8. The Essence of Power

Glenfiel was still lazily reading behind the counter. Full beard, worn suit, pince-nez glasses. The air seemed to carry a faint trace of dust.

But Siles didn’t dare underestimate him.

If the space behind the Historical Society’s door was personally set up by the Vice President, then who had created this bookstore, discoverable only by Revelators?

“Good morning, Mr. Glen,” Siles said. “I visited the Historical Society yesterday. About…”

“The Revelators, is that what you mean?” Glenfiel yawned. “Who’s your guide?”

“…Mr. Carol Hausman.”

“Oh, little Carol, huh? He’s an enthusiastic fellow, though sometimes a bit too enthusiastic,” Glenfiel remarked. “Regardless, he’ll guide you well.”

His eyes lazily fixed on Siles. “And why have you come to see me?”

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Siles hesitated, then asked, “Glen…”

“Glen.”

“…Alright. Glen, I’d like to ask, doesn’t a Revelator’s power have tiers?”

This was the first question that came to Siles after hearing Carol’s initial explanation. Perhaps due to his familiarity with Earth’s progression-based novels, he assumed transcendent powers should have structured ranks, with distinctions between strong and weak.

But Carol’s explanation seemed odd. It suggested that with a potion, a time track, and a recreation ritual, one could borrow past powers, regardless of their strength.

Did borrowing past powers require no cost? Were there no distinctions of strength among Revelators?

Siles’s question earned a complex glance from Glenfiel. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, beginner. Isn’t it better to listen to little Carol’s lessons? Asking me such a simplistic question.”

He seemed to roll his eyes faintly.

Siles paused, then said subconsciously, “Sorry…”

“No, no need for that,” Glenfiel said, as if recalling something. “When I first studied under my teacher, I was the same—asking whatever came to mind. Now, it’s been nearly twenty years.”

Siles remained silent, refraining from asking about the disagreement between Glenfiel and the Historical Society’s Vice President.

Glenfiel’s reminiscence lasted only a moment. He then said, “Potion, time track, ritual. You should be very clear on these three elements. Potions have purity, time tracks have completeness, rituals have compatibility.

“These three elements and their three dimensions are the obstacles you’ll need to overcome on the path of a Revelator.”

“…I understand,” Siles replied, then added, “What about the Revelator themselves?”

Potions, time tracks, rituals—aside from the ritual requiring the Revelator to personally perform and recreate, the other two were external. Did the Revelator themselves have no… higher or lower tiers?

Glenfiel gave him an odd look. “Normal Revelators, upon initiation, are awed by the wondrous potions and complex time tracks. Why are you fixating on the essence of power?”

The essence of power…? Siles realized.

Indeed, his Earthly perspective cut through the fog. He wanted to know why Revelators’ power existed, why they could draw power from past history, and whether different Revelators’ powers varied in strength.

“You’re remarkably sharp, a fine scholar… Wait, you said you study Silent Era literature?”

Siles paused, then said honestly, “I teach at Lamifa University.”

“Teach… Wait, you’re a professor at Lamifa University?!” Glenfiel looked as if he might leap from his chair. “You really are…”

As an intellectual, a university professor was highly respected in this era, especially at the Konst Duchy’s premier institution. Glenfiel’s stunned expression made Siles realize for the first time that he might have underestimated his professorial status.

But Glenfiel’s astonishment lasted only a moment. He earnestly advised, “Since you study past literature, you’ll inevitably encounter original manuscripts, first editions, notes, and the like. Be extremely cautious not to carelessly trigger a Revelator’s power.”

“I will, thank you for the reminder.”

Glenfiel added, “As for your question… the Revelator themselves. Heh.” He gave a slightly sardonic smile. “Spend enough time at the Historical Society, and you’ll see. There’s ongoing debate within the Society about this.

“The focus, of course, is on the Revelator’s soul. Some believe a Revelator’s soul has unique powers, attributes… or labels, that affect their ritual outcomes.

“…This research began with a question.”

Siles asked timely, “What question?”

“Since we can borrow past powers, why can’t we borrow the power of past gods?”

Siles froze.

Glenfiel said meaningfully, “The fallen gods left many time tracks. Some Revelators tried, and the results…” He hesitated, then said, “They either died or went mad.”

Was borrowing divine power with human strength truly so difficult? Perhaps many Revelators felt despair and reluctance, leading them to study their own power and foundation.

Eventually, they seemed to realize that a Revelator’s soul possessed certain wondrous attributes.

“This research is still ongoing. After completing Carol’s introductory course, you could try joining those researchers. But the debate remains highly contentious.”

Glenfiel showed a weary, irritated expression.

They fell silent for a moment.

Finally, Glenfiel said, “Alright! Don’t aim too high—focus on initiation first.” He added, “If you have questions, come chat with me.”

Siles thanked him for his kindness.

Through interactions with Carol and Glenfiel, Siles realized that this world’s transcendent powers, at least those from the Historical Society’s Revelators, seemed aligned with order.

They didn’t abuse their power and even restrained themselves, wary of powers that could spiral out of control.

Glenfiel waved him off, returning to his book. Siles glanced at it subconsciously, noticing it wasn’t an ancient, heavy tome but a brand-new book, as if freshly published.

“Curious?” Glenfiel noticed his gaze. “This is the latest work by the city’s famous novelist, Antonia Kaming! What a thrilling detective novel!”

Detective novel?

Siles paused, intrigued by this era’s novels but even more curious—could he, like in his past life, make a living through writing?

Soon, Siles left the antique bookstore with a gifted copy of an older work by Antonia Kaming, courtesy of Glenfiel.

Watching Siles’s departing figure, Glenfiel recalled their conversations from yesterday and today. After a moment, he sighed ambiguously, “See, teacher, today’s youth are far more radical and ambitious than we imagined.

“They won’t cling to outdated ways or be content to tread the paths we’ve explored. They’ll surely step into the realm of gods, seek their own paths, and—”

Glenfiel paused for a long while, then muttered to himself, “‘The more dangerous the power, the more we should seek ways to control it.’”

He laughed with unclear meaning.

After a while, he buried himself in Antonia Kaming’s detective novel again, occasionally exclaiming, marveling at the stunning tricks and mysteries.

…This world. For a fleeting moment, Glenfiel thought, this world was like Antonia Kaming’s novels—a fog, a world shrouded in the haze of history.

Leaving Glenfiel’s Antique Bookstore, Siles quickly returned to 13 Milford Street.

Confirming Mrs. Fain wasn’t using the kitchen, he went to the second floor, set aside the book Glenfiel gave him, and took his ingredients to the first-floor kitchen.

He cautiously tasted the purchased sauce, confirming it had no strange flavor, just a bit bland.

Then, he boiled water in a pot, added broth ingredients, salt, vegetables, and meat, and simmered it for a while. When finished, the hot soup, with its faint red sheen, looked quite appealing.

He ladled the soup into his bowl, brought it to his second-floor room, and cleaned the kitchen. It was nearly noon, and Mrs. Fain entered the kitchen to cook just then.

Noticing the kitchen’s cleanliness, she rarel praised Siles. Her expression shifted, she hesitated, then asked Siles to wait, turning to fetch a basket of cherries.

Even in this world, cherries weren’t cheap.

Siles was surprised, unsure why Mrs. Fain was suddenly so friendly. She seemed to want to say something but only said dryly, “Take them, Mr. Noel.”

A flicker of unease and tension passed through the weary middle-aged woman’s eyes, as if she wanted to speak but held back.

Siles realized Mrs. Fain seemed to need a favor. Since two days ago, she had appeared troubled, and now that distress seemed to deepen, prompting this conciliatory gesture.

What trouble had she encountered?

Mrs. Fain remained silent, so Siles didn’t pry. He thanked her kindness, cautiously taking only a small handful of cherries and putting them in his pocket.

He carried his hot soup upstairs, ate a haphazard lunch of bread and hot pot.

His stomach, finally enjoying hot food, felt a soothing comfort, enhanced by the sweet-tart taste of cherries. This was likely the best meal Siles had had since arriving in this world.

Standing, he glanced out the window—light rain was falling again—and sighed. He washed his bowl and, instead of going out, paced his room a few times as a makeshift walk.

While pacing, he thought about his teaching plans. That afternoon, he immersed himself in preparation, losing track of time.

When he snapped back to reality, only the wall lamp glowed; the room was dim.

He quickly turned on the ceiling light and stretched his limbs. His efficiency was good; combining his old notes and ideas, the teaching plan for Appreciation of Silent Era Literature was over halfway done.

Of course, it still differed from a full course, but with time pressing, he had to finalize the first few lessons first.

Long hours of work left Siles fatigued. Not wanting to go out, he lay on the sofa briefly.

Then, he remembered the book Glenfiel had given him, picked it up, and began flipping through it.