The answer was no.
He had searched through every book. They all explained what a Seal was, why it was designed in a certain way, and compared the pros and cons of various structures.
But as for how to break one, not a single word was mentioned.
Richard leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a long time.
The reasoning was actually quite simple: teaching someone to identify a Seal was disaster prevention, but teaching them to break a Seal was handing them a weapon.
Teaching how to break a Seal in introductory materials would be like including a Chapter on how to commit the most destructive arson in a fire safety manual.
Among the available knowledge on these shelves, finding the introductory Breathing Technique for the Golden Path was already an act of immense generosity.
He couldn’t even dream of finding the procedure for breaking a Seal here.
The thought of asking Mr. Hutton had crossed his mind, but he extinguished it after mulling it over for a moment.
There were two reasons.
First, his motive wouldn’t be plausible.
Why would a poor student save up two pounds to buy an Ancient Bronze Artifact—a lamp from the Black Earth River Basin?
As a collector’s item? For decoration? Mr. Hutton had met countless people; such excuses wouldn’t fool him.
The moment the old gentleman asked, "What do you plan to do with this lamp?"
He would be forced to choose between revealing some of his secrets and losing Mr. Hutton’s trust by telling a lie that would inevitably be seen through.
Both options were dead ends. It was better not to ask at all.
The second reason was more fundamental.
Even if he asked how to break the Seal, there was no guarantee the man would actually give him the answer.
Mr. Hutton’s attitude had always been clear: ’I’ve shown you the path. How far you walk on it is up to you.’
The bookshelf locations were precise down to the row and shelf. The reference chart was one-of-a-kind, to be kept safe after reading.
Observing the Seal in person? Go if you want. How much you learn is up to you.
Every step was about giving him an opportunity to engage, but never doing the work for him.
He used a passive method of selection: the door was there, but whether to push it open was Richard’s business.
Those who could push it open on their own proved they were qualified to enter.
Those who couldn’t, and turned back, lost nothing in the process.
After organizing his notes for the day, Richard filed them chronologically in his notebook.
The notebook was more than halfway full. Dense pencil script stretched from the first page to the third from the end. He locked it away in his drawer.
He turned off the desk lamp, and the room fell into darkness.
The curtains weren’t drawn completely, and a sliver of moonlight slipped through the gap, landing precisely on the edge of his desk.
Richard sat in the darkness for a while.
’So far, I’ve really just been eating a free lunch.’
Everything Mr. Hutton had provided—the Mysticism bookshelf, the reference chart, the on-site study of the Seal, the silver coin, the Ashen Grass—he hadn’t been charged a single copper for any of it.
But the free lunch had its limits, and he had just reached them.
He had already hit the ceiling of what those twenty-six books could teach him.
He had the theoretical framework, the system of terminology, the three professional paths, and the seven Tiers.
From this point on, he needed to use his own abilities to acquire more resources.
In the Surface World, the Cicero Cup was the first entry ticket within his grasp.
The prize money would solve his immediate financial problems. The recommendation list would provide a steady channel of income and serve as a stepping stone into a High-level Academy.
And in the world behind the Curtain, he needed an entry ticket as well.
But he still couldn’t see clearly what that ticket looked like.
The only thing he knew for certain was that no matter which path he took, he first had to become a person of value.
Valuable enough that others would be willing to share their deeper knowledge with him.
He stood, walked to the window, and drew the curtains shut.
Returning to sit on the edge of his bed, he closed his eyes and began his daily Breathing Technique practice.
Inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four beats, hold for four beats.
A warmth emanated from his Throne of the Sun, holding steady during the exhalation phase without dissipating.
That morning, Evelyn was in the kitchen, frying an egg.
Strictly speaking, she fried two: one for Richard and one for herself.
The oil in the pan sizzled. The edges of the white had formed a crispy, lacy skirt, and the yolk rose plumply in the center, cooked just to a perfect runny state.
"The one I made you last time was overcooked. The yolk was completely hard."
She placed the plate on the table. "This one’s much better."
"When did you start caring so much about how the eggs are cooked?"
"I’ve always cared." Evelyn took off her apron and hung it on a hook behind the door. "You just couldn’t tell the difference before."
Richard dipped a corner of his bread into the runny yolk and popped it into his mouth.
"Mm, you’re right. It’s better than last time."
"Of course it is."
Evelyn sat down across from him and scooped a spoonful of marmalade onto her own bread.
Her mouth was busy, but her eyes weren’t. She was constantly observing her brother.
She had grown accustomed to observing him like this recently.
Richard’s complexion was getting better every day.
It wasn’t the superficial healthiness that came from wearing makeup or getting twelve hours of sleep; this was a comprehensive improvement.
Color had returned to his cheeks, the hollows under his eyes weren’t as deep, and his lips had gone from chapped and pallid to a healthy, light red.
Even the speed at which he ate was different.
He used to have a poor appetite, taking ten minutes to nibble through half a slice of bread. Now, he polished off two slices and an egg in under five minutes.
"Richard."
"Hm?"
"What have you been doing lately? I haven’t seen you exercising or anything."
"Going to bed early, waking up early, and eating more."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it."
Evelyn cut off a crispy edge of her egg white with her fork, popped it into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.
She felt like her brother was giving her a dismissive answer again, but she couldn’t find any grounds to argue.
He really was going to bed early, waking up early, and eating more. It was an iron-clad fact staring her in the face.
"Fine," she said, pushing her plate away and wiping her mouth. "Anyway, it’s a good thing that you’re healthy."
The topic shifted from idle chatter to what was really worrying her. "Mom said we need to start preparing for the trip to the Imperial Capital soon."
"Yeah."
"Are you nervous?"
"Not really."
"Well, I am."
Richard glanced at her.
Evelyn twisted a braid around her finger.
"At the last gathering, the way our relatives looked at us..."
The feeling of being from a minor branch of the family at the main family’s gathering—of being looked up and down only to receive a polite, dismissive smile—was something you’d remember for a lifetime after just one experience.
"This time is different," Richard said, finishing his tea. "Grandfather specifically asked to see me this time."
"That’s what makes it so nerve-wracking."
"Don’t be. Just stick with me when we’re there."
The girl stared at him for a moment, then unwound her finger from her braid.
"You say that like you’re so experienced."
"I may not have been there many times myself, but I have been reading a lot lately."
"And reading is supposed to solve issues of poise and etiquette?"
"...It actually can. Haven’t you ever heard the saying? ’Books are the tools for building the soul.’"
Evelyn, feeling she was losing the ability to win arguments against him, pouted and stood up to clear the table.
As she reached the kitchen doorway, she turned back out of habit to call out her usual reminders.
"Come home early tonight. Don’t be too late."
"I know."
"Don’t take rides from strangers."
"I know."
"Don’t join any gangs."
"...Right."
Satisfied, Evelyn turned and went into the kitchen.
The clinking of dishes rang out, mingling with the sunlight from the window to fill the gray morning with a touch of warmth.

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