Chapter 33: Seal Identification

Hugh had just picked up his pencil when Mr. Holland walked into the classroom.

He held a paper tray carrying two fried chicken legs.

The golden, crispy skin glistened with grease, and the savory scent of toasted breadcrumbs wafted from the door to the front row.

The restroom and the cafeteria were in opposite directions. He had likely gone out just to buy the chicken legs and skipped the restroom altogether.

Hugh stared at the chicken legs, his eyes lighting up.

Mr. Holland set the paper tray on the boys' shared desk.

"I smelled them passing the cafeteria, so I picked them up."

He had supposedly picked them up in passing, yet neither leg was for himself.

He pushed the tray closer to the students, sat down in the second row, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the grease from his fingers.

"You've been practicing all afternoon. You won't be able to walk home if you don't eat."

Hugh didn't stand on ceremony. He grabbed a chicken leg with both hands and took a massive bite.

The crust was perfectly crisp, crunching loudly as savory juices burst into his mouth.

He chewed twice, an expression of almost pious satisfaction spreading across his face.

Compared to the chicken leg he had drawn earlier, the real thing was far more convincing.

Richard picked up the other one and took a bite.

The three clustered around the front desk: two students gnawing on chicken legs while their teacher sat behind them, wiping his hands.

Above the podium, the school motto plaque—Lux Rationis Semper Vincit—overlooked the scene.

It likely never expected that right beneath the light of reason, a teacher and his students would turn the classroom into a picnic spot.

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair and glanced at Hugh.

"Fenton, you look terrible."

Hugh mumbled through a mouthful of chicken. "Didn't sleep well last night."

"Catching up on homework?"

"Not homework..." Hugh swallowed his mouthful, looking a bit embarrassed. "I was listening to the football broadcast."

"Which match?"

"Stanfield's away game."

Mr. Holland's handkerchief paused between his fingers.

"The two-two draw?"

Hugh looked up, breadcrumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"You listened to it too, sir?"

"I didn't listen to the broadcast. I read about it in the paper this morning."

Mr. Holland folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket, his triple chin bunching against his collar.

"That stoppage-time shot that hit the post and bounced out. Was it McKinney who took it?"

"Yes! That was him!" Hugh's eyes lit up.

Fans of the city's team shared a tacit understanding that crossed generational divides, usually built on a foundation of mutual disappointment.

Year after year of anticipation, only to be sent packing at the most critical moments by goalposts, missed rebounds, and cruel fate.

Yet the very next day, as soon as the radio crackled to life, those same people would be glued to it again.

Richard nibbled his chicken leg, watching their interaction in mild disbelief.

Just ten minutes ago, Mr. Holland was the strict teacher dragging chairs to make noise and sternly correcting pronunciation.

Now, he sat with his legs crossed next to his student, chatting about the left goalpost and header rebounds, his triple chin jiggling in time with his words.

"Sir," Hugh suddenly said.

"Hmm?"

"Next Wednesday, Stanfield is playing Bolton at home. Kickoff is at seven-thirty."

He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and twirled it through his fingers.

"Do you want to... listen to the broadcast together?"

Mr. Holland looked a bit surprised.

"Are you inviting your teacher to stay up late and listen to a football match?"

"Didn't you say you followed them for three straight seasons without missing a game...?"

"That was when I was young. Now I'm a middle-aged man who has to wake up early to teach."

As he walked past Hugh, he pulled the handkerchief back out. "Wipe your mouth. It's covered in grease."

Hugh hurriedly wiped his face, stood up, and folded the handkerchief to return it.

"Keep it. It's dirty anyway."

Mr. Holland tucked his lesson plans under his arm.

"We continue tomorrow at the same time. Have the excerpt for the second speech prepared as well. Both plans."

He pushed the door open and stepped out, but paused and looked back.

"Fenton."

"Sir!"

"Go to bed early tonight. Don't listen to any broadcasts. If you nod off in class again, I won't go easy on you."

The door clicked shut.

Hugh stood in place, looking down at the handkerchief.

It was linen, with a cursive H embroidered in the corner. The stitching was fine and dense, and though it had been washed many times, the fabric hadn't frayed.

It wasn't a cheap handkerchief, and its owner had taken excellent care of it.

"He really is a good guy," Hugh whispered.

"Of course." Richard tossed his chicken bone into the trash.

"I always thought Mr. Holland was a really mean teacher."

"He was never mean to begin with. You just developed a complex because he called on you too many times in Latin class when you didn't know the answer."

"True." Hugh let out a sheepish laugh.

He carefully folded the handkerchief, slipped it into his pocket, and patted it to make sure it was secure.

"I need to wash this properly when I get home. Just soak the grease stains in cold water and scrub with soap. My mom taught me."

As the two grabbed their bags and headed for the door, Hugh's steps were noticeably lighter.

"Richard."

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you tired from standing so long? Didn't you use to get dizzy after just ten minutes?"

"I've been exercising lately."

"You've really changed a lot lately," Hugh sighed.

"Your grades are up, your reflexes are faster, and you can stand for forty minutes without getting dizzy... Did you take some kind of magic elixir?"

"I did. It's called 'eating well and getting good sleep'."

"Then why doesn't it work for me? I do that every day."

"You don't get good sleep."

"True." He admitted it readily.

As they reached the classroom door, Hugh suddenly spoke up.

"I won't be able to help much when you go to the Imperial Capital for the competition... but I'll treat you to your first meal when you get back."

"You'll treat me?"

"I've saved up two weeks' allowance." He grinned, his bangs swaying.

"Enough to buy you a bowl of tomato oxtail soup."

"Deal. You buy the first meal, and I'll buy the second."

"You've got it all figured out, don't you?"

...

By the final week, Richard had gone through all the remaining books on the third-floor shelves.

As he filtered through them book by book and decrypted them paragraph by paragraph, his stack of notes grew thicker.

Most of the hidden text overlapped with the contents of previous books.

They used the same terminology and classification frameworks, differing only in phrasing and emphasis, occasionally adding a detail or two that hadn't been mentioned before.

The truly new information was concentrated in two specific books.

Hidden within the pages of a thin booklet were hand-drawn diagrams depicting several common low-tier seal structures.

Silver, copper, stone, and wood—the four seal mediums each had their own applications.

Silver was the most stable, suited for passive seals that needed long-term maintenance;

Copper channeled ether most efficiently, making it ideal for active seals requiring frequent activation;

Stone had the largest capacity but was highly difficult to engrave, used mostly for massive, permanent seals;

Wood was the most portable yet fragile, suitable only for temporary emergencies.

The books also touched upon the basic grammar of inscription symbols.

Angular strokes represented restraint, while curved lines represented guidance.

The core essence of seal inscriptions was using geometric language to issue commands to the ether field: lock down everything within a specific area, allowing nothing in and nothing out.

The hidden passages in the other book were even more detailed, providing diagrams for three foundational seal structures, along with their maintenance cycles and the applicable types of evil creatures.

Richard compared this information against the seal on the base of the Sphinx Oil Lamp.

A circle enclosing a triangle, with short lines extending from the triangle's three sides.

The circle served to 'define the range,' the triangle to 'anchor the contents,' and the short lines functioned as 'safety valves to vent excess ether.'

It was a standard structure, a textbook-level, perfectly compliant seal.

The designer had been highly professional; every symbol was in the correct position.

He could even deduce roughly when and by what school of practitioners this seal had been set.

The direction the short lines curved matched the writing habits in priest inscriptions from the Middle Reaches of the Black Soil River, suggesting it dated back to shortly after the oil lamp was cast.

Having pushed the theoretical analysis this far, the next question naturally surfaced: how was he supposed to open it?