On Saturday, Richard went to the Dawn family’s house to tutor Tom as usual.
When Charlotte showed him to the living room, Lady Dawn was sitting there.
"Mr. Williams." Lady Dawn nodded at him.
"Lady Dawn."
"Tom has been learning quite well recently." Lady Dawn set down her teacup.
"My husband and I are both very pleased."
"Tom is very smart. I just found the right method," Richard replied modestly.
"Mm."
Lady Dawn’s gaze lingered on his face for a moment.
"I read that essay of yours a few days ago."
Richard felt a stir.
"What did you think of it?"
"It was very well-written." The lady’s tone revealed nothing else.
"My husband read it as well, and he even wrote a letter to the editor-in-chief."
"Then I must thank Mr. Dawn."
"But a few other gentlemen were not so comfortable reading it."
Richard didn’t respond.
"A few days ago, we hosted some guests. Among them were several proprietors from the West Suburb area."
Lady Dawn spoke slowly.
"They mentioned your name."
Richard wasn’t too surprised.
"...What did they say?"
"Nothing specific," Lady Dawn replied.
"They just asked, ’That kid from Greenwood, which family is he from?’"
"I said you were the grandson of the head of the Ashford family."
"They said ’Oh,’ and didn’t ask any more questions."
Richard understood.
"...Thank you."
"Richard." Lady Dawn suddenly changed her form of address. "There is something I want to tell you."
Richard was a little surprised.
"...Ma’am?"
"If you intend to write, then you must keep writing, one piece after another."
Lady Dawn put her teacup down.
"A few gentlemen have taken note of your name, and they will not forget it.
But the chill that ran down the necks of thousands of readers—they will not forget that either.
When both sides remember you, you are ’a standard’.
When only one side remembers you, you are ’a target’."
"...You mean?"
"Either stop completely, or keep writing without pause."
"Stopping in the middle is the most dangerous thing you can do."
Richard hadn’t expected Lady Dawn to say something like this.
Lady Dawn smiled slightly. "Go on, go tutor Tom."
......
On Monday, Richard began to work on the box for the second time.
His Spiritual Appearance had just recovered a bit.
Lillian had a minor course that day that she would never skip, no matter what.
This time, Richard’s push of Ether was much more refined.
The crack was kept to the width of a hair.
[Available Points] climbed to 1.53.
[Spiritual Appearance] only dropped to 4, slightly more economical than last time.
On Friday, he opened the box again. The few wisps of "whispers" that leaked out struggled more intensely this time.
Although the whispers were extremely faint, they were completely different from the dregs of the "Comparison Curse" in the Copper Mirror.
The words from the Copper Mirror were fragmented, their emotions worn away by centuries of abrasion.
These sounds leaking from the box were alive, carrying emotion and intent.
The first things he heard were these phrases:
"Who is it..."
"It’s so cold over here..."
"Come a little closer..."
"...Let me see you..."
The voice was very soft, its tone gentle.
It sounded like someone who had been imprisoned for so long that even their malice had been worn down into pleading.
Richard did not respond.
[Erudite] immediately laid out several corresponding examples in his mind.
Common baiting tactics. The first stage for all sealed artifacts that rely on "contact" to work was almost always this routine.
First, elicit sympathy. Then, ask you to come closer. Then, set the hook.
He did not move any closer.
He kept up the Maintenance on the vacuum of Silence, letting the words drift out and dissipate within it.
He waited until the last day of March to work on the box for the fourth time.
[Spiritual Appearance] was full again, and this would also be the last time he worked on the box.
That day, Lillian had to go to the area near the old train station in the North.
She said that sparrows had recently been crashing into the newly installed steel frames in that area and dying.
But Richard felt that the girl had probably figured something out and was deliberately finding an excuse to give him some private space.
He still entered the room on time, locked the door from the inside, and established the vacuum.
This time, the moment the crack opened to a hair’s breadth, the voice inside the box actively reached out.
"...You’re here again."
The voice sounded a little more vigorous than last time.
"...I know you can hear me."
"...I can feel your thread."
Thread.
[Erudite] immediately brought up the core terminology of the Weaving Net Tradition. In that school’s vocabulary, "thread" specifically refers to the trace of a person’s fate cast on the other side of the Curtain.
As long as a person is alive, they are a thread on the other side of the Curtain;
The paths they’ve walked, the things they owe, the people they’ve loved, the debts they must repay—all are woven into this thread.
A chill ran down Richard’s spine.
It was peering out from the other side of the Curtain, through the hair’s-breadth crack he had pried open, looking back at him.
It couldn’t probe far; for now, it could likely only see the small section exposed outside the crack.
But the fact that it could see the "thread" meant it didn’t need him to get any closer at all.
As long as his Ether touched the box, his thread was within its reach.
Richard kept up the Maintenance of the vacuum, waiting for that wisp of words to drift away.
The vacuum suppressed the Ether, and Richard’s own micro-circulation was nearly inaudible within it.
The voice sighed again.
"...Still not willing to come over."
The voice in the box went quiet for a moment, then began to extend its temptations.
"...Just one wisp."
"One wisp is enough."
"Your thread is so thick. If you spare just one wisp, you won’t even notice it’s gone..."
"...I’ll repay you."
When Richard heard "repay," his breathing grew quiet.
"...You want Strength, I have it."
"...You want someone to stay by your side, forever unchanging. I have that too."
"...You want that girl, Lillian. I can tie a knot for you..."
Richard’s temples throbbed.
’This thing... it actually read Lillian’s name.’
[Rationality] immediately began to break it down for him, layer by layer:
Through the crack he had pried open, it had only read a segment of his thread.
What it read were the most recent points of entanglement on this thread.
Lillian’s name appeared at this moment because of this room, this key, and every afternoon Richard had spent here over the past few weeks.
Richard didn’t move or make a sound.
He silently increased the speed of absorption; there wasn’t much residue left inside.
Seeing he wasn’t reacting, the voice in the box sent out another wisp:
"...If you don’t want that, something else is fine too."
"There are many kinds of knots I can tie for you..."
The voice got this far and came to an abrupt halt.
Richard had steadily and thoroughly drained it of all the Ether it could exude.
This time, he didn’t leave the slightest trace behind.
[Available Points: 2.02]
His hard work paid off. The thing had contributed a total of about 1.3, almost as much as the Sphinx Lamp had back then.
......
The low, red brick wall in the backyard of Coleman’s house had been softened by the spring dampness.
A few clumps of cogon grass sprouted from the cracks between the bricks, their furry tips leaning toward the northern Sun.
Richard placed the Silver Needle Long Box on the lid of a water cistern and watched as Coleman rolled his cuffs up past his elbows.
Richard had already applied his Spiritual Vision.
This one needle, [Moon Nail · Reflection], pushed the broken circuit up a large notch.
The circuit caught the stimulus, and a warm current surged back toward the break.
Richard saw the scar, which had been inert for over three years, extend outward again.
"...It’s grown more than last time." Coleman turned his arm over and over, examining it.
In his mind, Richard drew a circle around his "indirect repair" hypothesis.
It was no longer a hypothesis.
"...Well?" Coleman stared at him.
"Mm."
"Just ’Mm’?"
"Don’t get ahead of yourself." Richard locked the long box.
"The growth is fast at the beginning, but it’ll get slower and slower later on.
The break itself is an old scar. The outer layer of skin grows back first; the deepest layer is the hardest to close."
"I know." Coleman rolled his cuff back down. "But as long as it’s growing, I..."
He looked toward the collie lying by the cistern, basking in the sun.
The dog’s coat was glossy, and its belly rose and fell rhythmically. It was too lazy to even lift its head when it saw Richard arrive.
Coleman glanced at the collie.
"It had a spoonful of oatmeal pudding this morning."
"...Oatmeal pudding?"
"My mom made it."
"And you?"
"Oatmeal porridge."
Richard couldn’t help but laugh.
Coleman laughed too, a little bitterly.
"Once I’m healed, don’t forget—I’m treating you to Eating."
"I know. I’ll be sure to eat my fill."
"Yeah."
"What about the collie?"
"It can come too," Coleman said with a straight face. "To eat the bones we spit out."
......
April arrived, and the rain came and went.
The rainy season on the Imperial Mainland always arrived with a strange unpredictability.
One day it would be a dry, cold northwestern wind, and the next morning you’d wake up to soaking wet streets.
As his Mother saw him off in the morning, she told him:
"Richard, your vacation starts in a couple of days.
You’ve been running around so much lately. You should sleep in during the break."
He answered, "Mm."
His Mother said again:
"Your sister asked me yesterday, ’Is Brother going to the Imperial Capital in two months?’"
"...What did you say, Mom?"
"I said, ’Whether he goes to the Imperial Capital then is up to him.’"
His Mother stood at the doorway.
"But then she asked me another question."
"...What?"
"She asked, ’If Brother goes to the Imperial Capital, will he come back?’"
Richard didn’t answer.
His Mother didn’t ask for an answer then.
She tugged her son’s collar up slightly, then smoothed it down.
"Hurry off to school, don’t be late."
For the vast majority of students, the end of this term marked the beginning of their divergence.
Those planning to attend preparatory school would spend the final term in a final sprint, aiming for the Imperial Capital or one of the universities in the North;
Those not continuing on would either enter a technical college to study drafting and mechanics or be taken directly by their families to sign apprenticeship contracts.
Hugh’s father was a post office dispatcher, and Hugh himself wanted to study drafting;
The Warren Family was the Coal Mine Union, so that path had been laid out for him since the day he was born;
Mason’s older brother had become a team leader at the textile mill, and he himself would likely end up in the same place.
As for Grey... Richard didn’t let himself think about Grey.
"What about you?" Warren reached out and nudged Richard’s elbow.
"Me?"
"Where are you going?"
Richard lowered his eyes, rolling his pencil half a turn on the desk.
"Still filling out applications. I have to apply to several universities in the Imperial Capital."
Hugh leaned in. "Those grades on your report card... Old West said they’re top-tier, the best he’s seen in his twenty years of teaching at Greenwood."
"Just lucky."
"Tch, as if one person could hog all the luck."
Warren snapped his textbook shut. "Save some opportunities for the rest of us."
"I’ll have to get my own first."
A few more laughs broke out in the classroom, but the relaxed atmosphere felt a bit forced.
Richard looked out the window.
Rainwater streamed down the windowpanes, and in the distance, smokestacks spewed dark smoke.
What he read on the faces of this group of youths was not the irrepressible excitement and anxiety that should belong to seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds.
Instead, there was an all-too-quiet acceptance, as if they had already seen the next twenty years of their lives laid out before them.
For the children of a small industrial city, their lives at forty were already sketched out for them by others in their youth:
The son of a post office dispatcher would most likely go into a related industry;
The son of a director of the Coal Mine Union would most likely go into the mines;
The younger brother of a textile mill team leader would most likely go to the textile mill.
Even at a private school like Greenwood, each graduating class never had enough children who could truly break free of these predetermined tracks to fill a single table.
Richard was one of the few at that table.

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