I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

On Monday during the lunch break, Richard shoved the book *On the Organizational Forms of Early Agricultural Communities in the Western Continent* into the bottom of his school bag. After he finished lunch, he planned to go to the third floor to return it.

The contents of Appendix C had already been fully transcribed and backed up. There was no point in keeping the original book; in fact, it was a liability.

Today’s lunch was again ordered by Warren: oxtail and tomato soup, two slices of thick-cut bread, and a glass of hot milk.

The soup base was stewed thick and rich. The meat on the edge of the bones was cooked so tender it fell apart with a gentle touch of a spoon.

Richard ate every last bite, even using a piece of bread to wipe the bottom of his soup bowl clean.

Across from him, Warren was gnawing on a roasted chicken leg, mumbling indistinctly about news from the Imperial Capital.

”Did you hear? Some Count over in Exeter held a ball at his own manor and said he ran into a ghost.”

Mason, sitting nearby, chuckled. ”What did the papers say?”

”They wrote it up as a joke, you know? Something like ’Night of Terror in the Ancient Castle,’ and it came with an illustration that made it look like a farce.”

Warren placed the chicken bone on the edge of his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

”But that lady in my family came by a few days ago and specifically mentioned that we shouldn’t go anywhere near Southwest County for a while.”

Richard sipped his tea without joining the conversation.

’If a professional Spirit Medium specifically tells you to stay away, then that incident probably isn’t as simple as the newspapers make it out to be.’

Hugh, who was chewing on some bread nearby, suddenly leaned in. ”Richard, you’ve been holed up in the library every day lately. You don’t walk with us anymore.”

”I’m preparing for the Cicero Cup.”

”Oh, right, the Latin competition.” Hugh took a bite of bread, chewed a couple of times, and then remembered something else.

”Are you really taking it seriously? I thought you just casually agreed to Holland...”

”When have you ever seen me casually agree to anything?”

Hugh thought for a moment, then nodded. ”I guess you’re right.”

He scratched at his perpetually unruly bangs. ”Well, good luck then. Not that I can be of much help.”

”I’m still counting on you for stage presence practice.”

”True. I can at least sit and listen.”

When the lunch break ended, Richard grabbed his bag and headed for the library.

On the first floor, a few lower-grade students were flipping through periodicals. The second floor was silent, with only the librarian organizing returned books.

At the turn of the stairs leading to the third floor, he nearly collided with someone.

Lillian, holding two books in her arms, stopped short and took half a step back.

The two of them made eye contact on the narrow staircase.

The lightbulb in the stairwell was low-wattage, its light only illuminating one side of her face, leaving the other half hidden in shadow.

”You’re coming to the third floor too?” Richard asked, stepping to the side.

”...I come here often.” Lillian’s voice was quiet, as if every extra word cost her something.

She also hugged her books and moved aside, gesturing for Richard to go first.

In that brief moment, Richard quickly glanced at the books in her arms.

One was a standard geography textbook, a new edition, with a corner of the title page peeking out.

The cover of the other was severely worn, the cloth pilling, and the gilt lettering faded to nothing more than faint indentations.

The book’s size, its binding, even the publisher’s emblem at the bottom of the spine—it was all identical. The Royal Anthropological Society Press.

His heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t break his stride, his expression remaining impassive.

”The third floor is quiet. Good for reading,” he said, then continued up the stairs.

He heard Lillian’s footsteps descending behind him, light and quick, until they vanished at the turn of the stairs.

Once on the third floor, Richard first went to the bookshelf between the geography and agriculture sections.

Fourth row, seventh slot. He took the book from his bag and placed it back in its original spot.

His gaze shifted two slots to the side.

Fourth row, ninth slot. A few thin booklets were tucked into that slot, similar in size to the one he had just returned.

He crouched down to look at it at eye level.

’Someone had recently taken a book from this spot and hadn’t returned it.’

’The worn-out old book Lillian was holding... the publisher matched, the size matched, and the age seemed right, too.’

’Who introduced her?’

’Was it Mr. Hutton, too? Or some other channel?’

’Of course, I can’t just chase after her and ask. But the name Lillian has certainly become more significant in my mind.’

’Perhaps she’s a fellow traveler on the same path?’

’Next time I see Mr. Hutton, I can find a suitable way to probe about Lillian, and while I’m at it, ask if there are any other books worth reading.’

’Hmm... preferably books related to the Breathing Technique.’

As he left the third floor, a cold draft blew in from a cracked-open window at the end of the corridor, drying the sweat on his back.

He looked down at his panel.

[Breathing Lv.1] Progress: 95%

’Almost there. At this rate, Breathing should reach Level 2 tomorrow or the day after.’

He hitched his school bag strap higher on his shoulder and walked back to the academic building along the covered walkway.

.........

「At 2:30 on Tuesday afternoon, Richard arrived at Holland’s office right on time.」

The room was a bit tidier than last week, probably because he had moved some old periodicals, freeing up half the desk.

”Sit.”

The bald, middle-aged man set down the cup of black tea in his hand and opened his notebook.

”Have you finished memorizing the three passages I assigned last time?”

”I have.”

”Recite a few lines for me, then. Pick any passage to start.”

”The fourth paragraph of the second speech. *Quod si te...*”

”Alright, begin.”

At the end of their session last week, Holland had circled three of the most difficult passages in Cicero’s *Catiline’s Speech* and instructed him to memorize them word for word.

Furthermore, he was expected to be able to explain the rhetorical structure of each sentence in the Albion Language without looking at the original text.

For the old Richard, it would have taken an entire week just to read these sentences smoothly.

Cicero’s Latin was famous for its long sentences, where a single main clause could trail three or four subordinate clauses behind it.

Each subordinate clause was nested with participial phrases and ablative absolutes, and the feeling of breathlessness from reading a whole passage was comparable to holding your breath underwater.

But with [Scholarship] as his foundation, the memorization process was broken down into clear modules.

Word roots provided the skeleton, grammatical rules provided the joints, and rhetorical logic provided the muscles. With these three layers assembled, the sentences came to life.

He began with ”*Quod si te interfici iussero...* (If I should order you to be put to death...)” and continued on without faltering.

...all the way to ”*credo, erit verendum mihi ne non potius hoc omnes boni serius a me quam quisquam crudelius factum esse dicat.*

(I believe I should not fear that anyone would say I acted too cruelly, but rather that all good men will say I acted too late.)”

He recited the entire passage without a single pause.

Holland’s red pen never touched the paper, meaning there were no mistakes to mark.

He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

”Your pronunciation is fine. Last time you were a little off on the long vowel in *potius*, but you’ve nailed it this time.”

”I spent an hour reciting it every morning this week.” Richard was telling the truth; he really had been practicing.

”Just reciting isn’t enough.” Holland turned to a new page in his notebook.

”The Cicero Cup isn’t a recitation contest. The judges’ scoring is focused on three areas: pronunciation accuracy is only thirty percent, rhetorical comprehension is thirty percent, and the remaining forty percent is stage presence and delivery.”

”You’ve basically met the standard for the first two. As for the third, I haven’t seen it yet.”

He stood up and took his coat from the hook on the back of the door.

”Come with me.”

”Where are we going?”

”To test your stage presence.”

Richard followed Holland out of the office and down the corridor toward the lecture hall in the east wing.

Holland walked ahead of him, his pace unhurried.

”I mentioned at a small faculty meeting the other day that a lower-grade student might be participating in the Cicero Cup this year.”

”And as a result, Mr. West said he wanted to see for himself.”

The name was familiar to Richard. West was the Latin teacher for the upper grades and also the head of the classical studies department.

Rumor had it that he had also competed in the Cicero Cup in his youth and taken second place.

”Is Mr. West free today?”

”It’s not just him.” Holland pushed open the door to the lecture hall.