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I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

Chapter 55: Seven Sages’ Debate · Oct 26, 2026

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Chapter List (281)

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51 Chapter 51: Black Cat 2026-10-26
52 Chapter 52: Appraiser 2026-10-26
53 Chapter 53: Need One More 2026-10-26
54 Chapter 54: Saint Augustine’s Chapel 2026-10-26
55 Chapter 55: Seven Sages’ Debate 2026-10-26
56 Chapter 56: On Old Age 2026-10-26
57 Chapter 57: Impeachment of Velleius 2026-10-26
58 Chapter 58: The Boundary of Civilization 2026-10-26
59 Chapter 59: Spare the Conquered and Subdue the Proud 2026-10-26
60 Chapter 60: We Are Not Born for Ourselves Alone 2026-10-26
61 Chapter 61: Aunt Isabella 2026-10-26
62 Chapter 62: Debate Week and the Speaker 2026-10-26
63 Chapter 63: Taste Tester 2026-10-26
64 Chapter 64: Forbidden to be Lent Out 2026-10-26
65 Chapter 65: Going Down is Easy, Coming Up is Hard 2026-10-26
66 Chapter 66: Raw Ore 2026-10-26
67 Chapter 67: Second-Class Seat 2026-10-26
68 Chapter 68: Person of the Hour 2026-10-26
69 Chapter 69: On the Ascent in the Veil 2026-10-26
70 Chapter 70: A Veteran’s Advice 2026-10-26
71 Chapter 71: Summer Training 2026-10-26
72 Chapter 72: Tradition 2026-10-26
73 Chapter 73: Watch Out 2026-10-26
74 Chapter 74: Pruning the Branches 2026-10-26
75 Chapter 75: Everyone Gets a Share 2026-10-26
76 Chapter 76: Health Inspection Team 2026-10-26
77 Chapter 77: Let Me Make a Phone Call 2026-10-26
78 Chapter 78: Gun Permit 2026-10-26
79 Chapter 79: Copper Lamp Obtained 2026-10-26
80 Chapter 80: New Channel 2026-10-26
81 Chapter 81: Brand New 2026-10-26
82 Chapter 82: Home Tutor 2026-10-26
83 Chapter 83: Shooting Range and Coroner 2026-10-26
84 Chapter 84: Enchanted Bullet 2026-10-26
85 Chapter 85: Spirit Realm Messenger 2026-10-26
86 Chapter 86: The Poor and the Rich 2026-10-26
87 Chapter 87 - 86: The Poor and the Rich 2026-10-26
88 Chapter 88 - 86: The Poor and the Rich 2026-10-26
89 Chapter 89 - 87: Divine Pantheon Salon 2026-10-26
90 Chapter 90 - 88: How Dares a Mortal Call Themself a God? 2026-10-26
91 Chapter 91 - 88: How Dare a Mortal Call Themselves a God? 2026-10-26
92 Chapter 92 - 89: Ashen Zone, Silent Monastery 2026-10-26
93 Chapter 93 - 90: Displaying Scholarship 2026-10-26
94 Chapter 94 91: Please Come Again 2026-10-26
95 Chapter 95 92: You Have No Backer 2026-10-26
96 Chapter 96 93: Demonstration Arrangements 2026-10-26
97 Chapter 97 94: Laurel Branch 2026-10-26
98 Chapter 98 95: I’m Still Learning to Swim 2026-10-26
99 Chapter 99 - 96: Eye of the Sphinx 2026-10-26
100 Chapter 100 - 97: Mystery, Door, Judgement 2026-10-26

Richard mentally reviewed the list Mr. Holland had given him.

Alexander Montague, Eton College, the favorite to win.

The Montague Clan were close retainers of the Royal Family and had considerable connections in both the Upper and Lower Houses.

”The one with the blond hair?” Palmer leaned in from behind and whispered.

”Yeah.”

”He certainly looks like a handsome young master,” he commented, then added:

”Nice hair. Wonder how good his Latin is, though.”

On the other side of the square, a group of students in the dark green uniforms of Cheltenham were gathering.

A red-haired girl stood to the side of the group, not chatting with anyone. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her gaze sweeping the surroundings.

Her chin was slightly raised, and her face had the bone structure unique to a Highlander.

Her jawline was sharp, lacking the softness of traditional feminine beauty, which made her very memorable.

The contingent from Harrow School arrived last.

Their carriage arrived just as the registration deadline was closing.

When Philips stepped out of the carriage, he was still holding a cup of tea. He leisurely finished the last sip before handing the cup to an attendant.

He wore Harrow’s dark blue uniform, its gold buttons shining brightly in the sun.

The way he walked was just like the way he held his tea—so composed it bordered on languid.

Besides these few on the list, there were dozens of other contestants in the square, all from top schools across the Empire.

The colors of their uniforms varied, their school crests were all different, and their accents were a motley mix.

Some had heavy Northern accents, some had colonial lilts, and a few unconsciously sprinkled foreign words into their speech.

Most of the contestants were quietly making their final preparations.

Some leaned against stone pillars, flipping through notebooks. Others recited silently with their eyes closed. Still others were running through a final practice session with their teachers.

As for Greenwood—a high school from a manufacturing city in the Northern Industrial District—it didn’t rank at all among this crowd of names.

No one gave them a second glance.

Richard thought it wasn’t so bad.

Compared to the potential animosity or disdain he had imagined, being ignored was the most comfortable situation.

’If no one’s watching, no one will bother me. I just need to focus on doing my job well.’

At nine o’clock sharp, the chapel’s main doors opened.

The crowd began to pour in, with contestants and spectators splitting off to entrances on either side.

Richard followed the Greenwood contingent into Saint Augustine’s Chapel.

The moment he stepped through the great doors, his pace faltered.

The dome was extremely high, at least fifteen meters by his estimation.

Limestone ribbed vaults rose from the four walls, converging at the apex into a star-shaped keystone.

Sunlight squeezed in through the long, narrow stained-glass windows on either side.

Hutchinson exclaimed from behind him, ”This ceiling is way too high!”

Palmer craned his neck to look. ”Imagine how much coal it takes to heat this place in the winter.”

”Can’t you appreciate things like a cultured person for once?”

”You can’t eat aesthetics.”

Richard ignored them, tilting his head back to look at the inner surface of the dome.

A massive mural covered the entire dome.

Ordinary contestants passing by would probably only notice the grandeur of the scene and the vividness of the pigments.

It was neoclassical in style, depicting seven figures in togas seated together under the moonlight.

The figures all had different gestures, their expressions ranging from contemplation to debate to epiphany.

A bronze title plaque was embedded in the stone wall directly beneath the mural: *Seven Sages’ Debate*.

Palmer patted his shoulder from behind. ”Watch where you’re going, don’t just stare at the ceiling.”

”Got it.” He slowed his pace, but his gaze remained fixed on the dome.

Ordinary people saw only pigments and composition, but he saw something different.

In the Ether Field, the pigments on the dome revealed a completely different color spectrum.

To the naked eye, the seven philosophers’ togas were white and ochre, but to a vision capable of perceiving Ether, they faintly shimmered with a soft glow.

Dark gold, bronze, blue-silver—the hue of each figure was different.

The direction of each figure’s gesture, the orientation of their seated posture, and even the flow of the folds in their robes all corresponded precisely with the ribbed vault structure of the dome.

The seven figures were seven Anchors, the folds of the togas were a Disguise for Inscriptions, and the natural light was the activation medium for the entire composition.

The entire mural was, in itself, a massive Sealing Array.

Centuries ago, the painter had woven Ether into the very brushstrokes of the paint.

He was undoubtedly a true Master—a Master of art as well as a Master of Sealing.

As a painting, the mural was perfect. As a Seal, it was perfect as well.

The two identities were superimposed onto the same image, not interfering with but mutually complementing each other.

Even if someone saw the secret within the pigments, they could not break the Seal without destroying the mural.

The Seal’s effect was also clear. The moment he walked into the chapel, he felt the warmth from the Throne of the Sun in his chest being evenly suppressed.

The entire chapel was one of the purest areas in the Imperial Capital; all Extraordinary Power here was suppressed to an extremely low level.

This ensured that all activities conducted inside, including today’s Cicero Cup, would not be disturbed by any factors from the Mysterious Side.

A purely academic competition. A fair playing field.

He withdrew his gaze and followed the contingent toward the contestants’ seating area.

Lady Gran quietly reminded him from the side, ”The lot drawing is at the front desk. Find a seat after you’ve drawn. The first round starts at nine-thirty.”

Mr. Holland had already walked over to the spectator section.

Before he left, he turned to look at Richard and opened his mouth, apparently wanting to say something encouraging.

After a moment’s hesitation, he just gave a thumbs-up and turned his big, shiny forehead away.

Mr. West, who was walking behind him, took two steps, then turned back to add, ”Don’t panic. Just perform as you normally would.”

Lady Gran nodded at Richard and also headed to the spectator section.

Palmer clapped Richard on the back. ”Old Hutch and I are going to draw lots, though it doesn’t matter what we get.”

”Good luck.”

”You can have the good luck; I don’t need it.” The guy looked like he had completely given up.

”All right.” Richard got in line, walked to the front desk, and reached into a container to pull out a bamboo slip.

He turned it over to look at the words written on it:

”*Impeachment of Velleius*, Fourth Oration, Sections 27 to 35.”

He called up the content of this passage in his mind.

It was the denunciation concerning the plundering of the temples on Sicily Island—one of the most difficult passages.

This part of the speech required finding a balance between anger and restraint.

Too much anger would seem uncontrolled; too much restraint would seem insincere.

When Cicero delivered this speech, he was facing a crowd in the Roman Senate filled with Velleius’s partisans and fence-sitters.

His anger was real, but he could not let that anger cloud his judgment.

Because the people Cicero needed to persuade were not his own supporters, but the onlookers.

He had to make the wavering feel: ’I am angry on your behalf.’

Richard placed the bamboo slip back on the counter and found a seat in the contestants’ section.

A stranger sat next to him—a round-faced boy wearing round-rimmed glasses, the crest of a school from Bloom City embroidered on his uniform.

The boy had his head down, rapidly flipping through a notecard, his lips moving silently.

After going through it a few times, he suddenly turned to look at Richard.

”What did you draw?”

”The fourth Velleius.”

The round-faced boy sounded sympathetic. ”The hardest one?”

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