I Loaded the Occult Panel

By the time he returned to Slag Alley, night had completely fallen.

Richard unlocked the front door and stepped inside. A single desk lamp lit the living room.

Father was flipping through a newspaper under the lamp, Mother sat knitting by the hearth, and Evelyn was hunched over her homework at the dining table.

”You’re back?” Evelyn asked, not looking up.

”Yeah.”

”You were out all day.” Evelyn’s pen paused. ”Find a job?”

”I dropped off my resume. Just waiting to hear back.”

Mother set her knitting aside. ”Have you eaten?”

”Didn’t have time.”

”There are still potatoes and meat broth keeping warm on the stove. Serve yourself.”Richard dished out a bowl from the kitchen and carried it upstairs to eat in his room.

He still hadn’t touched more than half the raw material he had copied at the Imperial Capital University Library. Those encrypted texts waited quietly in the back half of his notebook, ready for him to pry them open piece by piece.

Just before eleven, he blew out his lamp and slipped under the covers.

His Sleep Skill slowly took effect in the faint warmth of his mattress and quilt.

His head hit the pillow, and in less than four breathing cycles, his consciousness was gently pulled under.

The next day was Monday.

Richard went to class as usual.

Mr. Hutton’s history class covered supply logistics in the New Continent colonies, while Mr. Holland’s Latin class moved into intensive reading of Cicero’s letters.

After school, he headed to the third floor of the Greenwood library.

Mr. Hutton had recently granted him a special privilege.

He was allowed to use a small third-floor storage room to keep the books and notes he needed for his decryption work.

A brass plaque on the door read: ”Faculty Materials — No Students Allowed.” Only Mr. Hutton and Richard had keys.

The room was small, roughly four paces across. A narrow wooden desk sat against the wall with two simple bookshelves nailed up above it.

This was his most private workspace at Greenwood.

For safety, he hadn’t dared bring all the notebooks and translation drafts he had copied from the Imperial Capital University Library home.

Evelyn was at home, and she occasionally wandered into his room.

If she accidentally caught a glimpse of a single page of unencrypted translation, the consequences would be more than he could handle.

So, he kept a portion of the encrypted original drafts and reference books right here.

Richard locked the door behind him, preparing to grab yesterday’s half-finished reference book from the shelf.

Mid-reach, his hand froze.

Right in the center of the desk—the exact spot where he always set his notebook upon entering—sat a moth.

It was grayish-white with ringed patterns on its wings.

It was twice the size of an ordinary house moth, easily spanning half his palm.

Moving very slowly, Richard pulled his satchel away from the edge of the desk and took a half-step back.

Any living moth trapped indoors would instinctively chase the light; it wouldn’t sit this still and rigid.

Besides, the storage room door had been locked.

The ventilation duct was sealed tight with a fine iron grate. It was physically impossible for a bug this large to squeeze inside.

As he backed away, the moth dissolved, leaving two items behind.

A small ceramic coin and a tri-folded letter.

Printed on the letterhead was an owl surrounded by a laurel wreath—the emblem of the Classical Society.

The way the moth vanished reminded Richard of a description he had read.

”Spirit Realm Messenger”—a delivery Spell Formula from the Secret path.

Manifesting an item from one fixed location to another carried a high casting cost and placed harsh demands on the caster.

The greatest advantage of this delivery Spell Formula was that the sender didn’t need to know much about the recipient. Give it a target, and the messenger would complete the delivery on its own.

With that in mind, Richard took a long ruler from the bookshelf and gently flicked the letter open.

The unfolded paper revealed a handwritten message.

It wasn’t very long.

To the esteemed Mr. Williams:

Your performance in this year’s Cicero Cup has caught the attention of our Research Committee.

Following a committee review, we cordially invite you to participate in the Theogony Salon, an academic exchange event operating under our society.

This monthly event is a closed seminar established for scholars demonstrating outstanding potential.

Participants anonymously share resources and freely exchange ideas on cutting-edge topics in classical studies, Inscriptiology, and related fields.

Enclosed with this letter is an admission token.

Please place the token by your pillow before you go to sleep, and you will be guided accordingly.

The emblem engraved on the token serves as your temporary codename at the round table. Your official codename will be confirmed at your first attendance.

This temporary codename is based on our preliminary assessment of your academic focus; any discrepancies will be corrected at the event.

Participation is strictly voluntary. If you do not wish to join, simply discard the token, and there will be no further contact.

There was no signature at the bottom of the page. No date, and no return address.

However, a line of incredibly tiny Latin script sat in the bottom left corner:

”Scientia donum est; qui accipit, liber manet.”

(Knowledge is a gift; the one who receives it remains free.)

Richard used the ruler to flip the page over.

The back was blank.

The small ceramic coin was a muddy yellow leaning toward ochre, slightly smaller than an everyday Copper Penny.

Stamped directly in the center was a serpent coiled around a short staff. Its body spiraled upward from the base, its head slightly raised at the tip.

The Staff of Asclepius.

Richard stared at the design, bewildered.

Asclepius, son of Apollo. Struck down by Zeus’s thunderbolt for bringing the dead back to life, he was elevated to godhood after his death.

His single-serpent staff was a symbol of healing, and the emblem of the temple of the god of medicine.

The letter had stated it clearly: ”This temporary codename is based on our preliminary assessment of your academic focus.”

But the only thing about him remotely related to the god of medicine was his foundational breathing method.

The Golden Path, which originated from the temple of Asclepius.

The sender must have detected the origin of his breathing method and assigned him this symbolic marker as a result.

Logically, it made sense, but that was as far as it went.

He didn’t know how to cure diseases, lacked any professional medical knowledge, and had never contacted any organization or personnel related to the temple of Asclepius.

This meant their understanding of him was likely very limited.

That was the biggest point of suspicion. If this were truly a circle within the Classical Society, inviting him wouldn’t be this convoluted, nor would they know so little about him.

Besides, if it were genuinely a subordinate branch of the Classical Society, his aunt Isabella would have mentioned it.

The owl emblem could be forged, the official letterhead custom-made, and the writing style mimicked.

If the sender was fishing for targets, hiding behind the Classical Society was a solid strategy.

A winner of the Cicero Cup would naturally trust the Classical Society.

Most likely, the sender had borrowed the Classical Society’s credibility to conduct targeted recruitment among individuals with potential.

Coming to this conclusion, he didn’t rush to touch the token.

He would first see if his Panel reacted.