The morning was gray and gloomy in Brighton.
The air was damp and cold, tinged with the smell of coal smoke and the stench of the nearby river.
In the industrial era, the city’s rivers were little more than open-air sewers, and the smell was unbearable.
On a street corner, an old woman wrapped in a scarf was selling hot pies for one penny each.
The aroma made Richard’s stomach rumble; he hadn’t eaten much for breakfast.
The school bus arrived precisely at 7:45.
Richard pulled his coat tighter and followed his sister into the line.
Evelyn had already found two other girls, and they were huddled by a lamppost, whispering about something.
Richard didn’t join them. After boarding the bus, he took a seat by the window.
He gazed out at the industrial-era scenery while taking stock of his situation.
’First, my health is poor. I need to do everything I can to recover.’
’The Breathing thing is already improving, but I can’t expect a Skill upgrade to replace proper self-care.’
’Maybe I can find a way to improve my diet.’
’Second, the family’s finances are tight. My parents are gritting their teeth just to maintain a respectable appearance.’
’I don’t know how much class mobility exists in this world.’
’But in this family, at least, the idea of "moving up" is ingrained in our very bones.’
’Third, my grades are bad. I’ll have to wait until I get to school to see just how bad they are.’
’Fourth...’ He glanced at the transparent panel.
Under "Body," only Breathing was lit up; the other three items were grayed out.
All three items under "Wisdom" were gray, and "Spirit" was still locked.
’The only thing I know for sure is that [Breathing] is increasing. It’s a passive trigger; I don’t need to do anything consciously.’
’As long as I’m alive, moving, and going about my daily business, it inches forward a little bit.’
When the school bus reached its stop, he followed the stream of students off the bus.
After entering the school grounds, the first stop was the chapel.
Morning prayer. It began at eight o’clock sharp every day, and attendance was mandatory for all students.
Stone pillars supported the chapel’s pointed arches, and the stained-glass window depicted *Saint George and the Dragon*.
But the window was old. The dragon’s colors were peeling, and half of Saint George’s spear was missing.
Now, it just looked like a dusty old knight facing off against an equally decrepit great lizard.
The students sat according to their year and class, with boys on the left and girls on the right, a clear division between them.
The headmaster sat motionless in the center of the front row, like a wax figure in a display case.
The Priest walked to the lectern, opened a prayer book, and began to lead the recitation:
"Lord, we ask that you teach us to study diligently, that we may become instruments of your will..."
Richard stood in the ranks, head down, merely mouthing the words.
’So boring.’
The Priest was still reading, his voice droning and echoing between the stone walls.
When the final "Amen" was spoken, the entire assembly repeated it.
The voices were uneven. Some were devout, some were perfunctory, and some didn’t make a sound at all.
Morning prayer ended, and the crowd dispersed. Richard followed his classmates toward the academic building.
The school crest was carved above the main entrance of the building: an open book, an Oil Lamp upon it, and a line of Latin:
"Lux Rationis Semper Vincit."
(The light of reason always prevails.)
Ironically, the first class of the morning was about something not so rational.
On the dais, Mr. Hutton looked to be in his fifties, with a gaunt frame and a slightly stooped back.
"Everyone." He placed the chalk in the groove on the lectern. "Today, we will be discussing the rationalization of Mysticism."
Someone in the back row sighed quietly.
Mr. Hutton ignored the sigh and continued.
"I’d like to start by asking you all a question."
"What is a ’misunderstanding’?"
There was a short silence as everyone waited for someone else to speak first. No one wanted to be the one to stick their neck out.
"Warren," Mr. Hutton called on a boy in the back row with slick, oily hair. "Why don’t you tell us?"
Warren stood up lazily and answered off the cuff.
"A misunderstanding is... when you understand something incorrectly?
For example, thunder. People used to say it was a god’s wrath, but now we know it’s an atmospheric electrical discharge. Is that a misunderstanding?"
"Very good," Mr. Hutton nodded. "Then let me ask you, between those two explanations—a Miracle and atmospheric discharge—which is more real?"
Warren frowned. "Electricity, of course. Electricity can be measured. A god cannot.
The professors at the Royal Society have made that abundantly clear."
"Well said." Mr. Hutton paced back and forth a couple of times at the front of the classroom.
"The ’real’ you speak of refers to things that can be measured.
So, if there is something that can be perceived and has a tangible effect, but cannot be measured by any instrument, would you consider it real?"
Warren was taken aback for a moment. "That... That shouldn’t exist. Perception can be flawed. Instruments don’t lie."
"Instruments don’t lie," Mr. Hutton repeated.
"Good. Let’s remember that statement. We’ll be using it today."
Richard sat in the third row by the window, his textbook open to the relevant Chapter.
The textbook presented the standard narrative.
Mysticism was a product of humanity’s limited understanding in a bygone era, and with the advance of science, all such phenomena had now been rationally explained, and so on.
But Mr. Hutton was teaching something else entirely.
He spoke of the Priest Class of the Black Earth River Basin, describing how they wove astronomy and calendrical systems together with a system of oracles, making the two inseparable.
These Priests weren’t the Witches and Shamans of popular imagination. On the contrary, they were the most learned people of their time.
"Superstition didn’t obscure science," he said. "Those people knew what they were doing, far more clearly than we usually assume."
He spoke of the Temples of the Aegean Sea, explaining that they were not only religious sites but also the earliest information exchange networks.
Pilgrims brought news, and the Priests were responsible for organizing and interpreting it.
They possessed classification systems that outsiders couldn’t comprehend, turning seemingly unrelated pieces of information into useful predictions.
"The oracles at Delphi were very accurate," he said.
"But perhaps there was no god speaking at all. Perhaps the people there simply heard things that others could not."
"Speaking of which, you may have heard that in the salons of the Imperial Capital, the most fashionable social activity is no longer whist."
A few students looked up.
"Everyone from Duchesses down to practicing lawyers is now keen on drawing the curtains in their parlors, lighting Candles, and inviting a Spirit Medium to speak with the dead."
Whispers broke out in the back of the room.
Mr. Hutton was not interrupted and continued his lecture.
He moved on to the colonial exploration records from the New Continent.
He used several specific cases, the kind that were reported with ambiguous wording in the newspapers, but in class, he laid out the details.
Before one expedition team vanished, the three survivors each described hearing the same sound.
After the army destroyed a native ritual site, large-scale anomalies occurred in the area.
There was also a government report that remains classified to this day, its conclusion section redacted with black ink.
Only the final sentence remained, which he read aloud slowly in the Albion Language:
"We recommend halting any further investigation."
He put down the chalk and turned to the blackboard. "You can all ponder for yourselves what that sentence means."
Richard used his pen to draw a circle in his notebook. Inside it, he wrote "Halt investigation," and next to it, a question mark.
Just then, Mr. Hutton began writing something on the blackboard.
His back was to the class.
"Of course, the truly dangerous ones were never the country folk who left their hats at a crossroads as an offering to the ’Road God.’"
The chalk scraped against the blackboard as he finished a line.
"What’s truly dangerous is what appears inside those hats."
A soft laugh came from the back row. It was Warren again.
"Mr. Hutton, are you telling ghost stories?"
"I am telling history," Mr. Hutton replied with a gentle smile.
"Everything that has ever happened is history, including the parts that weren’t recorded in textbooks."
With that, he turned around, his gaze falling on the seat in the third row by the window.
"Richard."
Richard sat up straight in his seat.

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