Chapter 267: Cherishing Books

"What are you all up to in the corner?"

Curator Wetherby had followed the sound of their discussion to the corner.

He glanced down at The Hermit, Wheel of Fortune, and Strength lying on the floor.

The weariness on his face faded.

Whenever a Scholar saw something they could expound upon, they couldn't resist joining in.

"Ah, Tarot cards." The old man fished a soft cloth pouch from his coat.

"I dabbled in Tarot myself when I was young."

He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a deck of cards.

The faces were polished smooth from use, the edges frayed.

It had clearly been handled for years, but just as clearly untouched in recent times.

"Speaking of which, this deck has quite a history."

The curator tapped the deck against a wooden crate.

"When my Mentor was in his teens, his guide took him on a trip to Franc.

"Franc was still in the middle of its revolution back then, chopping off heads left and right."

Hearing a story, the nearby trainees pricked up their ears.

"That year, a man named Etteilla—his real name was Jean-Baptiste Alliette—set up a stall on the Left Bank of the Seine."

The curator flipped over a card from the deck and placed it on the surface.

"The man used to be a barber, then he sold seeds, and finally made his fortune divining for noblewomen.

"He gave himself the pseudonym 'Etteilla.' Can any of you guess where that name came from?"

No one answered.

"He simply spelled his surname backwards. Alliette backwards is Etteilla."

The curator's white beard bobbed. "Just a cheap little trick."

Wade Bourne let out a chuckle from the back.

"But the man had one true skill." The curator pressed his hand onto the old deck.

"He was the first person in the world to take Tarot cards off the gambling table and bring them to the divination stand. Before him, Tarot was just for playing games."

"The revolution sent the nobles to the guillotine one after another. They were about to lose their lives, yet droves of them ran to Etteilla for a reading.

"What were they divining? Whether their heads would still be attached to their necks the next morning."

The curator picked up a card and turned it over.

"My Mentor told me later that while heads were rolling in the streets, only Etteilla sat securely, relying entirely on a deck of cards.

"Cards can't save lives, but when people are at their most terrified, they'll pay anyone who can give them an answer—even a fake one."

Silence settled over the Storeroom for a moment.

"My Mentor bought a deck from him back then." The curator tapped the back of the cards. "As a souvenir."

"This deck followed my Mentor for most of his life, and it's followed me for most of mine."

He turned the card face down, squared the deck, and wrapped it back up in the soft cloth.

"The thing about divination," he said, looking up at Richard.

"It cannot give you the truth. What it gives you is the echo of your own question.

"The clearer you ask, the more accurately it answers. If you ask vaguely, it simply hands you a mirror so you can look at yourself."

"I understand," Richard said.

"Go grab some supper." The curator waved them off. "Stop squatting in the corner scaring people."

Beside them, Pritchard let out a rare laugh.

The discussion broke up, and everyone finally remembered their stomachs.

The students' eyes lit up at the mention of "supper."

The side hall was on the second floor above the Storeroom, separated from the dampness below by a low door.

Food had already been laid out by the museum staff on a long oak table: thickly sliced bacon, massive blocks of butter for the taking, and a basket of freshly baked, golden-crusted scones.

A large jug of warm milk sat at the corner of the table.

The twenty trainees swarmed forward in a rush.

A night of soul-shaking terror had translated entirely into raw physical hunger.

Wade Bourne grabbed a scone, inhaled it in two or three bites, and reached for a second.

"Let me tell you," he mumbled, his mouth stuffed full.

"When that thing wearing my face stood up... when it walked toward me, the back of my neck instantly went freezing cold. It said—what did it say again?"

"It said, 'Give it back, I am the real Wade Bourne.'"

Catherine poured herself half a cup of black tea and smoothly finished his sentence.

"You were slumped on the floor stuttering 'I-I-I' for forever without managing to squeeze out a complete sentence."

Everyone at the table burst into laughter.

"I was... I was just scared!" Bourne said, stiffening his neck defensively.

"If it were you, and your shadow stood up wearing your face, demanding to take your place, wouldn't you be scared?"

"My reflection," Catherine said, taking a bite of ham.

"It stood up, took one look at me, and sat right back down."

"Why?" Bourne's eyes widened.

"Probably thought I looked too fierce. If it took my place, its own life wouldn't be very easy from then on."

Another roar of laughter erupted.

Edith huddled to one side, taking tiny nibbles of her scone.

She didn't join in the table's banter, but the peaceful expression on her face was the first she had shown all night.

For her, the events of tonight were something she could never have imagined even in her wildest dreams.

Richard held his tea, taking in the lively scene around the table.

The curator waited until everyone had mostly finished eating before strolling into the side hall.

He stopped at the center of the long table, clasped his hands behind his back, and swept his gaze over the circle of trainees.

The students stopped eating.

"You've all passed this lesson. Everyone gets a merit recorded. What I said counts."

"As for the inscription group, Montagu and Fischer held their ground well. You peeled the shell away cleanly."

Montagu bowed slightly but said nothing.

"Catherine." The curator looked toward the red-haired girl.

"You made this old man look at you in a new light as well. Highlanders out of Cheltenham really do have something to them."

Catherine gave a nod.

"Edith." The curator turned to the end of the table.

"You pinned down its roots and chanted line by line. Steady.

"A girl from a small northern town, study hard. You'll go far."

Edith clutched the book in her arms a little tighter and softly said, "Thank you, Curator."

"As for the greatest merit..."

The curator's gaze fell on Richard.

"Richard."

The murmurs in the hall died down.

"Tonight, you did two things.

"You tangled with the fragment for a time. You yanked its initial momentum off course, buying me the opening I needed to chant the second half of the judgment."

Richard didn't speak.

The curator picked up a teacup. "More importantly, you read out the load-bearing pillar of the fragment's name.

"The judgment only took hold because you dismantled that section for me first."

The trainees at the long table exchanged glances.

"I was wondering why the curator chanted faster and faster toward the end," Bourne said, his mouth still full.

"So Williams was pulling tricks on the side."

"Not tricks," the curator corrected him.

"It was a Scholar's work. At that stage of reading, he read out exactly what he was supposed to."

The curator looked at Richard.

"By the rules, the museum's collections belong to the state. I cannot use public property to do personal favors."

Richard had anticipated this and didn't feel disappointed.

"But as the curator, I do have some other authority."

The old man stroked his white beard and spoke unhurriedly:

"In this Albion Museum, aside from the Storeroom of supernatural items down below, there is also the attached rare book wing.

"Rare texts, antique volumes, one-of-a-kind manuscripts. Usually, ordinary Scholars can't even touch the door handle.

"Even associate professors at higher institutions have to go through layers of approval just to borrow them."

The curator smiled at the young man before him.

"Richard, when you come study in the Imperial Capital later on, you can drop by my museum whenever you have the time.

"The books in the rare book wing—you can browse them as you please, read as you please, for as long as you please."

He added one more thing.

"Only one rule: you cannot take them away."

Richard's heart gave a thump.

On the surface, this borrowing privilege didn't seem as tangible as being rewarded with a supernatural item.

But he had [Erudition]. Any tome that passed his eyes would leave its imprint on his brain.

Every word, every punctuation mark, every flaw in the printing or carving—it would all be fixed in his mind, ready to be accessed at will.

When others entered that library, they read one scroll at a time, and after finishing, they'd remember no more than thirty or fifty percent.

But when he entered that library...

To read a volume was to move that volume, in its exact entirety, straight into his own head.

Centuries-old unique copies, transcripts, and fragmented scrolls from the Black Soil River, Persia, and the Spice Islands... As long as he visited frequently, sooner or later, he would hollow out the place, volume by volume.

This was a massive goldmine. As long as he utilized it well, he would never have to worry about lacking knowledge and intelligence to trade at the Theogony Salon.

Furthermore, this unrestricted access privilege extended far beyond just the books themselves.

The curator had essentially opened a massive door for him.

From now on, armed with that single promise, he could freely wander the inner areas of the Albion Museum.

The museum was backed by the Empire.

Every single supernatural item—transported from the Black Soil River, hauled back from the New Continent, or dug up from temples and tombs all across the Old Continent—had to transit, be replicated, researched, and warehoused within this museum.

The sheer volume passing through was staggering.

Clement's connection for surplus antiquities was visibly on the verge of breaking.

And if he were to take legitimate routes to fight for scraps in the public supernatural item market, his current meager finances simply wouldn't cut it.

Now, at the very least, he had gained the museum as a new channel.

As long as he could come and go freely, he would always find chances to scrape up some points.

"...Thank you, Curator."

Richard bowed deeply.

Curator Wetherby grunted an "Mm," quite pleased.

"Those who read should cherish books."

The old man stroked his white beard and turned around.

"Looking at you, I can tell you're someone who truly cherishes them."

Just before walking out the door, he turned back to add one more thing.

"That library upstairs has great lighting. It's quiet. No one will bother you.

"It's far better than that rundown building where your lot in the Department of Classics spend all day arguing."

The old man let out a hearty laugh and exited the hall.

Inside the side hall, the trainees instantly exploded into overlapping chatter.

"Access to the museum's archives anytime?!"

"My god... Mr. Pendleton, is... is this real?"

Pendleton was holding a cup of hot tea. Hearing this, he nodded, his gaze on Richard completely changed.

"The curator's word is worth its weight in gold," he said slowly.

"I've only been inside that library twice myself."

Montagu furrowed his brows and said nothing.

Catherine shot a glance at Richard. It held deep envy, and perhaps something else.

Edith hugged her ever-present book tight and asked softly, "Mr. Williams... would there be any books on natural history in that library?"

"There will be." Richard smiled. "When I get in there one day, I'll keep an eye out for you."

...

Late in the night, Richard sat in the Ashford House carriage taking him home.

The streets were practically empty.

The wheels rolled over the cobblestones, the rhythmic clacking and jolting enough to lull a person to sleep.

But Richard wasn't the least bit sleepy.

[Available Points: 3.81]

His walking experience was nearly full as well; it would advance soon.

Once all three Mind attributes reached Lv.3, the seed could be planted.

When all seven Body and Mind attributes reached Lv.3, the [Spirit] section would unlock something new.

What would the new [Spirit] function be this time?

Richard leaned back against the carriage wall, gazing out the window at the bright stretch of streetlamps.

...

The tail end of the training still had to be wrapped up.

Going down into the Storeroom on the first day, Richard had reaped everything there was to reap.

On the evening of the second day, the museum staff called the trainees back into the Storeroom.

This time, Richard didn't let his mind wander much.

There was nothing left to read in the Storeroom on the second day.

After that cloud of smoke dissipated, the room full of supernatural items sank back down one by one, the sealing nodes closed shut again, and the seeping ether was cut off.

Richard took a lap around the floor, but the number on his Panel didn't budge.

He wasn't too disappointed. His harvest this time had been plentiful enough; one shouldn't be too greedy.

When it was time to leave, the curator walked the trainees all the way out to the wide stone steps at the museum's entrance.

"Everyone," the old man said, standing at the top of the steps, his white beard swaying in the evening breeze.

"This marks the end of your training. Come autumn, you will all enter the preparatory class for the Department of Classics. From now on, you are schoolmates."

He swept his gaze over the circle of youths.

"Lately, rumors of impending war on the Old Continent are printed in the papers every day.

"The war hasn't even started, yet the academy system is already frantic.

"Later on, when you enter your undergraduate and postgraduate studies, I'm afraid you'll have to work for the academy system while you study."

"This lesson was meant to give you an early look at exactly what kind of work you'll be taking on in the future."

Listening to this, the students' expressions grew noticeably more solemn.

"I won't say any more."

The solemnity on the curator's face dissolved.

"Go back and rest. School starts in September. I teach a few electives at Imperial Capital University myself, so we will see each other then."

He gestured with his chin in Richard's direction.

"Richard, visit often when you have time. I'll keep that jug of milk warm for you."

The students broke into another round of laughter and banter, wandering down the wide stone steps in twos and threes.

Richard stood on the steps, watching the group scatter into the July sunset of the Imperial Capital.

When he set out from Briston at the end of May, although he had confidence in himself, the matter hadn't yet been settled, and the suspense had lingered in the back of his mind.

Looking back now, the Cicero Cup was his first admission ticket. The training was his second. Signature was his third.

Door after door, he had stepped through them all.

When he returned in September, he would be a student of Imperial Capital University.