I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Lately, besides being busy learning ancient Greek and breaking the seal on the Sphinx Lamp, I've been busy studying ancient Greek.

Richard also used spare moments to repeatedly analyze the same problem.

What determines the value of information gathered at the round table?

He thought about this problem once during the ten-minute break between classes, once again during the twenty-minute bumpy ride on the school bus, and once more during the few minutes before bedtime when his sleep skills were at work.

On the first day, he listed seven or eight candidate dimensions: scarcity, timeliness, operability, depth of connection, exclusivity, credibility, and risk level.

Next, he grouped these dimensions together in pairs and removed the duplicates.

On Friday, as he sat on the school bus to school, he came to a rough, but one he felt was usable, conclusion.

Value = Scarcity × Verifiability

Why did Haldane's model make everyone present take it so seriously?

The model itself may not be that mysterious.

He could read this name in the Imperial University Library, and he guessed that the people at the round table had already heard of it.

What's truly rare is having read the original book and being able to apply the model to the current context to deduce verifiable conclusions.

These two steps combined are what truly have value.

His conclusion that the annual growth rate exceeds the warning line can be verified.

Once Prometheus returned, he only needed to spend some time comparing the seals with what he had on hand to either refute or confirm his statement.

Falsifiable prophecies carry more weight than perpetually vague hints.

He blew a puff of fog onto the school bus window and wrote "Scarcity × Verifiable" on the fog with his finger.

He wasn't in a hurry to erase it after he finished writing it, since no one knew what he was thinking anyway.

After school in the afternoon, he jogged home to practice his walking skills.

Passing by a roasted chestnut stand on the corner of Grafton Street, he bought a penny's worth and carried it in his hands, peeling it as he walked.

Peeling chestnuts is a great way to think.

With fingers occupied and eyes engaged, the remaining attention is entirely devoted to the brain.

He started filling in the "middle layer" column.

The first category consists of active locations of evil entities in the northern industrial zone.

He has a first-hand advantage as a local in Briston.

The seal on Greenwood’s basement is reinforced once a year by Mr. Hutton, and he can try to get some inside information from the old man.

He could also inquire about the mass nightmare case that occurred at Manchester City's seventh textile mill from Grey and Warren.

Factory owners and coal mine owners each have their own small circles of industrial associations and chambers of commerce, which contain a great deal of inside information.

The group from the Divine Salon probably wouldn't personally come to the northern industrial area to scout it out.

Geographical advantages bring scarcity, and the northern industrial area is large enough that there is no concern that the other party can use this precise positioning.

The second category focuses on the key identification points of priestly inscriptions in the Black Soil River Basin.

He had personally pried open the seal of the oil lamp. Throughout the process, he gained hands-on experience in understanding the turning points of the priest's inscriptions, the differences between the angular and curved strokes of the inscriptions, and the actual development curve of stress fatigue.

This type of experience is not found in publicly available literature.

However, scarcity also means risk.

He stopped on a chestnut that was half-peeled.

The phrase "I pried open the priest's inscription seal" needs to be phrased differently.

For example, saying "I have read several real-world examples of inscription seal aging" changes the subject from oneself to someone else, implying that one is merely a knowledgeable conveyor of information.

The third type involves using Clement's connections to sell knowledge related to rare and unusual items.

He is still accumulating this data and needs to go through several more rounds of processing to form a stable sample.

Even if you don't sell the artifacts themselves, you can sell information about them, as well as things you've researched from the inscriptions on the artifacts.

The fourth category is purely scholarly theoretical models.

After reading Haldane's book on the model, he had actually written several pages of revision suggestions.

But he knew that these revisions were not significant enough at the moment.

[Knowledge] Level 2 allows him to understand the model and see that some of the calculation steps in the original book are somewhat rough.

But that's not enough for him to independently come up with a revised formula that would convince everyone at the round table.

This matter will have to wait.

Wait until he accumulates [Knowledge] to Lv.3, and wait until he unlocks [Critical Thinking].

When he truly possesses the ability to "derive new conclusions beyond publicly available theories".

Moreover, the theoretical model itself is not of much value to those three people, who all seem to be practitioners who are more focused on practical work.

However, the theoretical model deductions and technical deductions from the scholars' perspective are linked.

Having a theoretical model as a foundation allows one to quickly master new techniques, and then improve or even create new ones. This is the greatest value of a theoretical model.

He silently noted it down in his mind: The fourth category is long-term projects.

The first and third categories are things you accumulate casually; just pay attention to them regularly.

The second type requires him to look outside the oil lamp for other examples of similar inscribed seals, and try to write an anonymous note, completely exposing himself.

Speaking of which, I wonder if the spells inside the gargoyles can be exchanged once they are deciphered.

Once we decipher it, we can ask Mr. Hutton or my aunt.

If it's a general-purpose technique, I can consider offering it myself.

With that thought in mind, he finished peeling the last chestnut and threw the shell into the roadside trash can.

Back home, Evelyn was tidying up a ball of yarn with her mother on the living room carpet.

"Brother, why didn't you buy me any chestnuts when you bought them?" His sister smelled the charcoal fumes on him.

"I'll definitely do it next time."

"You always say 'next time' but it's never really true."

Richard took off his coat and hung it behind the door. He then took out a paper bag containing peeled chestnuts from his pocket and handed it to his sister.

"Then it'll definitely be this time."

Evelyn snatched it away with a claw, but something felt off as she held it.

"It's all cold."

"Give it back to me if you think it's too cold."

"I didn't say I didn't want it."

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

The mother looked up at her son, smiled but didn't say anything, and continued winding the yarn.

………………

At 9:30 a.m. on Saturday, Richard went out.

Evelyn had already ironed the altered shirt for him again.

She also steamed the tie with a damp cloth and trimmed off the pilling bits one by one with scissors.

"You look like a decent person now."

Evelyn helped him tie his tie and gave him a satisfied review.

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

The changes in the streetscape are visible to the naked eye.

The terraced houses were transformed into detached houses with gardens, and the bare locust trees along the streets were replaced with pruned yews.

The mansion at number 24 is on the right side of the street, with red brick walls, a black iron gate, and two stone balls on the gateposts.

The roses in the garden have already faded, and the pruned branches are neatly arranged, waiting to sprout again next spring.

Richard rang the doorbell.

The maid who opened the door was wearing a black dress, a white lace hat, and a tightly tied apron.

"May I ask who you are?"

"Richard Williams, the tutor recommended by the Classical Society, has an appointment with Miss Dawn at ten o'clock."

"Please come in."

The maid stepped aside and led him into the foyer.

"Please wait a moment, I'll go inform the master." The maid led him to a small living room next to the foyer, which had a sofa and a coffee table.

A tea set and several pieces of gingerbread were already laid out on the coffee table.

Richard sat down to wait, glancing around at the room's furnishings.

The small living room furniture is made of walnut wood. Although it can't compare to the Ashford family's furniture, it's still genuinely good stuff.

Several hardcover books were displayed on the bookshelf, with gold lettering on their spines; most of them were travel essays.

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

The Dawn family is as wealthy as the Warren family, and perhaps even slightly wealthier in some respects.

These families naturally have much higher expectations for their tutors than for regular teachers.

Two minutes later, the door was pushed open.

The woman who entered was a young woman in her early twenties, taller than Evelyn.

Her dark hair was styled in a low bun, without any extra decoration.

The woman wore a high-necked petticoat, looking as plain as if she had just come from a convent.

But the way she looked people over reminded Richard of a bank manager who reviewed loan applications.

"Mr. Williams?"

"Yes, Miss Dawn." Richard stood up.

"Please sit down." Charlotte sat down in the chair opposite her and gathered her skirt.

She poured herself a cup of tea and pushed it towards her.

"I saw your name and grades in the letter from the Classical Society."

Second place in the Cicero Cup, Greenwood High School, recommended by Mr. Holland.

"Yes."

"Very good results." Her tone was flat, making it impossible to tell whether it was genuine praise or just a polite opening remark.

"However, I need to make it clear to you first: the recommendation list can prove academic ability, but it cannot prove teaching ability."

"I completely understand," Richard replied quickly.

Charlotte picked up her teacup and took a small sip.

"My younger brother Tom is twelve years old and is preparing for his public school entrance exam next year. Latin is his weakest subject."

She placed the teacup back on the saucer, the porcelain clinking softly.

"Three tutors have come before, and they were all quite qualified."

The first was a graduate of the Imperial Academy in the capital; the second taught Latin for eight years at a grammar school; and the third was a retired public school teacher.

She said with some helplessness, "Of the three people, the longest they lasted was six weeks, and the shortest was only two days."

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

"The problem lies with Tom." Charlotte's statement downplayed the issue.

"He's smart, but not the kind of kid who uses his intelligence for his studies."

The translation is: This kid is completely unreasonable and drove all three teachers away.

"May I see him first?"

Charlotte glanced at him, probably not expecting him to make this request so quickly.

"sure."

She got up, walked to the door, and pulled the bell cord hanging on the wall.

After waiting for about a minute, the sound of dragging footsteps came from the end of the corridor.

The door was pushed open, and a head popped out through the crack.

The little boy has the same light brown eyes as his sister, but they give off a completely different vibe.

Charlotte's eyes are on reviewing loan applications, while Tom's are on plotting how to steal money from under the counter.

"Tom, this is the new teacher, Williams."

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

He was wearing a sailor shirt with the trousers rolled up to his calves, and he was barefoot on the carpet.

His right hand was behind his back, hiding something.

The boy circled Richard halfway around, 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 the thing he had been hiding behind his back on his lap.

That was a slingshot.

"The last teacher was over sixty years old, and he had less hair than my grandfather."

He flicked the rubber band of the slingshot with his finger: "His lectures are like chanting scriptures. I fell asleep while he was still chanting, and he didn't even wipe his drool."

"Tom!" Charlotte glared at him.

The boy shrugged, but the mischievous smile on his lips didn't fade at all.

Richard sized up the boy in front of him.

He sits casually, talks a lot, is aggressive, and actively tests the bottom line of the person who comes to him.

Placing a slingshot on my knee and making sure everyone can see it is a show of force, a way of telling you I'm not someone to mess with.

Walking barefoot on a carpet is another form of protest, deliberately displaying an unkempt appearance in front of the tutor and refusing to conform to the rules of formal occasions.