

Richard slung his canvas bag over his shoulder and walked out.

By the time he reached the door, Fischer had caught up from behind, leaning close to his ear to whisper.

"Last year, when he sat with us in the Iliad Hall preparation area, he even fought me over the tea."

"What tea was he fighting over?" Richard asked casually.

"Darjeeling. It was the afternoon of the first day of Debate Week, and there was only one pot left on the refreshment table."

Fischer grew increasingly indignant as he spoke.

"I touched the handle first, and he actually said to me, 'Classmate, I have to take the stage later.'"

"And then what?"

"Then I gave the pot to him."

Richard laughed aloud.

"I figured, well, the guy did have to take the stage after all," Fischer said.

Fischer pulled his collation papers to his chest.

"And then he went up there, won the championship, and came back this year as our lecturer."

...

The windows in Room 314 were all wide open today. The pot of mint on the sill had grown as high as the window frame.

Isabella sat behind the writing desk. The endlessly ungraded stack of exams was absent from the table today.

There was only a single sheet of paper placed on top. Its four corners bore incredibly fine silver thread watermarks, radiating ether fluctuations.

"Sit opposite me," his aunt said.

Richard took the seat across from her.

Sophia was curled up in the chair by the window, hugging her knees, uncharacteristically silent.

Clara stood straight-backed beside the desk.

Isabella turned the paper around and slid it to the center of the desk.

Minor Adept Advancement Qualification Application Form

Beneath it was a line of small print: pma jat; Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University; for Departmental Affairs Meeting records.

Richard's breathing slowed. He glanced at Clara standing nearby, understanding exactly why his aunt had called him over today.