Chapter 113: Inspiration Test

At ten o'clock on Saturday morning, the Dawn Family carriage pulled up punctually outside the Williams residence.

Richard climbed aboard, his satchel in hand.

This was his second time going to the Dawn Family to tutor.

His Slingshot teaching method had been a massive success last week. Tom had actually memorized all six cases of the first declension within a single week, and retained them perfectly.

Charlotte had been clearly delighted when she shared the news over the phone.

"He's never tried this hard to memorize anything before."

"That's the Slingshot's doing."

"...Will you be using the Slingshot for your next lesson?"

"No, we'll try something new."

The carriage pulled to a smooth halt before the Dawn Mansion. The gas lamps on the porch were still burning. It had just stopped raining, and water steadily dripped from the eaves.

A maid took his coat at the door and guided him toward the small parlor.

Tom was already sitting at the table, waiting.

Unlike last time, there was no Slingshot resting on the tabletop.

After the lesson, lunch was served by the Dawn Family chef.

The spread included roast leg of lamb with mint sauce, mashed potatoes, warm fresh-baked bread, and a tureen of thick onion soup.

Mrs. Dawn sat at the far end of the long table, quietly murmuring to Charlotte as she sliced the bread.

Richard took a seat near the window and draped a napkin over his lap.

The lamb was cooked to perfection—crispy on the outside while still slightly pink on the inside. The refreshing mint sauce cleanly cut through the richness of the meat.

Whipped with butter and cream, the mashed potatoes were incredibly smooth, melting right on the tongue.

With every bite he swallowed, his digestive system—optimized by the [eating] skill—operated at an efficiency far surpassing an ordinary person's.

His body could extract significantly more nutrients from the exact same proteins and fats.

The difference was hardly noticeable over a single meal, but accumulated over time, the long-term effects would be entirely different.

After lunch, Charlotte walked him to the door.

The carriage was already waiting beneath the porch, the coachman huddled in the driver's seat against the chill.

"Mr. Williams, same time next week."

"Of course."

Richard climbed into the carriage. As it rattled down the road, he pulled up his Panel for a quick glance.

[Learning Lv.2] Progress: 56%

He had noticed a distinct change once his Learning surpassed fifty percent.

The base processing speed of his mind had jumped another tier. When tackling new material, that sluggish, foggy sensation of trying to see through a veil had largely faded.

As information flowed into his brain, it automatically sorted, categorized, and cross-referenced itself far faster than before.

His ability to grasp the Gargoyle's secret technique framework so quickly earlier was partly due to his Learning progress breaking the fifty-percent mark.

However, the flip side of the coin was starting to show.

Now that his brain was operating at such a high efficiency, the knowledge density provided by the middle school curriculum and standard tutoring sessions felt terribly thin.

If he wanted to push the progress bar higher, he had to keep feeding it new material.

Specifically, knowledge pertaining to the mystical side of things: deciphering inscriptions, sealing theories, the principles of ether...

Every influx of fresh knowledge caused a visible jump in the progress bar, proving far more efficient than his ordinary lessons.

...

On Sunday afternoon, Richard arrived at the Branch Office at the agreed-upon time.

The same white-haired old man from his last visit was still sitting behind the reception desk near the entrance.

He was holding another illustrated magazine—this time a special issue on greyhound racing. The cover featured a gray greyhound crossing the finish line with its mouth wide open.

Richard presented his commission papers. The old man simply waved him through without even looking up.

He took the stairs to the third floor, finding the door at the end of the corridor wide open.

Pushing the door wider, he saw that Old Biggs had already set up the room.

A long table sat in the center of the room. Arranged atop it were ten objects, each draped in black cloth.

They were evenly spaced, separated by about a hand's width each.

The numbers 1 through 10 were chalked onto the table directly beneath them. The thick strokes made them easy to read from a distance.

The curtains had been drawn shut, and the gaps around the two windows were stuffed tight with old newspapers.

Only a single low-wattage lamp remained lit in the corner. Its shade was covered by a yellow cloth, muting the light to a soft glow.

The entire room existed in a hazy gray state between light and dark. It was impossible to see anything clearly from a distance, yet it wasn't pitch black either.

"You're here."

Old Biggs sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table, his copper pot and tin cup set out in front of him as usual.

"Have a seat. Drink some tea and steady your nerves first."

Richard pulled out a chair on his side of the table and sat down.

Old Biggs poured him a cup. The brew was clear this time, lacking the amber hue of added liquor—it was pure black tea.

Richard took a sip, the astringency of the black tea spreading across his tongue.

"Today's test is very simple."

Old Biggs pointed his tin cup at the ten covered items lining the table.

"Ten items. Some contain a certain amount of ether, and some have absolutely none."

He set the tin cup down with a clunk.

"You just tell me which ones have it, and which ones don't. It's that simple."

"Will this be enough to determine the strength of my Inspiration?" Richard asked.

"Don't think that far ahead yet," Old Biggs said, shaking his round head.

"Just focus on distinguishing whether it's there or not."

"Did you do your pushing exercises before bed after you went home last week?"

"I did. Three sets a day."

"How did it feel?"

"The distance I can push is increasing. On the first day, I could only manage about an inch. By yesterday, I could push it out to roughly two or three inches."

"That's plenty," Old Biggs said, patting his belly in satisfaction.

"Two or three inches is perfectly fine. The Spirit Vision test doesn't require you to probe things from half a street away. Being able to sense something within three steps is more than enough."

He stood up and walked around to the side of the table.

"Before we begin, let me lay out the rules."

"First, close your eyes."

"Second, keep your hands flat on your knees. No lifting your hands at any point."

"Third, you only get five seconds per item before you have to give me your answer: yes or no."

"Once you've gone through all ten, I'll lift the cloths and show you the answers."

Richard nodded, setting his teacup aside as he straightened his posture.

He closed his eyes.

In the darkness, the ambient sounds of the room became much sharper.

Following the routine he had practiced all week, he pushed the ether forward from the center of his chest.

The moment the ether left his body, his perception abruptly expanded.

He focused his attention on item number one.

The ether he pushed out brushed against the cloth-draped surface. The sensation feeding back to him was... very hazy.

There was no distinct sense of presence or absence. It felt more like trying to read a distant street sign through thick fog.

He knew something was there, but he couldn't quite read what was on it.

He lingered on it for three seconds. "Number one, yes."

Old Biggs gave no feedback, remaining perfectly still by his side.

His attention slid to item number two.

The sensation was slightly different this time.

The ether touched number two but returned absolutely no signal. It felt like reaching into an empty box and grabbing thin air.

"Number two, no."

Number three... yes, but weak.

Number four... he hesitated for a long moment before answering. "Number four, no."

Number five, no.

Number six... He furrowed his brows slightly.

The pushed ether produced a gentle rebound when it hit number six, but the intensity of that rebound felt entirely different from the objects he knew definitely contained ether.

"Number six... no."

Number seven, yes.

Number eight. He lingered on this one for a full eight seconds.

After his ether brushed against number eight, he felt nothing at all.

There was no ether response, nor was there any physical rebound.

It was like sticking his hand into a pile of cotton—his probe was simply swallowed up by a soft, lukewarm void.

"Number eight, yes." He took a gamble.

Number nine, no.

Number ten, yes.

Having reported the final item, Richard opened his eyes.

The yellow glow of the lamp made him squint for a moment.

Old Biggs had already pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. Ten lines of text were crookedly scrawled across it—the answers he had recorded beforehand.

"Let's check your work."

Holding the paper, he reached out with his other hand and whisked the black cloth off number one.

Sitting beneath it was an old copper button covered in verdigris, roughly the size of a penny.

"Number one, yes. Correct."

Number two was an ordinary river pebble—grayish-white and completely smooth.

"Number two, no. Correct."

Number three was a dead twig about as thick as a finger, its snapped end tinged yellow.

"Number three, yes. Correct."

Number four... Old Biggs pulled the cloth away to reveal an old Pocket Watch.

"Number four, yes." He threw a glance at Richard. "You said no. Wrong."

The Pocket Watch at number four contained an incredibly minute trace of residual ether.

According to Old Biggs, he had carried this Pocket Watch on his person for years.

The ether content inside was so low it was practically negligible, but it was undoubtedly there.

Numbers five through ten were revealed one by one.

Number five, correct. Number six, correct—he had guessed right on the one he suspected to be a physical rebound.

Number seven, correct.

Number eight... Old Biggs lifted the cloth, uncovering a small porcelain bowl.

"Number eight, no." Old Biggs glanced at him again. "You said yes. Wrong."

Number nine, correct. Number ten, correct.

Final score: eight correct, two wrong.

An eighty percent accuracy rate. Old Biggs tossed the slip of paper onto the table.

He rose from his chair, walked a full lap around the table, and clapped his hands loudly twice.

"Good, good, good!"

His laughter echoed off the walls of the modest room.

He remained visibly excited for a moment, his chest heaving a few times before he suddenly reeled in his smile.

The creases on his round face settled back into their usual heavy folds, his expression turning entirely serious.

"At your current level, to be honest... given your situation, this is actually the best-case scenario."

"The best-case scenario?" Richard was a bit puzzled. "Shouldn't higher be better?"

"Only amateurs think that a higher Inspiration is better."