The Wooden Box (2)

But this thought only lingered for a moment before being overwritten by a colder, more sober sense of reality.

Matthew thought of this clean and decent detached villa in the inner city, the well-tended flowers and plants in the yard, the plain yet high-quality cotton dress on the woman, and the wooden toys in the little girl's hands which, though not exquisite, still required some spare money to buy. The source of all this peace and respectability was, without exception, the ill-gotten wealth Nathan had amassed over the years by leading his horse bandits to raid caravans and plunder villages.

The woman might not have personally stained her hands with blood, but her years of “living in peace” and “having no worries about food and clothing” meant that every bite of food she ate and every piece of clothing she wore was, in fact, drenched in the blood, tears, and wails of those who had been plundered.

Beneath the foundation of the peaceful life she enjoyed lay the shattered lives and suffering of countless families.

At this thought, the last trace of hesitation in Matthew's heart dissipated.

Compared to the blood on her husband Nathan's hands and the numerous atrocities he had committed, his own brief intimidation and interrogation just now were truly nothing more than a breeze brushing across the water's surface, barely able to leave even a single real ripple.

“A minuscule pain, nothing more.”

He whispered silently, his gaze returning to its usual calm and depth.

A moment later, Matthew pushed open the wooden door of the inn, walked through the lobby, and headed toward the second floor.

The afternoon sunlight streamed in from the end of the hallway, dust motes floating slowly in the beam of light. His expression seemed calm, but his heart was surging with undercurrents due to his discovery just now.

Entering the room, the door clicked shut behind him, isolating all external sounds. He did not sit down immediately but stood in the center of the room for a moment, his gaze solemn, his breathing long and slow—he needed to first calm his mind and sort through what he had just seen and felt.

After a moment, he walked to the wooden table by the window and gently placed the oak box he had retrieved from his breast pocket onto the tabletop.

The sunlight shone in at an angle, making the color of the wooden box look even deeper in the light. Its surface was smooth, without any carvings or runes, and its corners showed some rounded wear, as if rubbed by fingers over many years.

Matthew reached out with his fingertips to touch the surface of the box. It felt slightly cool yet warm, with a delicate wood grain, lacking the dryness or roughness typical of ordinary wood.

He lowered his gaze and watched, his Spirit already quietly spreading out like an invisible veil, gently enveloping the wooden box.

“The material seems to be just ordinary oak...” he murmured to himself. He pressed down slightly with his fingertips; the wood was hard, yet it possessed an indescribable resilience.

He had seen and touched many kinds of wood—pine was light and soft, ironwood was rigid, ancient vine wood was flexible... but the texture of the box before him seemed different from any of them.

It was not particularly heavy, nor was it light as a feather, but somewhere in between, as if some imperceptible “thing” had been integrated into the wooden base.

“If a wooden sword were made from this material, its sturdiness would probably be quite a bit stronger than my Dawn Sword.”

“But after all, this material is meant for making magic items. Using it to make a wooden sword would be somewhat of a waste.”

At this thought, Matthew could not help but remember that he still needed to find higher-tier weapons to continue improving on his path as a Class holder and to enhance his strength.

Recently, as he successfully broke through to the Silver Rank and entered the realm of a Second-Grade Apprentice, his deep-seated pursuit of pure martial power seemed to have slackened and been set aside slightly without him noticing.

But as soon as this thought surfaced, he was instantly jolted awake—this was absolutely unacceptable.

The wizard's path was long and difficult, as he now had a deep understanding.

The progressive bottlenecks, the reliance on scarce resources, and the endless exploration of knowledge and realms all indicated that this would be a long journey measured in years or even decades.

Before obtaining wizardly power sufficient for self-preservation or qualitative change, the basic combat strength, physical reinforcement, and immediate combat methods provided by the Class holder system remained his fundamental means of survival in this dangerous world.

The two paths were not mutually exclusive but complementary.

Before his wizard cultivation achieved its next massive breakthrough, focusing on the tempering of a Class holder would not only guarantee his ability to deal with immediate crises but also provide a solid shield for his fragile spellcaster's body.

Therefore, before truly becoming a powerful wizard, the path of a Class holder must never be easily abandoned.

Matthew focused his mind and observed closely, attempting to use the sharpness of his Spirit to capture that trace of abnormality. He closed his eyes, sinking his entire mind into perception, his fingertips sliding from the lid to the side of the box, then brushing over the bottom and corners.

The wood itself seemed to have nothing special about it—no indentations from carved runes, no patterns of energy flow, and he could not even perceive the slightest “residual warmth” of remaining mana.

Yet that weak mana fluctuation still existed, as faint and constant as breathing, lingering around the wooden box, as if faintly emerging from inside the box, from the depths of the wood.

He tried to insert a finer strand of Spirit between the wood fibers, wanting to discern if some rare auxiliary material had been mixed in—such as stardust wood shavings treated by alchemy, or adhesive blended with magic crystal powder.

However, the feedback from his Spirit remained blurry: the structure of the wood was dense and uniform, without any abrupt embedding of foreign matter, yet the mana fluctuations seemed to permeate every single wood grain, perfectly blending with the wood itself.

“Strange... if it were made of a special material, there should be some trace to follow.” Matthew opened his eyes, his brow furrowing slightly.

He recalled the few magic-related items he had come into contact with—the metal of the Oath Ring was cold and reserved, while the crystal of a magic stone was transparent and displayed its energy externally.

But this wooden box had neither the cold hardness of metal nor the flowing light of crystals. It looked like a piece of old wood, and felt almost like it too, with only that weak yet truly existing mana reminding him of its extraordinariness.

“Perhaps it underwent some ancient nourishing or enchanting process that allowed mana to seep deep into the wood, changing its essence?”

He speculated in his heart, yet could not be sure. In the Kingdom of Cher, magical knowledge was too scarce; even Sutton had never mentioned a similar treatment method.

The origin of this wooden box was probably even more secretive than he had anticipated.

Since the material was difficult to identify, Matthew turned to investigate its function.

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