I Loaded the Occult Panel

Richard mentally cross-referenced the list Mr. Holland had given him.

Alexander Montagu, Eton College, the heavy favorite to win the championship.

The Montagu Family were royal retainers with extensive connections in both houses of Parliament.

”That blond guy over there?” Palmer whispered, leaning in from behind.

”Yeah.”

”He certainly looks the part of a handsome young lord,” Palmer remarked, then added, ”Great hair, but who knows how well he actually speaks Latin.”

Across the square, a group of students in the dark green uniforms of Cheltenham were gathering.

A red-haired girl stood off to the side of their formation. She wasn’t chatting with anyone; instead, she scanned the surroundings with her hands clasped behind her back.

She held her chin slightly high, revealing the distinct, striking bone structure typical of a highlander.

Her sharp jawline lacked traditional feminine softness, making her face highly memorable.Harrow School’s delegation arrived last.

Their carriages rolled up right at the registration deadline.

When Phillips stepped out of his carriage, he was still holding a teacup. He took one unhurried last sip before handing it off to an attendant.

He wore Harrow’s dark blue uniform, the gold buttons gleaming in the sunlight.

His gait mirrored the way he handled his tea—so composed it bordered on languid.

Beyond the names on the list, several dozen other competitors milled about the square, having traveled from top-tier schools across the Empire.

They sported uniforms in varying shades and crests of every design, and spoke in a wide array of accents.

There were thick northern brogues, colonial twangs, and a few students who unconsciously peppered their speech with Greek words.

Most of the competitors were quietly running through their pre-competition routines.

Some leaned against the stone pillars to flip through their shorthand notes; others stood with their eyes closed, silently mouthing their speeches; a few ran through final practice drills with their teachers.

As for Greenwood—a middle school from a manufacturing city in the Northern Industrial Zone—it barely registered among these prestigious names.

Nobody spared them a second glance.

Richard actually preferred it this way.

Compared to the hostility or contempt he had imagined they might face, being completely ignored was far more comfortable.

No stares meant no interruptions. He just needed to focus on doing his own job well.

At exactly nine o’clock, the main doors of the chapel swung open.

The crowd poured inside, with competitors and spectators splitting off toward separate entrances on either side.

Richard followed the Greenwood delegation into St. Augustine Chapel.

He paused the moment he stepped through the doors.

The vaulted dome was incredibly high—at least fifteen meters, by his estimate.

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

Sunlight squeezed through the tall, narrow stained-glass windows lining the sides.

Behind him, Hutchinson marveled, ”Isn’t this ceiling a bit too high?”

Palmer craned his neck to look. ”Building it this high... imagine how much coal they have to burn to heat this place in the winter.”

”Could you try to have the aesthetic sense of a cultured person?”

”Aesthetics don’t put food on the table.”

Richard ignored them, tilting his head back to study the interior of the dome.

A massive mural covered the entire ceiling.

The ordinary competitors walking past might only notice the painting’s grandeur and vibrant pigments.

Painted in a neoclassical style, it depicted seven figures in togas sitting in a circle beneath the moonlight.

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

A bronze title plaque was embedded in the stone wall directly beneath it: ”The Debate of the Seven Sages”.

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

”Right.” He slowed his pace, though he kept his eyes on the dome.

Ordinary people only saw paint and composition; he saw something entirely different.

In the ether field, the dome’s pigments displayed a completely different color spectrum.

To the naked eye, the togas of the seven sages were white and ochre, but through his ether-attuned vision, they faintly shimmered.

Dark gold, bronze, blue-silver—each figure’s hue was entirely distinct.

The direction of each figure’s gesture, the orientation of their posture, and even the sweeping folds of their robes aligned perfectly with the dome’s ribbed arches.

The seven figures were seven anchor points, the toga folds disguised runic inscriptions, and the natural light acted as the activation medium for the entire array.

The mural itself was an enormous sealing formation.

Hundreds of years ago, the painter had woven ether directly into the brushstrokes.

He was undoubtedly a true Master—a master of art and a master of seals alike.

The mural was flawless as a painting, and equally flawless as a seal.

The two identities were layered upon the same canvas, perfectly complementing each other without interference.

Even if someone uncovered the secret hidden in the paint, it was impossible to break the seal without destroying the mural entirely.

The seal’s effects were undeniable. The moment he entered the chapel, he felt the warmth of the Seat of the Sun in his chest being evenly suppressed.

This entire chapel was one of the purest zones in the Imperial Capital. All extraordinary powers would be suppressed to an absolute minimum here.

This ensured that any events held inside—including today’s Cicero Cup—remained completely free from mystical interference.

It was a domain for pure academic competition—a perfectly even playing field.

He looked away and followed his team toward the competitor seating area.

Ms. Grant offered a quiet reminder. ”Drawing lots is at the front desk. Find a seat once you draw. The first round begins at nine-thirty.”

Mr. Holland had already made his way over to the spectator stands.

Before leaving, he turned back to look at Richard, opening his mouth as if to offer some words of encouragement.

He hesitated for a moment, ultimately just giving a thumbs-up before turning his shiny, balding head back around.

Mr. West, walking behind him, took a couple of steps before turning back to add, ”Don’t panic. Just perform as you normally would.”

Ms. Grant gave Richard an encouraging nod and joined them in the spectator section.

Palmer clapped Richard on the back. ”Old Hutch and I are going to draw our lots. Not that it matters what we get.”

”Good luck.”

”Keep the good luck for yourself. I won’t be needing it.” The guy looked like he had already completely given up.

”Alright.” Richard waited in line at the front desk, then reached into the container and drew a bamboo stick.

He flipped it over and read the carved text:

”Against Verres, Part Four, paragraphs twenty-seven through thirty-five.”

He mentally pulled up the text for that section.

It was the accusation detailing the plundering of the temples in Sicily—one of the most difficult passages on the roster.

This speech required the orator to strike a delicate balance between fury and restraint.

Too much fury would make the speaker seem unhinged; too much restraint would make them seem hypocritical.

When Cicero had originally delivered this speech, he was facing a Roman Senate packed with Verres’s accomplices and fence-sitters.

His anger had been genuine, but he couldn’t allow it to ruin his pacing.

Cicero hadn’t been trying to persuade his own supporters; he had been trying to sway the neutral bystanders.

He needed to make those wavering politicians feel like he was angry on their behalf.

Richard set the bamboo stick back on the counter and found an empty seat in the competitor section.

Sitting next to him was a stranger—a round-faced boy with round glasses. The crest of a school from Broome City was embroidered on his uniform.

The boy had his head down, rapidly flipping through a deck of index cards as his lips moved in silent recitation.

After running through them a few times, he suddenly turned to look at Richard.

”What did you draw?”

”Against Verres, Part Four.”

The round-faced boy gave him a look of sympathy. ”The hardest section?”