I Loaded the Mysticism Panel
Chapter 38: Gift

Chapter 38: Chapter 38: Gift

That night, Richard took stock of the items in his desk drawer.

The Cicero Cup would be held after the family dinner, so he brought his notes to make reviewing easier;

He also added a blank notebook, so he could write down any information in the Imperial Capital worth recording.

He zipped up his school bag, then took out the ancient, depleted silver coin and locked it in the drawer.

He also brought the Ashen Grass, keeping it in an inner pocket for easy access.

He had mentally rehearsed the steps for the Fog Wall Technique dozens of times. Break, grind, and blow—he could complete the three actions within a second.

He most likely wouldn’t need it, but when going to an unfamiliar place, carrying something to save his skin was better than being empty-handed.

Once he finished packing, he turned off his desk lamp. The deep, mechanical hum of machinery rumbled in the distance.

Tomorrow, he was going to the Imperial Capital.

He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and performed a set of Quadruple Breathing.

Inside his Throne of the Sun, the warmth, the size of a copper button, glowed steadily, rising and falling gently with each breath.

The panel floated in the corner of his consciousness.

[Breathing Lv.2]Progress: 39%

[Scholarship Lv.2]Progress: 12%

After his Breathing Technique broke through its first milestone, the gains from normal, everyday breathing had become almost nonexistent.

Now, he had to rely on his daily Breathing Technique practice just to see any significant increase in the progress bar.

’My initial estimate that my Breathing would max out at Lv.2 within two months was a bit optimistic.’

After his Scholarship Skill reached Lv.2, the progress he gained from self-study and regular tutoring had also slowed considerably.

He had a faint premonition that reaching a Level 3 Skill was a major threshold.

’Perhaps this is the gap between a Tier One "Newcomer" and a Tier Two "Practitioner."’

’But right now, I have no resources related to Mysticism.’

’Still, making steady progress every day through free daily study and Breathing Technique practice is nothing to complain about.’

.........

The next morning, the whole family was bustling with activity.

His father started calculating the costs:

"From Brighton to the Imperial Capital, a one-way, third-class ticket is two shillings for an adult, half price for a child... No, wait, you two are both over fourteen. No more child tickets."

He started calculating again. "Four adult third-class tickets, one-way, is eight shillings. A round trip would be..."

Sixteen shillings. He fought the urge to sigh in front of the children.

Sixteen shillings was enough to feed the family for a month, enough to buy Evelyn several pairs of new shoes.

And it was all being spent on four train tickets, just to attend a family dinner in the Imperial Capital where they might not even get a satisfying meal.

"How much is first-class?" his mother asked, coming downstairs with a pile of ironed clothes in her arms.

"First-class?" His father looked up, his expression priceless. "Are you serious?"

"I’m just asking."

"It’s over one pound per person."

His mother said no more.

"Third-class is fine," Richard said, emerging from the kitchen with a teacup. "As long as we have seats, that’s enough. We’re not going on vacation."

"Third-class is crowded," Evelyn chimed in without looking up, crouching by the door to change her shoes.

Two pairs of shoes sat in front of her.

On the left were the loafers she wore to school every day. The toes were faded from wear, but they were still reasonably clean.

On the right were her little leather dress shoes. Because she had hardly ever worn them, they were still very new, but they were clearly too small.

She tried stuffing her foot into one. Her toes pressed against the tip, creating a visible bulge.

"Are they tight?" Richard asked, glancing down.

"Not at all," Evelyn said, forcing her foot further in. She stood up and took a couple of steps, but the look on her face betrayed her.

Margaret walked over and crouched down, pinching the tip of her daughter’s shoe. "They are too small. Your toes are right at the front."

Richard went to his room and came back with a pair of spare, thin cotton socks, holding them out to her.

"Wear these underneath. It might be more comfortable."

"These are a size smaller than my usual ones. They should be just right for you."

Evelyn stared at the socks, hesitated for a moment, but took them and put on the small leather shoes again.

She tapped her foot on the floor, wiggling her toes against the front. "...It’s a little better."

As the family of four stood by the door putting on their shoes, Richard took a moment to look at their outfits.

His father’s three-piece suit was respectable but tight. His mother’s dress was elegant but old. His sister’s leather shoes were pretty but pinched her feet.

Everyone was playing the best hand they had in a game they didn’t really want to play.

.........

The platform was crowded with people: merchants carrying suitcases, housewives holding children, postmen in uniform, and a few sailors shouldering canvas duffel bags.

His father bought four tickets at the window, carefully counted the change he got back, and only then stuffed it into his pocket.

The family sat down on a bench to wait for the train’s departure.

The atmosphere was a bit heavy.

His father opened the newspaper he’d brought, but his eyes barely moved across the page. He was likely just looking for something to do.

His mother sat ramrod straight, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes fixed on the empty tracks across the platform.

Evelyn sat next to Richard, her toes touching the ground, her heels suspended in the air.

After a long moment of silence, Richard nudged his sister’s elbow.

The girl turned her head and saw him pull a paper-wrapped package from the side pocket of his bag.

Richard held the package out to his mother.

"Mom."

Margaret tore her gaze away from the tracks, looking quizzically at what her son was holding.

"A birthday present," Richard said. "It’s a few days late, but I’ve been saving it for you."

Evelyn also pulled another paper package from her small satchel, this one smaller and plumper than Richard’s.

"Mom, happy birthday."

The girl placed her package in her mother’s hands next to Richard’s.

Margaret looked down at the two packages, her fingers toying with the knot of the Hemp Rope.

Her birthday had indeed been a few days ago.

That night, her old ailment had flared up again, her chest feeling terribly tight.

Fit after fit of coughing had plagued her intermittently from the first half of the night until dawn.

Evelyn had gotten up in the middle of the night to get her water, pat her back, and prop up her pillow, busying herself for most of the night.

Richard had tried to help but was pushed back into his room by his sister; he hadn’t slept much either, listening from behind the wall.

Their father hadn’t come home that day; there was a rush order at the factory.

He worked three night shifts in a row, eating and sleeping in the temporary dormitory next to the workshop.

On her birthday, no one in the family had mentioned it, and the day had simply passed.

"Go on, open it," Evelyn urged.

Her mother stroked her daughter’s head and opened her gift first.

Unwrapping the layers of kraft paper revealed a pair of dark brown woolen gloves.

They were the pair from the window of the Grafton Street department store branch, the ones that cost two shillings.

"Try them on," Evelyn said, pulling the gloves from the paper and giving them a little shake.

Margaret took off her old gloves and slipped on the new ones. They were a perfect fit.

She slowly clenched her fists. The fleece lining was warm and snug against her palms.

"Do they fit?" Richard asked.

"Perfectly," his mother replied, her voice a little thick.

She then unwrapped Richard’s gift.

Inside the paper was a light gray woolen scarf, finely woven and soft to the touch.

The scarf had cost Richard one shilling and five pence. He had found it while wandering through a flea market with Hugh.

The woman selling it, a factory worker, said she had woven it herself with good quality yarn she’d picked from the remnants at the woolen mill.

Richard had haggled the price down from two shillings to one shilling and five pence, using his usual student sob story.

Margaret wiped her eyes and pulled her children, who were sitting on either side of her, into a tight hug. "Thank you."

From the side, their father lowered his newspaper and suddenly said something completely unrelated to the scene:

"You can save those two paper bags to use for something else later."

His mother burst out laughing. "And with that, you’ve completely ruined the mood."

"I don’t understand that stuff."

"We all know you don’t," Evelyn said, leaning against her mother. "Dad, how did you ever manage to court Mom?"

"She’s the one who came knocking on my door."

"...Rogers, what are you talking about?" his mother said, her expression turning sour.

But his father didn’t stop. "The first time I met your grandfather, I thought I was done for."

"There was an old dog at their gate, and that dog only bit strangers."

"And then what?" Evelyn leaned forward.

"And then Margaret just stood there and watched me have a standoff with that dog for a good ten minutes."

Their mother took off the gloves, folded them neatly, and put them back in the paper bag, reluctant to wear them just yet.

"Back then, your grandfather looked at your dad like he was an idiot."

She continued, "But I actually found your dad’s reckless, naive look rather interesting."

"Oh?" Evelyn’s gaze darted back and forth between her parents.

Her father stood up, slightly embarrassed, and adjusted the collar of his coat. "Time to go, or we’ll miss the train."

The family of four picked up their luggage and walked along the platform toward their carriage.

Inside the third-class carriage, the aisle was cluttered with all sorts of luggage, and the overhead racks were crammed with woven plastic sacks and old leather suitcases.

The train soon began to move.

Across from them sat an old couple with a chicken in a cage.

The chicken flapped around in its cage for half an hour before finally settling down, falling into a deep sleep somewhere between Brighton and the Imperial Capital.

Richard pushed the window open a crack. The wind blew coal smoke in, but at least it got rid of the smell of chicken droppings.

The carriage jolted slightly as the wheels passed over the gaps in the tracks.

In the distance, the cluster of chimneys grew smaller, and the silhouette of the industrial district gave way to the contours of rolling hills.

Mines, blast furnaces, and dense rows of terraced houses gradually gave way to pasture fences, haystacks, and the occasional orchard.

The train passed through a small station without stopping. The platform was empty, save for a lone dog sitting on a bench, watching the train go by.

Richard took Cicero’s speeches from his bag, turning to the pages that were frayed from his constant rereading.

He didn’t read aloud; his eyes merely glided over the sentences as his mind automatically replayed the rhythm and cadence of each passage.

About half an hour later, someone from the opposite seat got off, leaving a newspaper behind on the bench.

The newspaper caught Richard’s attention.