I Loaded the Occult Panel

A new notice had appeared on the department bulletin board.

Its corners were still wet with paste; someone had just put it up.

Richard stopped to read it.

”Special Notice Regarding This Year’s Debate Week Arrangements

In light of the current situation, following joint consultations among all departments and approval by the Academic Committee, the following adjustments have been made to this year’s Debate Week:

1. Expansion of Participant Scope.

In addition to undergraduates and postgraduates, exceptional preparatory students will be included as a special exception.

2. Topics will balance classical tradition with current events...”

A few more details followed, which Richard memorized with a single glance.

In past years, Debate Week had been strictly for undergraduates and postgraduates. Preparatory students had to line up just to audit.The notice claimed the goal was to identify promising ”Speakers” early on.

It would boost morale on the front lines and give the newspapers something to print.

Before the war, a clash of ideologies among young people at the highest academic institutions would have been something to write volumes about.

Now, the war was steadily erasing the once-strict boundaries separating preparatory students, undergraduates, and postgraduates.

In the windowless office of the Compilation Group, all three tiers were already working side by side.

After his afternoon Inscriptiology class, Pendleton came looking for him.

”Williams,” Pendleton said, hurrying over. ”Did you see the Debate Week notice?”

”I saw it.”

”They’re making an exception for preparatory students this year, and you’re one of them.”

Richard wasn’t surprised.

He ranked second in his coursework and worked as a core member of the Compilation Group. It was only logical that a spot would fall to him.

Pendleton checked both ends of the corridor. Seeing it empty, he lowered his voice.

”Let me brief you on the rules of Debate Week.”

”The public matches have general audiences, and the newspapers will cover them.”

”Debate Week is also a stage for Scholars to make their ’Declarations.’”

His aunt had mentioned this to him before. A Scholar’s Rank advancement relied on a ”Declaration.”

”Rank advancement, especially the oath required to step into Minor Adept, is often rehearsed and prepared during these seven days,”

Pendleton explained.

”You’re mainly going this year for the experience, but several postgraduates are using it to pave the way for their ’First Oath.’”

He added, ”In past years, the topics for Debate Week were purely classical. This year, they will tie into the war.

”They need to inspire the public in the newspapers while also showcasing the true skills of a Scholar—analysis, verdicts, and all that.”

Richard understood. The newspapers wanted impassioned speeches, while the judges wanted to see genuine skill.

The two didn’t conflict. To place well, a debater had to balance both.

”Alright, I’ve said what I needed to say,” Pendleton said, patting his shoulder. ”Prepare well.”

As the countdown to the seed’s germination ticked closer day by day, Richard found himself rushed off his feet.

First was his coursework.

He now occasionally attended advanced Ancient Greek classes, focusing on the grammatical analysis of Attic prose.

The workload in the Department of Classics preparatory program was already suffocating.

Latin, Ancient Greek, Inscriptiology, textual criticism... the assignments piled up like a mountain.

His aunt also frequently gave him private tutoring.

Beneath Isabella’s cold exterior, she truly cared for her nephew.

She used his translation drafts as case studies in seminars, and every few days, she called him to Room 314 to hand over a stack of advanced practice questions.

”Your foundation isn’t bad, which means you need to learn even more.”

Taking the stack of questions, Richard recognized this as his aunt’s particular way of showing favoritism.

Then came the Compilation Group.

That day, Associate Professor Greer tossed over another stack of requisition forms.

”The eastern front needs a batch of ’Anchor’ seals. It’s urgent.”

”Anchors?” Richard asked, taking the forms.

”Trench warfare.”

”Both sides are deadlocked along a single line. Neither can push the other back.

”As time drags on, the dead at the bottom of the trenches start becoming a problem.

”The manifest layer and the hidden section both need to be pinned back together using Anchors. The old methods are too slow to set up, and the front lines can’t wait.”

Furthermore, he had to find time to practice his own Spell Formulas.

Stone Armor, Moon Nail, and Silence were supposed to be his unwavering daily routine.

Taking a Spell Formula to proficiency and then to mastery required grinding day after day.

But right now, he simply didn’t have the time.

The academic workload was crushing him, and the Compilation Group had a pile of tasks.

Fortunately, he now had the shadow.

The shadow’s training efficiency had increased once again under the boost of the breathing method.

As it practiced Spell Formulas behind the veil in his stead, the muscle memory and physical intuition transferred to his own body piece by piece.

He busied himself with his studies and the Compilation Group’s chores during the day, then replenished the shadow at night.

The proficiency of his three Spell Formulas slowly crept up, even without him sparing much attention to them.

The previous night, he had sent the shadow into the shallows to practice Moon Nail while he went straight to bed, slipping into Wild Sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Early the next morning, he took out a Silver Needle and practiced Needle Piercing as usual.

The ether threaded in through the tail of the needle, condensing along the central axis toward the tip into a ”nail.”

The nail formed in one smooth breath, a fraction more uniform than yesterday.

...

The day before Debate Week began, his aunt incidentally shared another piece of news with him in Room 314.

”Only one of my postgraduates is entering Debate Week this year.”

”Which one?”

”Clara.”

Richard wasn’t surprised.

All four postgraduates under his aunt were excellent prospects, but if asked who was the most outstanding, everyone would name Clara.

On the opening day of Debate Week, the Ashford family carriage exited the main gate and headed west along the northern bank of the canal.

A thin mist drifted over the river, carrying the distant whistles of the factory district.

Richard sat in the carriage, clutching his pass.

The coachman stopped on the small lane south of the Petrie Building.

”Young Master, we can’t go any further.”

Richard leaned out the carriage window.

A massive crowd was packed beneath the plane trees lining both sides of the road.

People in black woolen coats, academic robes, newspaper reporters carrying wooden camera boxes...

There were also many young men and women in casual clothes, likely there to cheer on the contestants from their respective academies.

”I’ll walk from here.” Richard stepped down from the carriage and tucked the pass into his inner breast pocket.

He walked forward along the tree-lined path.

The venue for Debate Week was located in the oldest lecture hall at Imperial University—Iliad Hall.

Six Doric stone columns supported a crossbeam carved with Latin:

”Tantum eruditi sunt liberi (Only the educated are free).”

Richard stood at the bottom of the steps and glanced up at it.

Banners of various higher academies hung on both sides of the lecture hall’s main entrance.

Imperial University’s flag, featuring purple patterns on a gold background, hung right in the center.

Flanking it were the Royal Academy, Trinity College, the School of Politics and Economics... arrayed one by one, swaying gently in the wind.

The last few flags had thinner poles and plainer designs.

Those belonged to regional academies. Just being able to hang a flag here was already an immense honor.

Richard ascended the steps and handed his pass to the white-gloved usher at the door.

”Mr. Williams.” The man took the document and checked the seal on it.

”Yes.”

”You are in the Preparatory Group.” The usher consulted the roster in his hands. ”Your seat is in the third row on the west side.”

”Thank you.”

Richard stepped into the lecture hall.

The interior of Iliad Hall was even more grandiose than it appeared from the outside.

The vaulted ceiling was staggeringly high. The central debate stage was an ancient Greek-style circular podium.

Two wooden lecterns sat on the stage, facing each other.

On the floor beside each lectern lay an extremely fine silver thread.

Richard silently activated his Occult Spiritual Vision and discovered that the silver threads were mediums for the manifest layer.

With every word the two debaters spoke on stage, their voices wouldn’t just fall into the ears of the audience.

They would also flow along the pathway unfurled by this array, pouring past the veil. That was what the judges would truly be paying attention to.

The seats of the lecture hall were arranged in expanding concentric circles moving outward from the debate stage.

At the judges’ seats, the concentration of ether was terrifyingly high.

The elderly man sitting in the center sat perfectly straight. The ether above his head was so thick it had almost condensed into a physical entity.

Richard didn’t dare stare for long, retracting his Inspiration after a single glance.

That was a Major Adept, while the several judges beside him were all Minor Adepts.

The outer rings of seats were allocated to the cheering squads of the various academies.

The outermost ring was reserved for newspaper reporters and the general public.

In the side hall for drawing lots, the Preparatory Group contestants arrived one after another.

Standing in a corner, Richard took his time sweeping his gaze over the crowded room.

Imperial University had the most attendees. Montagu, Fischer, and Catherine were all present.

There were fewer than ten from outside academies, and a faint, invisible boundary separated them from the Imperial University group.

A separate table was set up at the very back of the side hall for the draw.

There weren’t many people in the postgraduate section, but every single one of them had an ether presence a cut above the preparatory and undergraduate students.

Clara stood among that group of postgraduates, speaking the least and holding the quietest posture.

Richard walked along the third row and sat down in his seat.

The empty seat next to him belonged to Montagu.

”You’re here quite early.”

The blond young man greeted him.

”Do you recognize the one sitting in the center?” Richard took the opportunity to strike up a conversation. ”His ether is terrifyingly thick.”

Montagu lifted his eyes and glanced toward the judges’ seats.

”Sir Muller. A lifetime fellow of the Royal Society, an honorary professor at Imperial University, and a Major Adept.”

”As for the Minor Adept judges, there are eight of them at that table,” Montagu continued.

”Sir Muller is the only Major Adept. He is the chief judge for this year’s Debate Week.”

”Sir Muller... I have some impression of that name,” Richard recalled.

”You should have read his book.”

Montagu shot him a sideways glance.

”On the Weight of Verdicts.”

Richard instantly remembered.

On the Weight of Verdicts was required reading for anyone walking the Scholar path.

It was a pragmatic reference book.

Every page was like a sharply honed pocketknife, cutting the concept of ”words shaping reality” right down to the bone.

Montagu looked toward the two empty lecterns in the center of the debate stage.

”It’s about to begin.”

Richard followed his gaze.

On the south side of the debate stage, the host walked out.

The moment the middle-aged Scholar stepped onto the stage, the ether field in the lecture hall shifted. He was also a Minor Adept.

As soon as he planted his feet, the ring of silver threads laid out on the ground lit up.

”Everyone.”

The middle-aged Scholar spoke in a resonant voice.

”This year’s Debate Week opens today.”

”According to the charter established by the Classical Society and the allied academies, this year’s tournament will span seven days.”

”It is divided into three age groups: Preparatory, Undergraduate, and Postgraduate.”

”Within each bracket, the three age groups will be evenly distributed by random draw;

preparatory students may be matched against undergraduates, but they will not be matched against postgraduates.”

”Each bracket will run separate eliminations, and the victors will then enter the grand finals.”

”The final top three will be awarded the qualifications of ’Speaker’ and may represent the academic world at the Imperial Academic Conference.”

The lecture hall was dead silent; everyone was listening intently.

”Debate topics will be decided by drawing lots. After the draw, the affirmative and negative sides will be determined.”

”Six minutes for constructive speeches, eight minutes for cross-examination, ten minutes for free rebuttal, and three minutes for closing arguments.”

”Scoring will be based on two axes: the Axis of Rhetoric, and... the Axis of Declaration.”

When the middle-aged Scholar mentioned ”Declaration,” several newspaper reporters auditing the event exchanged glances.

They didn’t understand what it meant, only sensing that the word carried immense weight.

”Now, please welcome Chief Judge Sir Muller to deliver the opening remarks.”