Sunlight slanted in through the window, falling on the stack of materials in the center of the desk.
Richard put away the document on encryption methods and stretched, his shoulder blades scraping against the back of the chair with a dull thud.
At the very bottom lay a thin booklet with a simple title—*Secret of the Abyss*.
Beneath the title, his aunt had added a line in small fountain pen script: "Richard, read the attached note before you open it."
The note was folded separately and tucked between the cover and the title page.
Richard unfolded it and read.
"First, a reminder: this booklet was reviewed by both your Guide and myself. Mr. Hutton selected the passages, and I created the projection.
Before opening it, drink a glass of warm water and cease all Techniques you are currently performing.
After reading each entry, pause for a moment before turning to the next."
"Once you have finished, do not read it a second time."
On the back of the title page was a ring drawn in silver thread.
In the center of the ring was a blank space, an outline shaped for the palm of a hand.
Sweeping over it with his Spiritual Vision, he could perceive the dormant flow of Ether within the ring.
Richard recognized this type of structure.
A Projection Technique.
Occasionally, rare books like this were made, using a Technique to create a "readable and viewable" dual-layered text.
A Newcomer could input a tiny amount of Ether and have a movie-like experience form in their mind.
An ordinary Projection Technique could only maintain an image for a few seconds. To handle the capacity of an entire book, it would have to be the work of a Secretive One at the level of Minor Mastery.
Richard held the note.
The entire booklet had been gone over by his two elders, pictures and text alike, before being passed to him.
He folded the note and placed it back on the corner of the desk.
From downstairs came the muffled thud of an oven door closing.
It was followed by his Mother’s voice, "Evelyn, don’t get so close," and then his sister’s whiny, "I just want to take a peek."
Richard walked to his bedroom door and turned the key.
Returning to his desk, he sat down. After three deep breathing cycles, he retracted the externally projected micro-circulation back into the center of his chest.
The Light Tree Leaves closed, and the Ether Flow throughout the room receded back within the bounds of his own body.
He opened the first page.
Richard placed his right palm over it. Following his aunt’s guidance, he squeezed out a wisp of Ether and channeled it from his fingertips into the silver-threaded ring.
The silver threads awoke.
The light in the bedroom dimmed a notch, then dimmed again.
The sounds, temperature, and smells of the outside world were all slowly enveloped by an extremely light veil.
The title of the first entry in the booklet on the desk floated up.
"The following three entries are dedicated to those who have heard the sound of water behind the door."
Richard put down his pen.
The room before him was gently peeled away like a layer, revealing another scene beneath.
Before his eyes was a field of wheat.
The wind pressed the wheat into rolling waves. In the distance stood a small, steepled chapel with two crows perched on its bell tower.
There was a sweet smell in the air.
...But it wasn’t the pleasant sweetness of ripe wheat. It was the coppery-sweet taste that rises in the back of your throat.
A high, childish voice rang out.
Richard couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. It simply lay flat, blanketing the entire wheat field from above.
"Once upon a time, there was a very well-behaved little boy in a village."
A child appeared in the scene.
He was seven or eight years old, barefoot, with his pant legs rolled up to his knees, clutching a foxtail grass in his hand.
"He was better behaved than all the other children. The other children learned to whistle, to climb trees, to stuff frogs into girls’ baskets.
He didn’t learn any of that. He only learned one thing."
The child stood still in the wheat field, threw away the foxtail grass, and closed his eyes.
"He learned to breathe."
As the high, childish voice said the word "breathe," the waves in the wheat field paused for an instant.
"The old folks in the village taught him to count to four as he inhaled, count to four as he held his breath, count to four as he exhaled, and count to four as he held his breath again.
This was called good boy’s breathing.
The boy learned very quickly. The old folks patted his head and said that one day, he would be the most promising child in the village."
’Richard recognized this. It was Quadruple Breathing, the introduction to the Golden Path.’
"But the little boy wasn’t satisfied."
The voice drew out the words "wasn’t satisfied" in a soft, sing-song way, followed by a light giggle.
"The little boy said, ’The breathing the old folks taught me is too slow!
Counting to four to breathe in is too slow! Holding for four is too slow!
I want to learn a fast way, one that lets me suck in all the good stuff in a single breath.’"
In the scene, the child opened his mouth.
He no longer counted to four. He opened his mouth wide, as if he wanted to inhale the entire wheat field, the whole chapel, and even the two crows on the bell tower.
As he inhaled, Richard saw that sweet scent in the air being drawn into the boy’s mouth, strand by strand.
The wheat bent toward him. The crows fell from the bell tower, crashed into the field, and didn’t fly up again.
"The little boy learned!" the voice said happily. "The little boy learned how to suck in all the good stuff in a single breath, and he grew so fast."
’This must be the Breathing Technique of the Path of Burning Blood,’ Richard realized. ’I’ve read a little about it.’
The child grew taller.
As Richard watched, the child shot up from the height of a seven- or eight-year-old to that of a full-grown adult.
Then he shot up even more. His bones made CRACKING sounds under his skin as his arms, fingers, and neck all stretched out.
"The villagers all said, ’Oh my, whose child is growing so well? So tall and strong! He’s sure to have a great future.’"
But the child’s face was still that of a seven- or eight-year-old.
His face hadn’t grown; it was still frozen at seven or eight. But the body beneath it had grown as tall as the rafters of a house, forced to stoop just to stand in the wheat field.
"But the little boy was hungry."
The high, childish voice drew out the word "hungry" for a long, long time.
"’One breath isn’t enough anymore!
The little boy needs to take two breaths, three breaths. He needs to suck in all the sweetness in the village.
The sweetness of the wheat, the sweetness of the well water, the sweetness of freshly baked bread—he wants it all!’"
In the scene, the color began to drain from the steepled chapel.
First, the stained glass in the windows faded to gray, then the walls, and then the bell tower.

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