I'm on VQ 10gbps too, but get about 5-6gbps throughput right on the router. Downstream is of course slower cos each of the router's LAN ports is rated at 2.5gbps. There is a spare 10gbps sfp port, but I have nothing to connect it to   Downstream, I have a switch connected, which then connects to the computers, NAS and wireless access points.    The fastest devices at home are mobile phone/tablet which support wifi7 and you can see good results if you use speedtest on them. 

The Ink Has Always Been There: the Grammar of Exclusion in “Witch Hat Atelier” There is a particular kind of lie that does not announce itself as such. It settles into the world as common sense—repeating itself until it becomes a part of the very fabric of reality—and trains those it harms to locate the problem inside themselves, to believe that the wall they keep running into is actually a mirror. Witch Hat Atelier (aka Atelier of Witch Hat)—the ongoing manga by Kamome Shirahama, now also an anime from Bug Films streaming on Crunchyroll—is built entirely around one such lie: that magic belongs to those born with it, and that everyone outside that circle is deficient by nature rather than excluded by design. Shirahama’s work is gorgeous, intricate, and deeply strange in its gentleness, and I recommend both the manga and the anime unreservedly. The artwork alone justifies the attention: Shirahama draws with a precision that borders on devotion, every magical glyph rendered as though the line itself were the spell, every page a kind of proof that a line drawn with full attention can change the world. The anime renders this linework with genuine fidelity, and watching it move is its own particular pleasure. But Witch Hat Atelier is also, underneath all that beauty, a story about who gets to know things—and what happens to everyone who is never told. Poster for the Witch Hat Atelier anime [Kamome Shirahama / KODANSHA] The half-truth The world Coco inhabits believes, as a matter of settled fact, that magic is innate. They were made to believe so. Witches are born. Everyone else was simply not chosen. This conviction wears the face of nature, something no reasonable person would dare to question. What Coco discovers—accidentally, catastrophically, in the first pages of the story and within the first minutes onscreen—is that this premise is a lie. Magic is a craft. It requires a special ink and the knowledge of how to draw the right glyphs in the right configuration, and any person with a steady hand and genuine attention could, in principle, learn it. That’s it. The gift was never biological. One did not need to be born “special.” What was made to seem biological, permanent, and inarguable was actually access. And access had been deliberately revoked by those who already held it. This is the Day of the Pact: the founding act of the world’s current order, in which the Pointed Hat witches erased magical knowledge from the collective memory of humankind and kept it locked away, within their circles. The story calls this protection, but we know what it actually is: monopoly. The crucial and devastating detail is that the erasure was so complete that the absence of knowledge became indistinguishable from the absence of capacity. People did not grow up knowing they had been shut out of something. They grew up believing they simply weren’t the kind of person for whom that something existed. The silence was so thorough it passed for nature—and that passage, that seamless conversion of political arrangement into perceived fact, is the series’ real subject. A half-truth, unlike an outright lie, carries within it just enough of the real to resist refutation. Yes, witches practice magic and others do not. Yes, the knowledge passes within certain families and circles. The part that gets omitted—the part that was erased, literally, from collective memory—is the reason why. Strip the reason and you are left with a pattern that looks, from the inside, exactly like inevitability. Silence as architecture The silence in Shirahama’s world is not passive. It is a structure with enforcers and very clear beneficiaries. The exceptions are what they are. The Pointed Hats maintain the secret not only through institutional authority but through the more insidious mechanism of internalized belief: witches themselves repeat “you have to be born with it” as though it were a natural law rather than a (very) political arrangement. The people inside the system no longer experience this silence as a choice. They experience it as reality, which is precisely what makes it so difficult to name, much less resist. When someone outside the system does discover the truth, the textbook response is not argument or persuasion but erasure. Memory-wiping spells are deployed by the Knights Moralis to remove the knowledge from anyone who stumbles into it—and then we will return to those spells, because they are one of the sharpest things in the series so far, if not the sharpest. The silence keeps outsiders out and insiders compliant. The silence is also self-reinforcing in a subtler way: those within the circle who might feel doubt and who might sense that the arrangement is unjust have been trained to experience their hesitation as dangerous rather than legitimate. Qifrey himself carries this weight—he knows the world is unfair, has felt its unfairness in his own body, and has still spent years operating within a system he cannot fully endorse and cannot fully leave. And yet he subverts it where he can. He takes in Coco, an Unknowing who taught herself magic by watching him draw a spell, and trains her anyway. He works around prohibitions with the careful precision of someone who has long since memorized exactly where the lines are. The system he inhabits is ableist, classist, and built on a founding erasure he is fully aware of, and he moves through it with that particular exhaustion of someone who has chosen strategic complicity over futile martyrdom. This choice makes him neither villain nor hero; yet it makes him a remarkably honest portrait of what it looks like to live inside a structure you know is wrong, and have decided, for reasons that are entirely human, to work within rather than burn down. Pagans and practitioners of earth-based traditions might recognize this architecture with something more than an intellectual interest. The knowledge of herbs, seasonal cycles, ritual practice, and that of the body’s relationship to the land—all of it once communal, passed through families and villages and the hands of women who served as keepers of folk medicine and sacred rite—was dismantled over centuries, first by the Church, then by the medicalization of the body and the professionalization of healing. What survived did so in fragments and whispers, coded and hidden, transmitted in secret or reconstructed from ruins. The community that carries this knowledge today exists in part because someone refused to let it disappear entirely, and in part because the erasure was never quite complete. Witch Hat Atelier gives that history a fantasy architecture and then asks us to look at it steadily. The word that says everything: Unknowing The official term for someone born outside magical knowledge in Witch Hat Atelier is not “ungifted.” It is not “non-magical.” It is not even “ordinary.” It is Unknowing. The word does the ideological work so perfectly by itself that it is easy to miss. An Unknowing is defined by the absence of knowledge as though that absence were a condition of the self—a state of being rather than an imposed circumstance. The name converts a political fact (you were not told) into a personal characteristic (you do not know, and that is what you are). Every time this word is used, it performs the erasure again in miniature. When Coco learns that she is technically an Unknowing who taught herself magic by watching a witch draw a spell, the system’s language has no category for her. She has done the impossible thing, and the impossibility was always definitional, always contained in the word itself. Now, she knows. Cover to the first volume of the Witch Hat Atelier manga [Kamome Shirahama / KODANSHA] Tartah and the invisible prerequisite The series understands that naming a system is not the same as escaping it. Even people who should, by the system’s own logic, be inside it can find themselves locked out—and Tartah is living proof of that. Supposedly, he was “born” a witch, but— Tartah is the grandson of Mr. Nolnoa, who runs a magic supply shop, and he comes from a witch lineage. By the system’s own stated rules, he should be eligible to train. However, he has Silverwash Syndrome, a form of colorblindness that renders his entire visual field in shades of silver. Since the magic system was built around precise color differentiation in inks and reagents, Tartah cannot distinguish what he needs to, and so he has not been trained. Qifrey says it plainly: the boy has no way to adapt. And, while the word Unknowing is not formally applied to Tartah, the practical effect is quite similar. He belongs by bloodline and is excluded by the system’s unmarked assumptions about what a practitioner’s body looks like, what it can perceive, how it moves through the world. A system that presents itself as meritocratic—based on skill, dedication, practice—and then turns out to have been calibrated for a specific sensory baseline that was never declared as a prerequisite, because it never had to be, reveals its actual design at precisely this moment. Qifrey says the system cannot deal with differences without naming it so, but half a word is enough for those who can catch a truth when it is only whispered. The word for this is ableism: the structuring of a system around a normative body, and the consequent exclusion of those who fall outside that norm, dressed up as a neutral standard rather than a particular choice. The default was invisible. Tartah makes it visible by running into it. Every institution built by and for those who fit an unmarked norm produces this: a wall with no signs on it, which appears to those on one side as open air and to those on the other as a wall. Tartah is not an edge case, an oversight, an unfortunate exception. He is what ableist design produces when its hidden assumptions meet a body it did not account for—and the system’s response is not to question the assumptions but to confirm the exclusion. Pagan communities are not exempt from this dynamic. Rituals designed around full mobility, full vision, full hearing, neurotypical processing—the circle drawn on the floor, the chant in a particular vocal register, the text in a particular script, visualization—carry within them a set of silent assumptions about whose body the traditions were built for, assumptions that only become visible to those they excluded. Tartah is, among other things, an invitation to ask that question of every space we consider sacred. The exception that condemns the system Here is where Witch Hat Atelier becomes genuinely damning, and where the analysis cannot afford to be gentle. All magic cast on or affecting the human body is classified as Forbidden Magic. Healing: forbidden. Physical transformation: forbidden. Teleportation without a physical conduit: forbidden. Emotional and psychological manipulation: forbidden. The stated justification is protection—body magic is dangerous, unpredictable, and too powerful to be left in unregulated hands. With one exception. Memory erasure is not Forbidden Magic. It is not classified as dangerous. It is the exclusive domain of the Knights Moralis, used routinely to wipe the knowledge of magic from anyone who discovers the secret, and to enforce the silence that keeps the entire status quo and order intact. Healing a sick body: crime. Erasing what a person knows to protect the secret of the powerful: institutional duty. Every prohibition in this world answers one question with perfect consistency: who does this serve? Body magic that serves the individual—care, repair, mobility, transformation—is outlawed. Body magic that serves the order—erasure, control, the enforcement of forgetting—is permitted, institutionalized, and given a name that sounds like governance. Are we really surprised? When this is the same logic of every religious institution that forbade the translation of sacred texts into vernacular languages while permitting the Inquisition? Every apothecary guild that absorbed the knowledge of village healers and then prosecuted those same healers for their practice without credentials. Every system of governance that has criminalized mutual aid while protecting the apparatus of its enforcement. The danger was never the knowledge. The “danger” was the knowledge in hands that owed no allegiance to the core power. What makes the memory-erasure rule so precise as a critique is that it forecloses the system’s justification. The Pointed Hats argue that body magic is forbidden because of what happened in the past, because of the wars and the suffering that came from magic wielded without restraint. And yet, the one body magic they kept—the one they use freely, on children, on people who stumbled into a truth they weren’t supposed to see—is the one that has no healing function whatsoever. It serves only the maintenance of power. The historical argument, on examination, was always a cover story. The grammar of “you can’t” The series accumulates justifications the way institutions do: magic is kept a secret for everyone’s protection; the rules exist because of what happened before. In sum, the forbidden is forbidden for good reason. These explanations are offered with sincerity by people who seem to genuinely believe them. That sincerity is the point. The most effective form of institutional control is the one that does not require cynicism from its enforcers. But look at where the “you can’t” lands. Magic devices that make life easier are expensive, accessible primarily to those with means. The poor benefit from the roads the witches maintain, the broad infrastructure of magical civil order, but they are denied the intimate applications of magic, the ones that would most directly change individual lives. The prohibition and the price together ensure that the people who most need what magic could provide are the ones most systematically denied it. The “you can’t” presents itself as neutral. It never is. It has a direction, a gradient, a consistent tendency to settle on the bodies and the lives that were already carrying the most weight. What Coco’s hands knew Underneath everything in Witch Hat Atelier runs a question the series is, slowly and carefully, beginning to answer: what does it mean to know something that the system insists you cannot know? Coco’s story begins with an act of seeing. She watches Qifrey draw a spell and then draws it herself, because she saw it and understood it and her hands knew what to do with that understanding. Qifrey operates with one foot inside and one foot perpetually over the line, using forbidden knowledge in secret while teaching his students to follow the rules—a hypocrisy he is fully aware of and cannot yet find a way around. The Brimmed Caps, who rejected the system entirely, have their own violences and their own certainties. Shirahama is not interested in a story where the answer is obvious. What the series does offer is the insistence that the question be asked. That the justifications be examined. That the exceptions be noticed and named and held up against the light until their shape becomes crystal clear. The magic was always possible. Withheld was the knowledge that it existed—and the first act of freedom, in this story as in so many others, is simply to refuse to forget. Witch Hat Atelier is published by Kodansha and currently running in Monthly Morning Two; 14 volumes are available in English. The anime adaptation, produced by Bug Films, is streaming on Crunchyroll in its first season as of this writing. As with any adaptation, the two versions make their own choices—some differences are inevitable—but, by reading and watching both, you get the best of both worlds: the extraordinary density of Shirahama’s linework on the page, and the particular pleasure of seeing those glyphs rendered in motion.   https://wildhunt.org/2026/06/the-ink-has-always-been-there-the-grammar-of-exclusion-in-witch-hat-atelier.html     @chamfer @coffeenut

Also depend you familiar face they got sell p*orn but those are hidden not on display. JHK in those era earn monies all sort of pattern. Now is join scam syndicate come Spore scam. So I think education quite important.

ya still remember it, suddenly close shop then then few hr later open again.   i can spend hr look at all the cd