I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

Mother draped the dishcloth over her shoulder, walked over, and felt Richard’s forehead.

”Have you eaten?”

”Not yet.”

”I saved some for you in the pot. The soup is warm, and there’s bread on the rack.”

”Thanks, Mom.”

He went to the kitchen, brought out a bowl of soup and some bread, and sat down at the dining table to eat.

Evelyn sat across from him, elbows propped on the table, staring at him as if she were interrogating a criminal.

”So, who was that female classmate?”

”Grey. She’s in my class.”

”Grey? Grey who? What’s her full name?”

”Grey West.”

The girl searched her memory for a few seconds. Her lips moved, as if she were silently repeating something.

”West... The West Family from the South District?”

”I guess so.”

”Brother!” Evelyn slammed her palm on the table, making the surface of the soup slosh in the bowl.

She leaned forward with a sense of urgency, as if something terrible had happened.

”You’re not being... kept by her, are you?”

Richard nearly spat out the soup in his mouth.

”What kind of books have you been reading?”

”In the books I read, eight out of ten have a scene where the poor boy gets picked up in a luxury carriage by a rich young lady!”

”And the other two?”

”In the other two, he’s picked up by a wealthy matron.”

”...”

Father folded the newspaper, placed it on the table, and stood up.

He walked to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, pausing by the dining table on his way.

”Finish up and get some rest,” he said to Richard, his tone casual.

But after taking two steps, he stopped again. With his back to the siblings, he added:

”Making friends is a good thing, but you need to know your boundaries.”

With that, he went upstairs.

Evelyn watched their father’s retreating back, then turned and jutted her chin at Richard.

”Did you hear that? Even Dad said so.”

”I heard.” Richard finished his soup, using a piece of bread to wipe the bottom of the bowl clean.

”A classmate just gave me a ride. You’re all overreacting.”

He stood up to clear his dishes. As he passed Evelyn, he took the paper-wrapped package from his pocket and placed it on the table.

”Scones from Grey. Want to try one?”

Evelyn looked down at the package. She hesitated for about half a second before her curiosity got the better of her.

As she opened the paper, a sweet fragrance wafted out. The scones were baked to a fluffy, golden brown, and the ingredients were clearly several grades better than what she used in her own home economics class.

She took a bite, her expression becoming even more conflicted. ”...They really are delicious.”

”Not as good as yours, though,” Richard teased with a smile.

”I don’t need you to tell me that!” Evelyn pouted, nudging him with her elbow.

That night, Richard waited until all the lights downstairs were out before drawing his curtains and turning on his desk lamp.

Having learned his lesson from the last time his sister burst into his room, he now sat facing the door, ready to hear any movements outside.

He transcribed the two handwritten pages he had seen in the library completely from memory.

The memory enhancement from [Scholarship] made this easy. Every Latin word was crystal clear.

After he finished transcribing, he translated it for his own reference.

The steps of the Breathing Technique were not complicated. It had only three core elements: Rhythm, Visualization, and Anchor Points.

Step one: Find your own heartbeat.

Press your fingertips against the artery on the side of your neck or the inside of your wrist. Silently count your pulse until you can clearly perceive its rhythm without touching your skin.

From then on, all counts were to be based on heartbeats, not the time on a clock. The text specifically emphasized this point:

”A clock is external; the heartbeat is your own. The foundation of the Golden Path is to seek within. All rhythms must arise from within yourself.”

Step two: Enter ”Quadruple Breathing.”

Inhale for four beats, hold your breath for four beats, exhale for four beats, then hold your breath again for four beats. This constitutes a complete cycle.

The four phases are of equal length and symmetrical, like the four sides of a square.

Neither hurried nor slow, neither skewed nor biased, with no distinction between the four beats, like the two pans of a Balance Scale. This is why it is called the ”Golden Path.”

In Alchemy, Gold does not refer to the metal itself, but to the state of perfect balance in all things: Aurum Philosophicum, the Philosopher’s Gold.

The four stages of Breathing are evenly divided. The Cultivator’s body and Spirit approach harmony within the rhythm. In this harmony, Ether deposits naturally, without needing to be forcefully taken.

Step three: Add visualization during each breath-hold.

During the first hold, concentrate your attention on the spot directly behind the sternum, between the lungs.

The text calls this the ”Throne of the Sun,” written in Latin as Sedes Solis.

This is where the ”Inner Sun” of the Hermetic tradition resides, and it is also where Ether is most easily captured.

The text specifically notes that visualization does not require seeing anything, nor should one expect any real sensation of light or heat.

Day by day, month by month, the unseen will become seen.

He put away his translated notes, sat on the edge of his bed, and closed his eyes.

Air entered his nostrils, traveled past the bifurcation of his trachea, and filled both lobes of his lungs.

The bonus from [Breathing Level 2] made this process smoother than for an ordinary person—airway resistance was low, and his alveoli expanded more fully.

He held his breath. Sinking his attention completely behind his sternum was the hardest part.

’Focusing on a spot you can neither see nor touch’ was easier said than done. His mind wandered easily.

All sorts of distracting thoughts would surface: tomorrow’s classes, the Cicero Cup, Grey’s car, Evelyn’s ridiculous speculations... He suppressed the stray thoughts and re-anchored his focus.

The breath-hold was over in a second and a half.

’Exhale... one, two...’ He pushed the air out from his lungs at an even pace, controlling it so it wasn’t too rushed.

The first complete cycle ended. He felt nothing.

He continued with the second, the third, the fourth.

By the fifth cycle, there was an extremely faint warmth deep in his chest.

It was even fainter than when his Breathing had leveled up, so faint he could barely tell if it was a real sensation or just a psychological suggestion.

But the panel popped up.

He made a comparison in his mind.

Normally, the progress gained from each breath was almost negligible; it took tens of thousands of breaths to accumulate anything.

But while cultivating, his Breathing progress had increased by two points in just a few cycles. The difference in efficiency was on another level entirely.

If he persisted with the Breathing Technique every day, he would reach Level 3 much sooner.

He turned off the lamp and lay down in bed.

Cold air seeped in through the crack in the window, making the edge of the curtain flutter slightly.

He didn’t close the window. The air tonight seemed especially sweet.

......

The rhythm of his school life remained much the same in the following days, but there were some subtle shifts in his relationships.

First, there was Grey.

After that ”convenient” ride on Wednesday night, she moved her seat during the lunchtime tutoring session from next to Warren to next to Richard.

She was now several seats closer, and her notebook had moved from her lap to the tabletop.

Then, there was Lillian.

That morning, Lillian stopped as she was passing Richard in the hallway.

”Williams.”

”Hm?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

After about two seconds of silence, she pulled a piece of paper from under the textbook in her hand and offered it to him.

”It’s about that suggestion Mr. West gave you last week.

I found a passage from Cicero’s *Defense of Murena* with a structure similar to the one you used. You can use it as a reference.”

A passage of Latin was copied onto the paper, with stress and pause marks meticulously annotated beside it.

”Thank you.”

”You’re welcome.”

Lillian hugged her textbook a little tighter, turned, and walked away. Her steps were quick, the end of her braid swaying twice behind her shoulder.

Richard glanced down at the paper. The handwriting was completely different from Grey’s calligraphic script, which had clearly been trained from a young age.

Lillian’s handwriting was small and dense, like a typewriter’s, with each letter sitting neatly within its invisible box.

The incident was seen by others in the class.

By lunchtime, the news had already made the rounds: Lillian had passed Richard a note.