Chapter 413: Soldier Boy

Clara set her pen aside and, seeing Richard's solemn expression, suddenly laughed.

"Actually, it's not quite as scary as I made it sound."

"Think about those traditional factions that make a living healing people. They've built massive enterprises over the years, and their clients are all rich and powerful."

"You're just one person, and merely a Practitioner.

"The tiny bit of business you snatch away looks to them like someone setting up a hot soup stall down by the docks."

"They probably wouldn't even bat an eye at your meager profits, much less go out of their way to cause trouble for you over them."

Clara took a sip of her tea.

"I just had to lay out the worst-case scenario first, so you'd actually sit down and listen to me."

Richard managed a helpless laugh.

It was incredibly rare for his usually taciturn senior to speak this much unprompted—and she had only done it to scare him.

Clara added, "But my reasoning from earlier still stands. Scarcity drives up value, and besides, it's not like you have the time or energy to devote to treating people anyway, right?"

...

During the final week of March, Clara prepared to move out of the sanatorium and back to her dormitory.

When moving day arrived, Sophia and his aunt naturally came to help.

Seeing that Clara could pack her own things and hear clearly again, Isabella was visibly delighted.

"Got everything packed?" she asked.

"All packed," Clara replied.

Sophia bustled about nearby, hauling stacks of books out one after another while grumbling the entire time.

"Clara, you have way too many books. This is even more than the mentor has in her office."

That was an obvious exaggeration. Clara's collection naturally couldn't rival that of an associate professor like Isabella.

Clara couldn't be bothered to bicker and simply took the stack from her hands.

"Save your breath, and be careful not to pull your back."

Once everything was mostly packed, Clara brought out her violin.

The old varnish on the body still gave off a warm hue.

Richard stood to the side, watching as she tucked the instrument under her chin and gripped the bow.

His senior wasn't the type of striking beauty to turn heads at first glance.

But she had a clean, comfortable elegance that grew on you, along with a quiet temperament tempered by years of study.

And now, the haggard pallor of illness had washed away from her face.

His aunt paused her work on the seemingly endless pile of documents.

Sophia stopped moving books as well, standing in place with a stack in her arms to look over at Clara.

A hush fell over the room. Clara struck a starting note, and her bow began to glide across the strings.

It was the duet her parents used to play.

The first three notes were incredibly soft, like someone humming far away.

At the fourth note, Richard's heart leapt into his throat.

This was the exact note she had been consistently missing lately.

The bow swept across the string, and this time, the pitch was flawless.

Clara's hands didn't stop. Her left ear had regained its hearing, allowing her to catch every single note she played.

She moved from note to note, swift and unerringly precise.

The piece transitioned seamlessly from her father's part into her mother's.

She had merged the duet into a solo performance, weaving the shifts and transitions together in one flawless, uninterrupted breath.

She played the entire composition all the way through without dropping a single note.

The room remained silent for a moment. Clara lowered the violin from her shoulder and stared down at it.

She just looked at it quietly, her eyes slowly turning red.

"I finished it," she whispered.

"Clara!" Sophia slammed her stack of books onto a desk and threw herself forward to hug her.

"You finished it, you really played the whole thing!"

"Don't shake me," Clara said, protectively cradling the precious instrument.

"What if you bump the violin?"

"I don't care!" Sophia's own eyes were red.

"You just played the entire song!"

Isabella remained in her chair, watching as her student was finally able to rest the violin on her shoulder once more.

She walked over, reached out, and gently pressed her hand to the top of Clara's head.

"Mentor..." Clara murmured, suddenly a bit self-conscious at the gesture.

"I actually learned an instrument when I was a child, too," Isabella said suddenly.

Richard was caught a little off guard and turned to look at his aunt.

"Really?" Sophia's interest was instantly piqued.

"You studied an instrument, Mentor?"

"I did." A trace of nostalgia softened his aunt's tone.

"When I was young, I was incredibly jealous of how well my older sister played the piano."

"She was so good at it. I used to lean against the piano, completely mesmerized by her playing, and I threw a tantrum at my father until he let me learn, too."

"What happened then?" Sophia pressed.

A strange look crossed his aunt's face.

"Later on, the piano teacher told me my playing was too rigid."

"What do you mean, rigid?"

"He said I played every single note perfectly by the book, sounding more like a metronome than a musician."

"But it just..."

His aunt let out a disgruntled snort.

"He said I didn't have an artistic bone in my body. Claimed my brain was only suited for scholarship, not the arts."

Sophia burst out laughing.

"Sophia!" His aunt's face darkened.

But Sophia was still laughing.

"Playing every note perfectly by the book—isn't that a good thing?"

"Good my ass!" his aunt cursed, a rare slip in her usual decorum.

"Music relies on an intangible feeling, a feeling that I just didn't have. Eventually, I just gave it up."

As she spoke, a hint of long-unfulfilled regret flickered deep in her eyes.

Isabella looked back down at the violin in her student's hands.

"So I am genuinely happy that you've been able to pick up your instrument again."

That afternoon, the four of them sat in that small sanatorium room, drinking tea for hours.

Richard pulled some fresh pastries sent by Grey out of the Tin Box.

Isabella picked out a couple of pieces. Her mouth never stopped complaining, but her hands never stopped reaching for more.

Clara played another song, this time a brief Irish folk tune with a simple melody.

The G string resonated with a low, warm tone. Sophia leaned back in her chair to listen, and as the notes washed over her, her eyes slid shut and she began to doze off.

Isabella held her teacup and gazed out the window. The sunlight slanted down upon the elm trees, setting the tender green leaves trembling in the breeze.

...

By the final days of March, the rain in the Imperial Capital had finally ceased.

When Richard arrived at his dormitory building, the old man in the mailroom waved him over.

"Williams, you've got a package."

He handed over a tightly bound cloth parcel wrapped in two layers of oil paper.

The twine was tied in a specific knot used in naval shipping.

Richard took it and weighed it in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy.

The sender's column bore only a military postal code, with no name attached.

But he remembered that code. It belonged to Baldwin's company.

Back when Richard had been sorting out the "final arrangements" with his grandfather at the Ashford Residence, that specific number had left a deep impression on him.

Carrying the heavy parcel, he headed back up to his room.

He sliced through the outer oil paper with a letter opener, finding a layer of old newspaper stuffed inside for padding.

The newspaper was from Franc, dated the middle of last month.

Beneath the paper was an iron box fashioned out of a modified military ammunition crate.

Stuck to the lid was a narrow strip of paper, bearing crooked handwriting in pencil.

"Williams, I don't have any use for this stuff, so I'm giving it all to you."

The signature at the bottom surprisingly read: Coleman.

This time, Richard was genuinely surprised.

He opened the iron box. The interior had been divided into three compartments.

The left compartment held four copper badges, each of a completely different design.

Two of them looked like the metal insignias typically pinned to military caps.

One was a brass ring unscrewed from a trench signal flag, and the last was the broken mouthpiece of a military bugle.

Richard rolled them around in his palm. He quickly realized there was virtually no ether clinging to them, nor could they be converted into points.

But the guy had sent them from so far away—he couldn't exactly just throw them away, could he?

The middle compartment was clearly the main event, wrapped tightly in yet another layer of scrap cloth.

Richard carefully snipped the cloth away layer by layer, eventually revealing a thumb-sized black stone.

Its surface was polished to a shine, and a small hole had been drilled through its base.

The moment Richard focused his Spirit Vision on it, a spike of excitement hit him.

This item was in the exact same category as the Flanders Mud Condensate he had taken from his grandfather, but it was far purer, containing significantly fewer impurities.

The rightmost compartment held a sheet of letter paper that had been folded over several times.

The strokes were uneven and varied in thickness; it had likely been written with a pencil stub on someone's knee.

"Richard, I've successfully mastered that Spell Formula you gave me.

"A while back, I took a hit from an artillery shell in the trenches.

"Shrapnel tore right beneath my left ribs, but luckily, it didn't hit anything vital.

"The field medic stitched me up with 7 sutures, and I secretly used your Spell Formula to apply needles to myself for three days straight.

"When the stitches came out on the fourth day, the medic was shocked. He said he had never seen anyone heal that fast.

"I told him I was just naturally robust, and he bought it.

"You don't need to worry about my ether circuits anymore.

"After you left, I desperately squeezed out whatever residual ether I had left, and managed to scrape past the biggest hurdle.

"The circuits have now reached a point where they can self-heal. On top of that, thanks to my continuous needle therapy, my ether output has more than doubled since I enlisted.

"When Major Baldwin from our company found out, he didn't say much.

"He just made me take an additional marksmanship test. I placed second in the entire company. The only guy who beat me was a veteran who's been shooting for 8 years.

"I scavenged these spoils from the battlefield. Most of them are useless, but you can keep them as souvenirs.

"But that black stone in the middle—take a close look at it.

"Major Baldwin said it was quite unusual, too. I don't understand the appraisal methods you Scholars use, so I'll leave the judgment to you.

"If it's useless, just toss it. There are tons of them all over the trenches anyway.

"That's all for now. We'll talk more when the war is over.

"See you in the Imperial Capital."

There was a dark stain near the edge of the paper—likely mud from the trenches.

Richard folded the letter back up and placed it inside the iron box, taking out the black stone to examine it alone.

The ether inside it had mingled with the aura of death, astonishingly forming a stable, complementary structure.

Richard's [Learning] pulled up the relevant data; the conditions required to form something like this were incredibly demanding.

The exact same patch of soil had to be repeatedly churned up and buried again, forcing the ether to be compressed and released over and over, much like kneading dough.

He rolled the condensate stone around under the lamplight.

Coleman had claimed in his letter that these things were everywhere in the trenches.

But one of this caliber could never be found just lying around at random. The kid must have saved the absolute best stone he found specifically for him.

Richard tucked the black stone safely away, pulled out some stationery, and began drafting a reply to Coleman.

He penned a few lines, then paused.

The vast majority of what he wanted to say couldn't be written on ordinary paper. Military mail was strictly censored.

Some things would just have to wait until they met in person.

In the end, Richard kept it brief.

"Coleman, I received the package.

"The black stone is excellent. It will be of tremendous use to me.

"Since your circuits have stabilized, focus on your training.

"Major Baldwin is a relative of mine. He can be trusted.

"Don't forget, when you get back, we're going to have a meal together at the Royal Grand Hotel.

"—Richard"

He sealed the envelope and walked downstairs to the mailroom.

That evening, Richard returned to the Ashford Residence. The study light was on, and Gerard was sitting in the old chair by the window, leafing through some papers.

Richard lingered in the doorway for a moment, noticing that his grandfather's vitality had indeed improved significantly.

Once a person stopped waiting around to die, even their posture changed.

"Come in."

Richard sat down across the desk and slid Coleman's letter over to him.

Gerard took it, gave it a cursory glance, and set it on the corner of the desk.

"You guessed correctly. I had someone run a background check on the boy."

Richard raised an eyebrow.

"So when exactly did he enlist?"

Gerard thought back for a moment.

"Around January, I believe."

"When his circuits were inspected upon enlisting, it caused quite a stir. After all, it's exceedingly rare to find someone who's managed to nurture their shattered circuits back to health."

"For most people, once their circuits break, they stay broken. No matter how much they try to heal them, they can only scrape by on bare maintenance."

"To find someone whose pathways snapped and then organically regenerated an entirely new set of routes on their own—you'd struggle to find even a handful of examples."

Richard nodded.

Gerard continued, "That's why I had Baldwin suppress the news and keep the boy close in his own company."

"The front lines are a meat grinder. Toss 10 recruits in, and you'll be lucky if 3 make it out alive."

"Having him shadow Baldwin is at least a bit safer."

"When the war is over, if the army wants to keep him, they can.

"If they don't, he can register with the Hunters' Guild. I can write him a recommendation letter."

Richard was mildly surprised; his grandfather didn't hand out recommendation letters lightly.

Gerard smiled, looking at him.

"Since you were willing to teach him the Moon Nail: Reflection Spell Formula, it shows, at the very least, that you trust him. Factor in his newly reconstructed circuits that broke only to rebuild themselves stronger, and his potential is significantly higher than that of ordinary people.

"He might even be a little stronger than Vincent. The odds of him breaking through to become a Minor Adept in the future are not small."

"Writing a letter of recommendation for a child with potential—one whom you also trust—is no trouble for me at all."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Richard said.

Gerard took a sip of his tea.

"Don't thank me. I can only give him a little push from behind. Where he actually goes from here is entirely up to him."