I loaded the Mysticism panel.

During Monday's lunch break, Richard stuffed the book "On the Organization of Early Agricultural Communities in the Western Continent" into the bottom of his backpack, intending to return it to the third floor after lunch.

The contents of Appendix C have been completely copied and backed up. Keeping the original book is meaningless and could even be a hidden danger.

Today's lunch was ordered by Warren again: tomato oxtail soup, two thick slices of bread, and a cup of hot milk.

The broth was simmered until thick and the meat around the bones was cooked until tender and falling apart with the slightest touch of a spoon.

Richard ate everything clean, even dipping the bottom of the soup bowl in bread.

Warren sat across from him, munching on a roasted chicken leg and mumbling news from the capital.

"Have you heard? There's an earl in Exeter who held a ball at his estate and said he saw a ghost."

Mason chuckled beside him: "What did the newspaper say?"

"Just write it as a joke, something like 'Nightmare in the Castle,' accompanied by an illustration that looks like a slapstick comedy."

Warren placed the chicken bone on the side of the plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"But my wife specifically mentioned when she came over a few days ago that we should avoid going to the Southwest County area recently."

Richard sipped his tea without replying.

A professional psychic specifically advised me to stay away, so the matter is probably not as simple as the newspapers described.

Hugh, who was munching on bread nearby, suddenly leaned over and said, "Richard, you've been spending all your time at the library lately, you haven't been walking with us."

"Preparing for the Cicero Cup."

"Oh right, that Latin competition." Hugh took a bite of bread, chewed it a couple of times, and then remembered something:

"Are you really preparing seriously? I thought you just casually agreed to Holland's request..."

"When have you ever casually agreed to anything I asked you to?"

After thinking for a moment, Xiu nodded: "It seems there really isn't one."

He scratched his perpetually unruly bangs: "Good luck then, although I can't be of much help."

"We're counting on you for typhoon drills."

"That's true, it's fine to just sit and listen."

After lunch break, Richard picked up his backpack and headed to the library.

On the first floor, a few younger students were flipping through magazines, while the second floor was quiet, with only the administrator organizing returned books.

As he reached the corner of the stairs on the third floor, he almost bumped into someone.

Lillian, who was holding two books, was stopped in her tracks and took a half step back.

The two looked at each other on the narrow staircase steps.

The light bulbs in the stairwell were not very powerful; the light only illuminated half of her face, leaving the other half in shadow.

"You're on the third floor too?" Richard turned to the side.

"...I come here often." Lillian's voice was very soft, as if she would have to pay extra for every extra word she said.

She, also carrying books, stepped aside to let Richard go first.

Taking advantage of the brief moment, Richard quickly glanced at the book in her arms.

One is a standard geography textbook, a new edition, with a corner of the title page peeking out;

The other book had a badly worn cover, the cloth was pilling, and the gold lettering had faded to just shallow dents.

The book size, binding style, and even the publisher's logo at the bottom of the spine are exactly the same: the Royal Anthropological Society's affiliated publishing house.

His heart skipped a beat, but he didn't stop walking, and his face remained expressionless.

"The third floor is quiet, a good place to read," he said before continuing upstairs.

I heard Lillian's footsteps coming down the stairs behind me, light and fragmented, and I couldn't hear them anymore when she turned the corner.

Upon reaching the third floor, Richard first went to the bookshelf between the geography and agriculture categories.

In the fourth row, seventh compartment, he took the book out of his bag and put it back in its original position.

My gaze shifted two spaces to the side.

In the fourth row, in the ninth compartment, there were several thin booklets, about the same size as the ones he had just returned.

He crouched down and looked straight ahead.

Someone recently took a book from this spot and didn't put it back.

The well-worn old book in Lillian's arms matched the publisher, the size, and the age.

Who introduced her to this company?

Was it also Mr. Hutton? Or some other channel?

Of course, he couldn't possibly chase after her to ask, but the name Lillian undoubtedly gained more importance in his mind.

Perhaps she is one of the same kind?

Next time I see Mr. Hutton, I can find a suitable way to inquire about Lillian's situation and ask if there are any other books worth reading.

Hmm... preferably a book about breathing techniques.

As he came out of the third floor, there was a window at the end of the corridor that was slightly ajar, letting in a gust of cold wind that dried the sweat on his back.

He glanced down at the panel.

[Breathing] Lv.1 Experience: 191/200

Soon. At the current rate, my breathing level should reach level two by tomorrow or the day after.

He adjusted the straps of his backpack over his shoulder and walked back to the teaching building along the connecting corridor.

………………

At 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday, Richard arrived at Holland's office on time.

The room was a bit tidier than last week, probably because the other party moved some of the old periodicals out, freeing up half a table.

"sit."

The bald, middle-aged man put down his teacup and opened his notebook.

"Have you memorized the three passages I assigned last time?"

"I've finished memorizing it."

"Just pick a few lines to recite for me, which part should I start with?"

"Second speech, fourth paragraph, Quod si te…"

"Okay, let's begin."

At the end of last week's tutoring session, Holland circled three of the most difficult passages from Cicero's "Catiline Oration" and asked him to memorize them word for word.

Furthermore, it can explain the rhetorical structure of each sentence in Albion without looking at the original text.

For the original Richard, it would have taken him a whole week just to read these sentences fluently.

Cicero's Latin is known for its long sentences, with a single main clause often leading to three or four subordinate clauses.

Each clause contains participle structures and apostrophes, making the whole passage feel suffocating, like holding your breath underwater.

However, with a foundation of knowledge, the memorization process is broken down into clear modules.

Word roots provide the skeleton, grammatical rules provide the joints, and rhetorical logic provides the muscles. When these three layers are combined, the sentence comes alive.

He started with "Quod si te interfici iussero… (If I order your execution…)" and continued down the path.

To "credo, erit verendum mihi ne non potius hoc omnes boni serius a me quam quisquam crudelius factum esse dicat.

(I believe my biggest worry isn't that people will say I'm too cruel, but rather that all honest people will say I acted too late.)

I recited the entire passage without pausing.

Holland's red pen never touched the paper, which meant there were no mistakes that needed to be marked.

He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"Your pronunciation is fine. Last time you were a little short on the long vowel of potiusˉ, but this time you got it right."

"I've been getting up early every day this week to recite for an hour." Richard was telling the truth; he was indeed practicing.

"Just reading isn't enough." Holland turned to a new page in his notebook:

"The Cicero Cup is not a recitation competition. The judges focus on three aspects: pronunciation accuracy accounts for only 30%, rhetorical comprehension accounts for 30%, and the remaining 40% is based on the typhoon and on-the-spot expression."

"You've basically met the first two requirements; I haven't seen the third one yet."

He stood up and picked up the coat hanging behind the door.

"Come with me."

"Where to?"

"Try your typhoon."

Richard followed Holland out of the office and down the corridor toward the East Wing lecture hall.

Holland walked ahead on the road, at a slow pace.

"I mentioned at a teaching and research meeting a few days ago that a lower-grade student might participate in the Cicero Cup this year."

"As it turned out, Mr. West said he wanted to see it."

Richard remembered the name West; he was a Latin teacher for the upper grades and also the head of the Classics department.

It is said that he also participated in the Cicero Cup when he was young and won second place.

"Is Mr. West free today?"

"He's not the only one who's available." Holland pushed open the door to the lecture hall.