Hugh had just picked up his pencil when Mr. Holland walked into the classroom.
He was carrying a paper tray, on which sat two fried chicken legs.
The golden-brown, crispy skin was still glistening with oil, and the savory aroma of breadcrumbs wafted from the doorway all the way to the front row.
The restroom and the cafeteria were in different directions. He must have gone specifically to buy the chicken, not to use the restroom at all.
Hugh’s eyes lit up the moment he saw the two chicken legs.
Mr. Holland placed the paper tray on the desk shared by the two students.
"I smelled it as I was passing the cafeteria, so I grabbed some on a whim."
He had bought two chicken legs on a whim, and neither was for himself.
He pushed the paper tray toward the two students, then sat down in the second row and took out a handkerchief to wipe the grease from his fingers.
"You’ve been practicing all afternoon. You won’t have the energy to walk if you don’t eat something."
Hugh was past the point of politeness. He grabbed a chicken leg with both hands and took a huge bite.
The skin was crispy, letting out a loud CRUNCH as the meat juices burst between his teeth.
He chewed a couple of times, an almost pious look of satisfaction spreading across his face.
Compared to the chicken leg he had just drawn, the real thing was clearly more persuasive.
Richard picked up the other one and took a bite.
The three of them were gathered around the front-row desk—two students gnawing on chicken legs, one teacher sitting behind them wiping his hands.
The school motto plaque hanging above the lectern, "Lux Rationis Semper Vincit," looked down upon the scene.
It probably never expected that right under the Light of Reason, a teacher and his students would turn the place into a picnic spot.
Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair and glanced at Hugh.
"Hugh, you look awful."
With his mouth full of chicken, Hugh mumbled, "I didn’t sleep well last night."
"Catching up on homework?"
"Not homework..." Hugh chewed a few times and swallowed the meat, looking a bit embarrassed. "I was listening to a game broadcast."
"Which one?"
"Stanfield’s away game."
Mr. Holland’s handkerchief paused between his fingers.
"The two-two draw?"
Hugh looked up, breadcrumbs still stuck to the corner of his mouth.
"Sir, you listened too?"
"I didn’t listen to the broadcast. I read about it in this morning’s paper."
Mr. Holland folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket, his triple chin resting on his collar.
"That shot in stoppage time that hit the post and bounced out—was that McGinnis?"
"Yes! That was him!" Hugh’s eyes brightened.
Fans of the city’s team shared a camaraderie that transcended age, a bond typically forged in mutual disappointment: year after year of hope, year after year sent home at the most critical moment by a goalpost, a follow-up shot, or fate itself.
But when the radio came on the next day, those who were meant to be there, were there.
Richard gnawed on his chicken leg, feeling a bit dazed as he watched the two interact.
Just ten minutes ago, Mr. Holland had been the strict teacher who dragged chairs to make noise and sternly corrected their pronunciation.
Now he was sitting next to the students with his legs crossed, chatting about the left goalpost and header rebounds, his triple chin quivering with the rhythm of his speech.
"Sir," Hugh suddenly said, looking up.
"Hm?"
"Next Wednesday, Stanfield is playing Bolton at home. Kick-off is at seven-thirty."
He took the pencil from behind his ear and twirled it between his fingers.
"Would you... want to listen to the broadcast together?"
Mr. Holland looked somewhat surprised.
"Are you inviting your teacher to stay up late listening to a soccer game?"
"But didn’t you say you watched three straight seasons without missing a game...?"
"That was when I was young. Now I’m a middle-aged man who has to get up early for class."
As he walked past Hugh, he took the handkerchief from his pocket. "Wipe your mouth. It’s all greasy."
Hugh quickly wiped his mouth and stood up, folding the handkerchief to return it.
"Keep it. It’s dirty anyway."
Mr. Holland tucked his lesson plan under his arm.
"Same time tomorrow. And have the excerpt from the second speech ready. Two versions."
He pushed the door open and started to leave, but after a few steps, he turned back.
"Hugh."
"Sir!"
"Get to bed early tonight. No listening to the broadcast. If you doze off in my class again, I won’t go easy on you."
The door closed.
Hugh stood there, looking down at the handkerchief in his hand.
It was made of linen, with a cursive "H" embroidered in the corner. The stitching was fine, and though it had been washed many times, it wasn’t frayed.
It was an expensive handkerchief, and its owner took very good care of it.
"He’s a really nice person," Hugh said softly.
"Of course he is," Richard said, tossing his chicken bone into the trash.
"I always thought Mr. Holland was one of those really strict teachers."
"He’s not a mean person to begin with. You’ve just developed a complex because he called on you in Latin class too many times and you couldn’t answer."
"Fair point." Hugh chuckled.
He folded the handkerchief carefully and put it in his pocket, patting it to make sure it was secure.
"I’ll have to wash it properly when I get home. My mom taught me you can get grease stains out by soaking them in cold water before scrubbing with soap."
As the two of them walked toward the door with their schoolbags, Hugh’s steps were noticeably lighter.
"Richard."
"Yeah?"
"Aren’t you tired from standing so long? Didn’t you used to get dizzy after standing for just ten minutes?"
"I’ve been working out lately."
"You’ve changed so much recently," Hugh sighed.
"Your grades are up, your reflexes are faster, and you can stand for forty minutes without getting dizzy... You haven’t been taking some kind of Spirit Medicine, have you?"
"I have. It’s called ’Proper Eating and Proper Sleep.’"
"Then how come it doesn’t work for me when I take it every day?"
"You don’t do the proper Sleep part."
"True," he admitted readily.
As they reached the classroom door, Hugh suddenly spoke up.
"When you go to the Imperial Capital for the competition, I won’t be able to help much... but the first meal when you get back is on me."
"On you?"
"I’ve been saving my allowance for two weeks." He grinned, his bangs shifting on his forehead.
"It’s enough for a bowl of oxtail and tomato soup."
"Deal. The first meal’s on you, the second’s on me."
"You’ve got it all figured out, huh?"
By the final week, Richard had also gone through all the remaining books on the third-floor bookshelf.
He screened them book by book, deciphering them section by section, and the stack of notes on white paper grew thicker and thicker.
Most of the hidden content overlapped with what he had found in the previous books.
The same terminology, the same classification frameworks—just with different wording, different points of emphasis, and the occasional detail not mentioned before.
The truly new information was concentrated in two books.
Hidden within the pages of a thin booklet were hand-drawn diagrams illustrating several common types of lower-level Seal structures.
Silver-backed Seals, copper-backed Seals, stone-carved Seals, and wooden Seals—the four mediums each had their own applications.
Silver was the most stable, suitable for passive Seals requiring long-term Maintenance.
Copper had the highest efficiency for conducting Ether, making it ideal for active Seals that needed frequent activation.
Stone had the largest capacity but was difficult to inscribe, so it was mostly used for large-scale, permanent Seals.
Wood was the most portable but also the most fragile, suitable only for temporary emergencies.
The basic grammar of Inscription symbols was also covered.
Square, angular strokes represented constraint, while curved lines represented guidance.
The essence of a Seal Inscription was to use geometric language to issue a command to the Ether Field: lock down everything within a specific area, allowing nothing in or out.
The hidden passages in the other book were even more detailed, providing diagrams for three basic Seal structures, along with the types of Evil Beings each structure was suited for and their Maintenance cycles.
Richard compared this information with the Seal on the base of the Sphinx Oil Lamp.
A circle enclosing a triangle, with short lines extending from the triangle’s three sides.
The circle meant "defining the scope," the triangle meant "Anchoring the contents," and the short lines were "safety valves to vent excess Ether."
It was a standard structure, a textbook-perfect, conventional Seal.
The designer had been a professional; every symbol was in its correct place.
He could even determine approximately when and by which school of thought this Seal was set.
The curve of the short lines was consistent with the writing style of the Priest’s Inscriptions from the middle Black Earth River region, and it was likely created not long after the Oil Lamp was cast.
Having taken the theoretical analysis this far, the next question naturally surfaced: ’How do I open it?’

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