I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

Recently, besides being busy learning Ancient Greek and trying to break the Sphinx Lamp’s Seal,

Richard had also been using his spare time to repeatedly mull over the same question.

What determines the value of intelligence at the Round Table?

He thought about it during the ten-minute breaks between classes, reconsidered it during the twenty-minute bumpy ride on the school bus, and contemplated it again in the few minutes before bed as he waited for his [Sleep] Skill to take effect.

On the first day, he listed seven or eight potential factors: scarcity, timeliness, actionability, depth of relevance, exclusivity, credibility, and risk level.

Over the following days, he merged these factors in pairs, trimming away the redundancies.

By Friday, sitting on the school bus on his way to school, he reached a conclusion that was crude, but one he felt was functional.

Value = Scarcity × Verifiability.

Why did his move with the Haldane Model make everyone at the table take him so seriously?

The model itself wasn’t necessarily that mysterious.

He could find its name in the Imperial University Library, and he estimated the others at the Round Table had long since heard of it.

What was truly scarce was having read the original book and being able to apply the model to the current situation to deduce a verifiable conclusion.

The combination of these two steps was what made it truly valuable.

And the conclusion he offered—that the annual growth rate had surpassed the warning threshold—was verifiable.

If Prometheus was willing to put in a little effort after returning, he could compare it against his ledger of Seals and either falsify or confirm Richard’s statement.

A falsifiable prediction carried more weight than a perpetually vague suggestion.

He breathed a patch of fog onto the school bus window and traced the words ”Scarcity × Verifiable” in it with his finger.

He didn’t rush to wipe it away after he finished. It wasn’t like anyone knew what he was thinking.

When school let out in the afternoon, he jogged home to train his [Walking] Skill.

Passing the roasted chestnut stall on the corner of Grafton Street, he bought a penny’s worth, cradling them in his hands and peeling them as he walked.

Peeling chestnuts was an excellent activity for deep thought.

His fingers had something to do, his eyes had something to watch, and the remainder of his attention was left entirely to his mind.

He began to fill in the ”middle tier” category.

First, the locations of active Evil Beings in the Northern Industrial District.

He had a firsthand advantage in his native Brighton.

The Seal in the Greenwood basement was reinforced by Mr. Hutton once a year, and he could try to obtain some internal information from the old gentleman;

There was also the case of the mass nightmare at the Manchester City Seventh Textile Mill. He could ask Grey and Warren about that.

The factory owners and coal magnates all had their own industrial federations and small circles within their chambers of commerce, where a lot of internal intelligence was exchanged.

The people from the Divine Pantheon Salon probably wouldn’t personally come to the Northern Industrial District to scout things out.

His geographical advantage provided scarcity. And since the Northern Industrial District was large enough, he wasn’t worried they could use this information to pinpoint his location.

Second, the key points for identifying the Priest’s Inscriptions of the Black Earth River Basin.

He had personally pried open the Oil Lamp’s Seal. Through that process, he had gained firsthand, practical experience with the turning points of the Priest’s Inscription, the difference between its angular and curved strokes, and the actual development curve of its stress fatigue.

This type of experience wasn’t available in any public literature.

But scarcity also meant risk.

He paused, his fingers on a half-peeled chestnut.

’I’ll have to rephrase something like, ”I’ve pried open a Priest’s Inscription Seal.”’

’Something like, ”I’ve read several case studies on the aging of Inscription Seals.” I’ll need to shift the subject from myself to others, presenting myself as just a well-read courier of information.’

Third, using Clement’s channels to sell knowledge related to Marvels.

He was still accumulating experience in this area. He’d need to handle a few more before he had a stable sample size.

When the time came, even if he didn’t sell the Marvels themselves, he could sell intelligence about them, as well as his own research findings from the Inscriptions on them.

Fourth, purely academic theoretical models.

After finishing the book on the Haldane Model, he had actually already written several pages of suggested revisions.

But he knew these revisions didn’t carry enough weight to be presented now.

His Level 2 [Scholarship] allowed him to understand the model and see that several of the deductive steps in the original book were a bit crude.

But it wasn’t enough for him to independently devise a revised formula that would convince the people at the Round Table.

’I’ll have to wait on this one.’

’I’ll wait until I’ve raised my [Scholarship] to Level 3, until I’ve unlocked [Rationality].’

’I need to wait until I truly possess the ability to ”deduce new conclusions beyond established public theories.”’

Besides, theoretical models themselves probably wouldn’t be of great value to the other three; they all seemed to be more practical-minded Practitioners.

However, the deduction of theoretical models by a Scholar was linked to the deduction of Techniques.

With a foundation in theoretical models, one could quickly master new Techniques, and then improve or even create their own. That was the greatest value of theoretical models.

He made a mental note: ’The fourth category is a long-term project.’

’The first and third categories can be accumulated passively; I just need to pay attention to them in my daily life.’

’For the second category, I need to look for other examples of Inscription Seals besides the Oil Lamp. Ideally, I can compile them into an anonymous set of notes, to a degree that completely dissociates me from them.’

’Speaking of which, I wonder if the Technique inside the Gargoyle can be traded once it’s deciphered.’

’Once I’ve deciphered it, I can ask Mr. Hutton or my aunt about it.’

’If it’s a general-purpose Technique, I could consider selling it.’

As he thought of this, he finished peeling the last chestnut and tossed the shells into a trash can on the side of the road.

When he got home, Evelyn was on the living room carpet with their Mother, organizing balls of yarn.

”Hey, you bought chestnuts and didn’t get me any?” his sister asked, smelling the scent of charcoal on him.

”Next time, I promise.”

”You always say ’next time,’ but it never happens.”

Richard took off his coat and hung it behind the door. He pulled a paper bag filled with peeled chestnuts from his pocket and handed it to his sister.

”Then how about this time for sure?”

Evelyn snatched it from him, but they didn’t feel right in her hands.

”They’re all cold.”

”If you think they’re too cold, give them back.”

”I never said I didn’t want them.”

She hugged the bag to her chest and ran back to the kitchen.

His Mother looked up at her son, smiled without a word, and went back to winding her balls of yarn.

...

「At half past nine on Saturday morning, Richard left the house.」

Evelyn had already re-ironed the altered shirt for him.

She had also steamed his tie with a damp cloth and carefully snipped away every pill with a pair of scissors.

”You look like a respectable gentleman now,” Evelyn said with satisfaction as she finished tying his tie.

Richard walked north along the main street, passed under the railway viaduct, and entered the Helfier Road area.

The change in the streetscape was immediately visible.

The terraced row houses gave way to detached manors with gardens, and the bare locust trees lining the street were replaced with pruned yews.

Number 24 was on the right side of the street, a residence with red brick walls, a black iron gate, and two stone spheres sitting atop the gateposts.

The roses in the garden had already withered. Their pruned branches were arranged neatly, waiting to bud again next spring.

Richard rang the doorbell.

The door was opened by a maid in a black dress, her head covered with a white lace cap and her apron tied tightly.

”And you are, sir?”

”Richard Williams. I’m the tutor recommended by the Classical Society. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Miss Dawn.”

”Please come in.”

The maid stepped aside, leading him into the foyer.

”Please wait a moment while I inform the family,” the maid said, guiding him to a small sitting room off the foyer that contained a sofa and a coffee table.

A tea set and a few gingerbread cookies were already laid out on the table.

Richard sat down to wait, his eyes scanning the room’s furnishings.

The furniture in the small sitting room was walnut. While it couldn’t compare to the Ashford Family’s, it was clearly of fine quality.

A few hardcover books with gold lettering on their spines sat on a bookshelf, most of them novels and travel essays.

A piano stood in the corner. Its lid was open, and an open score of sheet music rested on the keys.

The Dawn family’s wealth seemed to be on par with the Warren Family’s, perhaps even slightly greater in some respects.

’A family like this would naturally have much higher expectations for a tutor than usual.’

Two minutes later, the door opened.

A young woman entered. She was in her early twenties and taller than Evelyn.

Her dark hair was tied in a low bun, with no extra adornments.

The woman wore a high-collared chemise, so plain she looked as if she’d just come from a Monastery.

But the way she sized people up reminded Richard of a bank manager reviewing a loan application.

”Mr. Williams?”

”Yes, Miss Dawn,” Richard said, standing up.

”Please, sit.” Charlotte sat in the chair opposite him, smoothing her skirt.

She first poured him a cup of tea and pushed it over.

”I saw your name and accomplishments in the letter from the Classical Society.

Second place in the Cicero Cup, from Greenwood Middle School, recommended by Mr. Holland.”

”That’s correct.”

”Excellent results.” Her tone was flat, making it impossible to tell if her praise was genuine or merely a polite opening. ”However, I need to make it clear that a recommendation proves academic ability, not teaching ability.”

”I understand completely,” Richard replied swiftly.

Charlotte lifted her own teacup and took a small sip.

”My younger brother, Tom, is twelve years old. He is preparing for next year’s public school entrance exams, and Latin is his weakest subject.”

She set the cup back on its saucer, the porcelain making a soft CLINK.

”We’ve had three tutors before, all with good credentials.

The first was a graduate of the Imperial City Royal Academy, the second taught Latin at a Grammar School for eight years, and the third was a retired public school teacher.”

She sounded somewhat helpless. ”Of the three, the longest lasted six weeks. The shortest, just two days.”

Richard took a sip of tea and waited for her to continue.

”The problem is Tom.” Charlotte’s description was a careful understatement: ”He’s very smart, but he’s not the kind of child who applies his intelligence to his schoolwork.”

’In other words: the kid is impossible to deal with and has already driven three teachers away in a rage.’

”May I see him first?”

Charlotte glanced at him, likely not expecting him to make the request so quickly.

”Of course.”

She rose, walked to the door, and pulled a bell cord hanging on the wall.

After about a minute, the sound of dragging footsteps came from the end of the hallway.

The door was pushed open, and a head poked through the gap.

The little boy had the same light brown eyes as his sister, but they gave off a completely different impression.

Charlotte’s eyes were those of someone reviewing a loan application; Tom’s were those of someone plotting how to snatch money from under the counter.

”Tom, this is the new teacher, Mr. Williams.”

”Another one,” Tom muttered, pushing the door open and walking in.

He wore a sailor shirt with his trouser legs rolled up to his calves, and his bare feet padded on the carpet.

His right hand was held behind his back, hiding something.

The boy circled halfway around Richard, looking him up and down. ”How old are you?”

”Sixteen.”

”Only four years older than me?”

”Yes.”

Tom sat down in the chair opposite Richard and placed what he had been hiding behind his back onto his lap.

It was a slingshot.

”The last teacher was over sixty. He had less hair than my grandpa.”

He plucked the slingshot’s elastic band. ”His lectures were like a droning chant. I’d fall asleep, and he’d still be chanting. He’d even start drooling and not even know to wipe it off.”

”Tom!” Charlotte shot him a glare.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, but the mischievous grin on his face didn’t fade in the slightest.

Richard studied the boy before him.

’Sloppy posture, talkative, aggressive, and actively probing the newcomer’s boundaries.’

’Placing the slingshot on his lap where it’s clearly visible is a show of force, a way of saying, ’I’m not to be messed with.’’

’Walking barefoot on the carpet is another demonstration. He’s deliberately acting unkempt in front of the tutor, refusing to comply with the rules of a formal setting.’