The third time, the fourth... By the seventh, a crack as fine as a hair split open in the temporary Seal.
Richard stabilized the intensity of his Ether push, keeping the crack at the width of a single hair.
[Available Points] began to climb. The Ether trickling out was extremely faint.
Richard stood before the table, one hand holding the steel pipe to maintain a vacuum, the other maintaining pressure on the box, his breathing suppressed to a minimum.
Once his own Ether was depleted, he began to draw on the reserves in his [Spiritual Appearance].
Twenty minutes passed.
[Available Points] had already climbed to 1.05; the first-stage objective was complete.
And the box’s Ether reserves still seemed plentiful. It was well worth all the trouble he had gone through.
Richard halted the Ether push and began to mend the Seal.
He wasn’t so foolish as to drain himself completely before remembering to reseal it.
Once the Seal was repaired, he moved the steel pipe aside, allowing the vacuum around the box to slowly dissipate.
The inspiration returned, and the Candle’s flame leaped back to its original height.
Richard leaned against the back of his chair, taking a couple of deep, heavy breaths.
[Spiritual Appearance] had dropped from 10 to 6, leaving a sufficient reserve.
[Available Points] settled at 1.1.
While leaning back in the chair, he let his microcirculation follow the root veins of the Throne of the Sun’s inverted tree, slowly gathering at the bottom of his lungs.
Once his Breathing settled into its usual, most comfortable rhythm, he closed his eyes and summoned the panel.
[Perception] Level 2 Progress 62%
[Rationality] Level 1 Progress 77%
’Now that I have one full point, a lot more options are open to me.’
Richard’s gaze swept down the panel, finally stopping on the [Rationality] line.
This was the skill he’d unlocked most recently, yet its progress was surprisingly fast.
The twelve sets of evidentiary texts, the stack of books his Aunt Isabella sent from the Imperial Capital, Lady Mary’s manuscript that repeatedly stated "a Detective is not a Prophet" in the margins... every one of these things was feeding it.
[Rationality] was a side lamp he had lit for himself within his own mind.
With the lamp on, things he thought he already understood suddenly revealed all their sharp, complex angles.
Richard focused his consciousness on that line.
’Previewing doesn’t cost any Points, so there’s no harm in taking a look.’
Two blocks of small text floated up on the panel:
"This skill has been activated. To advance again, the following conditions must be met:
Level 1 Progress: 100%;
Available Point;
Re-examine a judgment you once firmly believed, discover the error within, and correct it."
"Unlockable Effect Preview—Rationality · Inner Awakening:
The original effect of Rationality is enhanced. It will be easier to perceive one’s own shortcomings during contemplation, and resistance to external rhetoric and suggestions will be significantly increased."
Richard read the two blocks of text twice.
’The "once firmly believed" part is the key.’
’To achieve this, I’ll have to force myself to turn inward and re-examine everything.’
[Perception] required him to go behind the Curtain and watch a hostile target of a higher standing than himself;
[Rationality], on the other hand, didn’t want him to look out, but to turn inward.
’Looking outward, I can borrow the eye of [Perception]; but looking inward... The weakest part of a suit of armor has always been its lining.’
He let out a long breath.
As for that trait itself.
Richard looked at the description for [Rationality · Inner Awakening], and something slowly began to surface in his mind.
Looking back on the words Hecate had spoken at that anonymous Round Table, he could now pick out the hook she’d hidden in every single sentence.
When she said, "We are not born for ourselves alone," his microcirculation would gently incline in that direction.
When she said, "The fact that you are sitting here proves your worth," for the space of half a breath, he would find himself thinking, ’I am indeed worthy.’
He understood all this in hindsight.
But what he wanted was the clarity to see these things as they were happening.
And that was exactly what [Rationality · Inner Awakening] offered.
Since the condition was to correct a long-held, unnoticed error, it was unlikely he could achieve it just by sitting at his desk and racking his brain.
It would have to be triggered by some unrelated event in an unguarded moment.
All he could do was keep his mind open and wait for that collision.
The sky outside the window had already darkened.
Richard carefully returned the Many-eyed Black Moss and Fog Bell Remnants from the oil paper to a sealed jar.
Once these two herbs were used, their scent changed, so they had to be kept separate from the unused portions.
The charred layer of herbs at the end of the steel pipe had to be cleaned out and replaced.
Before leaving, he cleaned the right side of his desk until it was spotless, leaving not a single trace behind.
.........
When a cold snap comes, it’s always the poor who die first.
Richard had just returned from school after dealing with the box. As he reached the east end of Waste Rock Lane, he saw several neighbors huddled together.
His Mother, Margaret, stood on the steps, a hand warmer in her grasp, speaking in low tones with a neighboring wife.
"...Is it Mr. Burns?"
Richard stopped in his tracks.
"Mrs. Sibyl found him this morning. She lives next door to Mr. Burns and was on good terms with him."
The neighbor rambled on.
"Burns didn’t go out last night. This morning, when she went to give him a kettle of hot water, the door was open."
"...He passed away quietly, just leaning against the stove. The fire in the stove had long gone out."
Richard’s breath caught.
His Mother patted his shoulder, signaling for him to go inside.
At the dinner table, his father, Rogers, also brought it up.
"Every year when the late spring cold snap hits, a few of the old folks down at the Pier always drop."
His father said this nonchalantly while slicing the radishes on his plate.
A few of the neighbors were preparing to pool some money to bury Burns.
"Burns was a bit different."
"How so?"
"He’d been coughing up blood for a long time. He knew he was going to die.
I even spoke with him last winter. He said he wasn’t afraid of dying, but afraid that when he died, there’d be no one to arrange his affairs."
"...So who’s arranging them?"
"He’d saved a little money himself and left it with the priest at Elizabeth Church.
It was short a few shillings, so a few of us neighbors and his workmates pitched in."
Evelyn listened silently without saying a word.
Richard glanced at his sister.
Evelyn didn’t know Mr. Burns well, but she had grown up in Waste Rock Lane. She knew the name of every family on this lane, which house they lived in, and how many people were in their family.
Now that one of those families had one less person, she would be sad for the whole evening.
After dinner, Richard went upstairs alone.
He pulled the copy of the *Northern Literature Review* from his drawer.
The editor-in-chief had added a quote to the header of his article:
"No one remembers which day he started coughing, just as no one remembers which day he started carrying coal."
The real Burns was dead.
He was illiterate; he had probably never even read the essay.
And the thousands of readers who felt a tightness in their necks after reading the article never knew that a real Burns existed on the east end of Waste Rock Lane, huddled by his stove and enduring his final night.
Richard closed the magazine and went downstairs.
He said to his Mother.
"I’m going to go take a look over at Mr. Burns’s place."
His Mother looked at him but didn’t ask any questions.
She took a small cloth pouch from the cupboard, inside which she had tucked a shilling and several pence.
"...Take this to Mrs. Sibyl. It’s to chip in for the funeral arrangements."
"Alright."
"Don’t go into Mr. Burns’s house, and don’t look at his face. Let him have some dignity," his Mother reminded him.
Richard nodded, tucked the pouch in his pocket, and pushed the door open to go outside.
The cold in Waste Rock Lane was deeper than he had imagined.
The smell of burning coal slag drifted from the end of the lane.
He walked to the door that Mrs. Sibyl had propped shut with a wooden plank and stopped.
The bonus from [Perception] allowed his expanded Spiritual Vision to read the entire space of the home.
Coal slag, stove ash, the old chair that Burns moved around every day, and the old photos hanging on the wall...
’What has Burns left behind in this room now that he’s gone?’
A Death Echo required fear and pain. Burns passed quietly; he had been able to calmly accept his own death many years ago.
Thus, all that remained was a kind of "weariness" born from prolonged hardship.
That weariness was harmless on the Ether Layer, but it would sink downward.
Where would it sink to?
Richard’s Inspiration Line followed that "weariness" downward.
The "weariness" seeped through the cracks in the floorboards into the ground, continuing to sink.
The direction it was headed... was west.
Richard stood before the door, his nose numb from the cold.
’The more I understand, the more the mystery recedes; understand it completely, and the supernatural loses its color. But for every one thing I manage to understand, the city sprouts a hundred new ones. The speed of my understanding can’t possibly keep up with the city’s own pace of growth.’
Mrs. Sibyl walked over from the other end of the lane.
She wore a grimy wool scarf and held an earthenware pot in her hands.
"Little Richard?"
"Mrs. Sibyl." Richard handed her the pouch.
"My Mother asked me to bring this. It’s for Mr. Burns’s arrangements."
Mrs. Sibyl took the pouch without counting the contents and tucked it into her apron pocket.
"Thank you."
She raised a hand to wipe her eyes.
"...His passing wasn’t unsightly," Mrs. Sibyl said.
"When I went to bring him hot water this morning, he was leaning against the stove, fully and neatly dressed, even with his shoes on."
"He knew he was going to go today."
Richard nodded.
"Where will he be buried?"
"In the public cemetery behind Elizabeth Church."
Mrs. Sibyl replied.
"The priest promised to carve a small stone for him."
"Marcus Burns, 1851–1913. Nothing else."

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