Morning in Briston was gray and overcast.
The air was cold and damp, carrying the stench of coal smoke and the nearby river.
In the industrial age, city rivers were essentially open-air sewers, and they reeked.
On the street corner, an old woman bundled in a scarf was selling hot pies for a penny each.
The savory aroma tempted Richard, who hadn't eaten much for breakfast.
Soon, the school bus arrived right on time at seven forty-five.
Richard pulled his coat tight and followed his younger sister into the line.
Evelyn had already found two other girls; they huddled near a streetlamp, whispering about something.
Richard didn't join them. Once on board, he took a window seat.
As he watched the industrial scenery roll by, he took stock of his situation.First, his body was weak, and he needed to do everything he could to nurse it back to health.
Breathing was already improving his condition, but he couldn't expect a skill upgrade to replace proper nourishment entirely.
Perhaps he could find a way to improve his meals.
Second, his family's finances were tight. His parents were gritting their teeth just to maintain appearances.
He didn't know how much class mobility existed in this world.
But in this family, at least, the drive to "move upward" was carved into their very bones.
Third, his grades were bad. Just how terrible they were, he would find out once he got to school.
Fourth... He glanced at the transparent Panel.
Under Body, only [Breathing] was lit; the other three items remained gray.
Under Mind, all three items were gray, and Spirit was still locked.
The only thing he could be sure of right now was that [Breathing] was increasing. It triggered passively, requiring no deliberate effort on his part.
As long as he was alive and moving—eating, drinking, and relieving himself—it would inch forward bit by bit.
When the school bus arrived, he followed the crowd off.
Upon entering the school, they had to go to the chapel first.
Morning prayer started at exactly eight o'clock every day, and attendance was mandatory for all students.
Stone pillars supported the chapel's pointed arches, and the stained glass windows depicted St. George Slaying the Dragon.
But the stained glass was old; the dragon's colors were peeling, and half of St. George's spear was missing.
Looking at it now, it was just a dusty old knight facing off against an equally decrepit giant lizard.
The students took their seats by grade and class, boys on the left and girls on the right, sharply divided.
The principal sat dead center in the front row, as motionless as a wax figure in a display case.
The priest stepped up to the pulpit, opened his prayer book, and began to lead the recitation:
"Lord, teach us to be diligent in our studies, that we may become instruments of Thy purpose..."
"(Lord, teach us to be diligent in our studies, so that we may become instruments of Your will...)"
Richard stood in the ranks, head bowed, mouthing the words.
How boring.
The priest continued to read, his voice buzzing and echoing off the stone walls.
When the final "Amen" fell, the entire hall repeated it.
The voices were uneven; some sounded devout, some perfunctory, and some hadn't made a sound at all.
Morning prayer ended, and the crowd dispersed. Richard followed his classmates toward the teaching building.
The school crest was carved above the doors to the main building: an open book, an oil lamp resting on its pages, and a line of Latin:
"Lux Rationis Semper Vincit.
The light of reason forever conquers."
...
Paradoxically, the very first class of the morning was about something far less rational.
Up on the podium, Mr. Hutton was in his fifties, skinny, with a slight hunch to his back.
"Everyone," he said, placing his chalk into the tray on the podium, "today we will discuss the rationalization process of mysticism."
Someone in the back row let out a soft sigh.
Mr. Hutton ignored the sigh and continued. "I would like to ask you all a question first.
"What is a 'misunderstanding'?"
It was quiet for a moment. Everyone waited for someone else to speak first; no one wanted to stick their neck out at a time like this.
"Warren," Mr. Hutton called on the boy in the back row with slicked-back, oily hair. "You tell us."
Warren stood up lazily and answered offhandedly, "A misunderstanding is... understanding something wrong?
Like thunder. People in the past said it was the wrath of the gods, but now we know it's atmospheric discharge. Is that a misunderstanding?"
"Very good," Mr. Hutton nodded. "Then let me ask you: between a miracle and atmospheric discharge, which explanation is more real?"
Warren frowned. "Electricity, of course. Electricity can be measured; gods cannot.
The professors at the Royal Society have made that clear enough."
"Well said." Mr. Hutton paced back and forth across the podium.
"The 'real' you speak of refers to things that can be measured.
Then, if there is something whose effects can be perceived, but cannot be measured by instruments, is it considered real?"
Warren paused. "Then... then it shouldn't exist. Perception can be wrong, but instruments don't lie."
"Instruments don't lie," Mr. Hutton repeated.
"Good. Let's remember that statement; we will need it today."
Richard sat in his seat in the third row by the window, his textbook flipped open to the corresponding chapter.
The textbook presented the standard narrative.
Mysticism was a product of humanity's cognitive limitations in bygone eras; with the progress of science, all such phenomena had received rational explanations, and so on.
Mr. Hutton was teaching something else entirely.
He was talking about the priest class of the Black Soil River Basin, discussing how they wove astronomical calendars and oracle systems together until the two were inseparable.
Those priests were not the witch doctors and shamans people imagined; on the contrary, they were the most learned group of their time.
"It wasn't superstition obscuring science," he said. "Those people knew exactly what they were doing, far more than we typically assume."
He spoke of the temples of the Aegean Sea, noting that those places were not only religious sites but also the earliest information exchange networks.
Pilgrims brought news, and the priests were responsible for organizing and interpreting it.
They mastered classification systems that outsiders couldn't understand, turning seemingly irrelevant information into useful predictions.
"The Oracle of Delphi was very accurate," he said.
"But perhaps there were no gods speaking at all. The people there simply heard things that others could not hear."
"Speaking of which, you all may have heard that in the salons over in the Imperial Capital, the most popular social activity right now is no longer whist."
A few students looked up.
"From duchesses down to practicing lawyers, everyone is keen on drawing the curtains in their parlors, lighting candles, and inviting mediums to speak with the dead."
Whispers broke out in the back row.
Mr. Hutton wasn't interrupted; he simply continued speaking.
He spoke of the colonial expansion records from the New Continent.
He used several specific cases—the kind reported with ambiguous phrasing in the newspapers—but here in class, he expanded on the details.
Before a certain pioneer expedition disappeared, three survivors independently described hearing the exact same sound;
After native ceremonial grounds were destroyed by the army, massive anomalies occurred in the area;
And there was a government report, still unreleased to this day, with its conclusion entirely blacked out.
Only the very last sentence remained, which he read aloud, enunciating every word in the Albion Language:
"We recommend no further investigation.
(We advise halting any further investigation.)"
He put down the chalk and turned to the blackboard. "You can deduce for yourselves what this sentence implies."
Richard drew a circle in his notebook, wrote "Stop the Investigation" inside it, and added a question mark next to it.
Just then, Mr. Hutton started writing something on the blackboard.
With his back to the class, he said, "Of course, the true danger has never been the country folk who leave hats at crossroads as sacrifices to the 'God of the Road'."
The chalk clacked against the blackboard until a line was finished.
"What is truly dangerous is what appears inside those hats."
Someone in the back row chuckled softly. It was Warren again.
"Mr. Hutton, are you telling ghost stories?"
"I am teaching history." Mr. Hutton smiled mildly.
"Everything that has ever happened in the past is history, including the parts that were left out of the textbooks."
With that, he turned around, his gaze falling on the seat by the window in the third row.
"Williams."
Richard sat up straight in his seat.