RNP Chapter 220 The Foundation of the Heart Wall
Chapter 220 The Foundation of the Heart Wall
Chapter 220 The Foundation of the Heart Wall
The morning sea breeze, crisp and clear, swept away the lingering warmth of the previous night. Karen slipped on an old T-shirt and work pants and followed her father, David, to the garage. The air was thick with the smells of engine oil, metal, and a faint gasoline fumes, mingling with the scent of freshly mowed grass outside the garage, creating a rough, reassuring background. An old, peeling green gasoline-powered lawnmower lay upside down on a thick canvas, like a patient awaiting surgery.
"On strike?" Karen crouched down, her fingers brushing against the metal casing covered in grass clippings and oil stains, the cool touch sending a shiver down her spine.
"Yeah, it broke down completely halfway through cutting yesterday, just a couple of hissing sounds." David handed Karen a pair of oil-stained cotton gloves, then picked up an adjustable wrench and skillfully began removing the mud-covered protective cover from the bottom of the lawnmower, the metal parts clanging together with a crisp sound. "Sounds like the carburetor's clogged, or the spark plugs' broken. This old buddy's getting old, always having little problems."
Karen put on his gloves, the rough cotton threads rubbing against his skin with unusual clarity. He picked up a screwdriver and helped unscrew the screws securing the carburetor cover. The screws were somewhat rusted and required a little force. This feeling of overcoming resistance and relying solely on physical strength to complete the action was completely different from the magic of a wand waving and thoughts flowing, making Karen feel somewhat as if he were in another world.
"Carburetor," David unscrewed the cap, revealing a complex network of tiny pipes and needle valves inside, covered in a layer of blackish, sticky substance. "Look at this, the fuel lines are as clogged as a sewer." He carefully poked at the tiny holes with a thin wire, his movements steady and precise. "That's the good thing about Muggle machines—the logic is crystal clear. Fuel comes out of the tank, mixes with air here, then enters the cylinder, the spark plug ignites it, and the piston moves, driving the blades. If any part gets stuck, the machine breaks down. Unlike your magic, where you chant a spell and things fly by themselves, sometimes without even knowing why."
Karen used a small brush dipped in gasoline to clean the disassembled small parts; the black grease dissolved in the gasoline. He listened to his father's words and looked at the disassembled, clearly structured metal parts—springs, washers, tiny brass nozzles. Each had its specific function, meshing together and operating according to the laws of physics.
This clear, controllable sense of order, strangely complemented the chaotic, viscous, and malicious flow of magic from the Horcruxes, and the intricate mental barriers required in Occlumency training. Oil stained my fingers, and the smell of gasoline was somewhat pungent, but this real work, this process requiring logical reasoning and manual dexterity, acted like a silent healing, smoothing away the subtle wrinkles left deep within my mind by the study of dark magic.
"The logic is clear, but it's quite difficult to fix." Karen picked up the cleaned carburetor body and examined it against the light to see if the tiny channels were clear. "If there's a 'freshly cleaned' sign—"
"Stop!" David interrupted him immediately, tapping the lawnmower's metal casing with a wrench, making a clanging sound, with a hint of mocking warning. "This is a matter of principle, kid! If a wrench can solve the problem, don't use a wand! It's basic respect for machinery! And you can't use magic right now, besides," he grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, "the oil stains have all been wiped away by magic, where am I going to enjoy the sense of accomplishment from this?" He spread out his equally oil-stained palms, as if they were some kind of medal.
Karen couldn't help but laugh, continuing to bury herself in cleaning the parts. Outside the garage, Lily's cheerful laughter and the calls of seabirds could be faintly heard.
The time after lunch was languid and peaceful. Karen returned to his room, sunlight streaming through the window and casting slanted spots of light on the floor. He sat cross-legged on the bed and once again opened his notes on Occlumency. After the morning's mechanical repairs, his mind, like a cleaned carburetor, seemed much smoother. He closed his eyes and quickly entered a state of mental tranquility, free from distractions.
Now, the next step is to build a basic false memory barrier. This step will take a long time and cannot be completed simply by building it once.
He needed to implant a simple, repetitive, and harmless fragment of a false memory into the tranquil "emptiness" of his mind. Following the guidance of his notes, he chose the image of pruning a rose. The goal: to create a scene of repeatedly pruning the same red rose bush in his own garden. The scene needed to be clear, stable, rich in detail, logically consistent, and readily accessible—a fundamental "door to the mind."
Kalen begins construction:
Imagine a corner of the garden, where a cluster of exceptionally vibrant red roses grows. The sunlight is bright, warmly bathing his back. He holds a gleaming pair of garden shears. He selects a branch that has sprung out at an angle, bearing a few leaves. The blade of the shears is aimed at the base of the branch...
Just as the picture was taking shape and the scissors were about to close, Lily's voice rang out unexpectedly from outside the door. "Karen! Karen! Look at my drawing!" Her voice was as clear as a string of silver bells, filled with excitement, and pierced through the door panel, instantly piercing through Karen's mental image that she was trying so hard to maintain.
The garden, sunlight, roses, and scissors in her mind—like a reflection tossed with a pebble—shattered, blurred, and vanished without a trace. Karen's eyes snapped open, and she sighed in frustration. Outside, Lily was still banging on the door: "Open the door! I drew a big flying dog!"
"Coming, coming!" Karen replied helplessly, getting up to open the door. Outside stood Lily holding a brightly colored doodle, depicting a green creature with three crooked heads and long wings. She insisted that it was Cervix Luwei.
The subsequent attempts were like getting caught in a tug-of-war with attention.
In the afternoon, he entered a meditative state again, reconstructing the image: a rose bush, sunlight, gleaming silver shears, selecting that slanting branch—this time he tried to add a tactile sensation—the slight pain of the wooden handle pressing against his palm when the shears closed, and the soft, crisp "click" sound of the branch being cut.
It felt a little more real. He tried to maintain this fictional "pruning action" and make it repeat itself.
Downstairs in the living room, David turned on the television. The news anchor's clear, flat voice drifted up: "The government has announced a new round of port expansion plans, which are expected to create—Plymouth Shipyard is expected to receive..."
Once Karen was focused, his hearing inexplicably became heightened. The sounds coming from downstairs, though meaningless in themselves, felt like tiny needles, constantly probing the mental barriers he was trying to maintain. The word "shipyard" mentioned in the news was like a pebble thrown into calm water, instantly creating ripples in his mind: his father's work at the shipyard...
Discussions about new alloys and the conductivity of the metal components of the Quidditch Eye—these thoughts automatically linked together and surfaced uncontrollably, instantly shattering the "pruning rose" image he had painstakingly constructed.
Karen scratched his head in frustration. Strip away the emotions? Adopt an observer's perspective? He tried to "see" his current agitation, telling himself: this is just a natural reaction to being interrupted, like a lawnmower jamming, nothing to worry about. But the very thought of "no need to worry" became a new distraction.
After dinner, he decided to try again. This time, he chose a more "safe" time and told his family that he was undergoing advanced concentration training and shouldn't be disturbed. His parents were tidying up in the kitchen, and Lily seemed to be quietly playing with her toys in the living room. He quickly got into the zone, and the image he formed was faster and clearer than the previous two times. He could even "smell" the damp scent of the earth after the rain and the faint fragrance of rose petals. The scissors steadily cut the branch—
Halfway through construction, Karen stopped again, this time on his own. He felt something was missing.
Just then, the door was gently pushed open, and Emily walked in carrying a steaming cup of black tea.
"Still busy with your 'Advanced Concentration Training'?" Emily's voice was gentle as she placed the teacup on the desk, the rising steam carrying the rich aroma of black tea. She walked to the bedside, not sitting down, but looking at Karen with a gentle gaze, sharp yet empathetic, as if able to pierce through his calm exterior. "I was going to leave after putting down the tea, but it seems you've stopped training? Is it very tiring?"
Karen paused for a moment, put down the hand that was rubbing her temples, and smiled somewhat awkwardly: "Yeah, it is a bit mentally taxing. It's like—well, like building a really complicated model in your head, you can't get distracted." He explained vaguely.
Emily nodded knowingly, her gaze sweeping over the blank hardcover notebook he had laid out on the bed, without pressing for details. She reached out, her warm, dry palm gently resting on Karen's shoulder, offering silent support. "Even the most focused training needs a break," she said, her voice as soothing as the steam of hot tea. "If the strings are too taut, even the best instrument will break. When you're tired, don't just focus on building walls in your head."
She gently patted her son's shoulder, leaving behind the cup of warm, fragrant black tea, then turned and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.
Karen stared intently at the cup of tea, the rising steam blurring her vision.