I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 244 Achieving Immortality Through One's Own Efforts! (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

Just as Richard was talking to Pendleton and Phillips.

A person walked towards them from the center of the hall.

He was wearing a well-tailored suit, made of high-quality material.

His face bears some resemblance to Montagu.

But unlike Montagu, he did not have that innate composure on his face.

It looks more like a clumsy imitation of Montagu.

Even in their gait, there was a clear sense of "borrowing".

Pendleton leaned close to Richard's ear and whispered a reminder:

"He is Oliver Montagu, the one who split up the family."

Oliver stopped in front of Richard, his eyes scanning him up and down, his tone somewhat harsh:

"Just now, I saw my cousin nodding at you."

I'm curious, who are you?

Richard: "Richard Williams".

"Williams..."

Oliver chewed the surname over and over in his mouth several times, then shook his head:

"Never heard of it, which company is it?"

Richard: "My mother, Matrimony Ashford."

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

Ashford?

He remembered, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned down:

"I understand. Your mother is Miss Ashford, the one who married an engineer and then moved to an industrial city in the north."

Richard did not respond.

Oliver continued:

My mother mentioned your branch of the family.

She said there was a young lady in Ashford who turned down a good marriage offer from the capital and insisted on marrying a bridge and road builder.

Now, the whole family lives huddled under the chimney.

"Building bridges and paving roads..."

He paused, then shook his head: "It's a skill, I suppose."

"Mr. Williams, let me tell you the truth."

Oliver seemed to be having a heart-to-heart conversation:

"The foundation of the extraordinary is written in the blood and flesh. Going back four hundred years, in my Montagu family, there have always been people who have stood at the forefront of the curtain."

"And you? You're half Ashford blood?"

Oliver laughed. "That sounds respectable, but half is only half. The rest is diluted. How can you compare it to real blood?"

Just as he was about to finish speaking, Phillips slammed his teacup down on the windowsill with a "clatter".

Richard glanced at the crowd not far away.

A strand of red hair moved slightly.

Catherine, who was standing by the window, was about to come over after hearing these words.

But Phillips beat her to it.

Oliver.

Phillips stared at him: "Blood diluted with water, blood that isn't diluted with water..."

I'm a little curious, was your blood sample taken from your body and tested, or is this something your mother told you?

Oliver's face stiffened: "Don't you dare..."

"I didn't say anything."

Phillips picked up his teacup and took a sip:

"I just think it's ridiculous for someone to rush into classifying other people's blood into different grades without even understanding what's in their own head."

Several people who were standing nearby in the hall had already quietly looked over.

Catherine stopped halfway.

She glanced at Phillips, then at Richard, who hadn't even picked up his teacup the entire time.

Then, she stood back up.

There are some places that don't need her to help them.

Oliver was taken aback by Phillips's retort, but the contempt in his eyes remained.

In his view, Phillips was nothing more than a mediocre person.

The portion was far from enough.

He turned his attention back to Richard, sneering:

"Williams, your friend is quite the talker, but what good is it for him to interrupt me when I'm talking to you?"

You, the person in question, didn't dare reply to me at all. Is hiding behind your friends the only thing you can do?

At this moment, Richard finally looked at Oliver.

Restraint and anger can coexist.

"Mr. Oliver."

Richard's voice wasn't loud, but it quieted down the small area of ​​the hall.

You said something wrong.

Oliver asked with a playful expression, "Oh?"

"My father, Rogers, was an engineer, not the bridge and road builder you're describing."

Richard spoke slowly, word by word.

"There are three bridges spanning the canal in the North of Briston, and my father worked on the blueprints for all of them."

Hundreds of boats pass under the bridge every day, carrying coal, cotton, grain, and more.

The food, clothing, and firewood for hundreds of thousands of people in the north mostly passed under the bridge my father built.

Oliver's expression changed, and he stopped pretending to be open and honest with Richard, retorting:

"Just a bridge repairman..."

"That elder in your household."

Richard interrupted him: "May I ask, has he ever done anything of his own for the people and for public works?"

Oliver did not answer.

"Probably not."

Richard spoke solemnly, as if giving a speech: "People of noble birth do not walk on the bridges over the canals, but hundreds of thousands of people in Bristol do every day."

Oliver understood the deeper meaning and his face immediately darkened.

Before he could retort, Richard stepped forward, looked him into the eyes, and said:

"You just said that the foundation is engraved in the bones and blood."

What you keep saying you're so proud of is the 400-year history of your Montagu family.

But I would like to ask you, Mr. Oliver, who has stood at the very forefront of this past four hundred years?

Oliver had no idea and was speechless for a moment.

Richard laughed: "Could it be you?"

How old are you this year? Have you signed your name yet?

Oliver's face turned red instantly.

Richard's words struck a nerve.

"Your four hundred years of glory that you are so proud of."

Richard's words were like waves, one higher than the next, making it hard for Oliver to breathe.

Not an inch of it was earned by yourself.

The reason you are able to stand here is because of the legacy of your ancestors who were accomplished and highly skilled.

You have taken the glory of others and draped it over yourself, treating it as your own face.

But if you take off that tuxedo and erase the "Montagu" name... Mr. Oliver, what will you have left?

In the hall, many people stopped talking and gathered around Richard.

Richard seemed not to see it.

His voice was still strong.

"The leap in rank requires 'announcement': hunters announce it with blood and blades, hermits announce it with arrays and paintings, and scholars announce it with words."

However, no document has ever written that... a person can achieve a leap in social status by relying on their ancestors.

The moment your name is inscribed, the curtain recognizes you as the person you are.

Not your surname, not your blood... and certainly not the ancestors whose portraits hang on the wall.

These words moved those in the know.

Oliver's chest began to heave violently as he struggled to open his mouth to refute.

But to his surprise, he found that he couldn't say anything at all.

Richard's gaze swept over the book in Phillips's hand.

"Genus et proavos et quae non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco...

(Our family background and ancestors—those are things we didn't earn ourselves, and therefore cannot be considered our own.)

"No one in Cicero's family had ever held a decent official position."

"He said something in the Senate in front of everyone."

Richard's gaze remained fixed on Oliver, but his words were somewhat rambling:

"You noble lords inherit their high positions while you're asleep."

But I earned my position while I was awake!

It was earned through countless nights of hard work and countless tasks!

Two years have passed, and the portraits of those prominent families have rotted on the walls; no one remembers them anymore.

But Cicero's words are still being sung and recited among us.

Why?

Richard asks and answers himself:

"Because the person in the portrait was born into a high position."

But Cicero, he earned his place through his own efforts, word by word, for immortality!

Richard felt a little thirsty, so he picked up his teacup and took a sip to moisten his throat.

"That's right, I am indeed pieced together from half Ashford's blood and half an engineer's blood."

I acknowledge that, but I have never felt the slightest disgust, nor have I ever been ashamed of the blood on my body.

Richard clenched his fist and held it to his chest: "Because blood is something that can't sustain a person."

What I have earned is what I have gained upon waking.

These are the three bridges my father built, and I earned them myself, night after night, through sheer hard work!

As soon as he finished speaking, the entire hall fell into a deathly silence.

Oliver stood frozen in place, breathing heavily, as if there was a broken bellows inside his throat.

His face turned a deep purplish-red, his fists clenched tightly, and his entire arm was trembling.

His pride and glory were shattered by Richard's words, which were like waves crashing to the ground.

The string representing reason in my mind was now stretched to its limit.

All eyes in the hall were on Richard.

The internal affairs representative, standing alone against the east wall, looked at Richard with great interest, pondering his words.

He then added a stroke to the booklet in his hand.

In a corner, several young seminary students dressed in black robes exchanged glances.

One of them whispered a few words to his companion.

His tone was neither complimentary nor critical, but the coldness in his eyes softened slightly.

Edith Carter remained huddled in the very corner.

She was watching and learning quietly.

But after that moment, the way she looked at Richard changed.

Looking back, how many people have tried to get me to where I am today, using the excuses of "blood" and "family background" to suppress me along the way?

How many people have been like her?

I can't remember anymore.

However, she had never met anyone like Richard.

They can use this kind of language, and they dare to use this kind of language.

In front of a room full of prominent families, he retorted to Oliver one sentence at a time.

In her heart, she gave Richard the loudest cheers.

The Earl of Blackburn's family, those young ladies who brought their cousins ​​to "find a match".

They stopped laughing and talking to each other in hushed tones.

The cousins, who came from collateral branches and were of low status, revealed a secret, unspoken satisfaction in their eyes.

The legitimate daughters were not angered by Richard's words; on the contrary, they became somewhat interested in them.

Born into noble families, they oversaw the mutual flattery in the halls and grew tired of the social interactions where no one wanted to lose face.

This is the first time I've seen a northern boy who dares to speak so disparagingly of Oliver Montagu.

Oliver was furious, and his fist was about to be raised.

He wanted to teach this arrogant northern boy a lesson.

Oliver.

Just then, a voice came from the side.

It was Montagu.

He arrived without me noticing.

Judging from his expression, he had clearly heard Richard's entire speech from beginning to end.

Montagu didn't look at his cousin, but instead looked at Richard first.

"Williams".

Montagu looked at Richard and nodded in acknowledgment: "I heard most of what you had to say."

Richard nodded in response.

"Your part."

Montagu's gaze lingered on Richard's face: "This is no longer just your usual sharp tongue."

Richard: "Oh?"

"Being quick-witted is good for speaking eloquently, but what you just said wasn't the skill of arguing."

Montagu said, word by word, "This is rhetoric; your words already have a rudimentary form."

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

"We can have a good chat during the summer internship."

After saying this, Montagu turned and left.

As for his cousin...

He was standing there, clenching his fists, his body trembling like a leaf.

But Montagu didn't even spare him a glance.

Montagu walked past Oliver without glancing at him.

It was as if the person standing there wasn't his cousin, who shared the same blood, but some insignificant stray dog.

Oliver's fist, raised halfway, froze in mid-air.

He stared at his cousin's retreating figure, the last trace of color draining from his face.

Richard glanced at Montagu's retreating figure, then looked at Oliver, who was hunching over and squeezing back into the crowd.

How pathetic.

Oliver wanted to live like Montagu his whole life.

But Montagu never once looked at him.

"pretty!"

Pendleton put the empty plate back on the windowsill and patted the crumbs off his hands.

He extended his hand to Richard: "For the sake of today's good show, I'll pick out a well-lit bed for you during your training period."

"Thank you." Richard shook his hand.

Phillips held his teacup and remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he took a big gulp of Darjeeling tea and muttered to himself, "...Now I completely understand why you came in second place in the Cicero Cup."

Just as the tea party was about to end, Isabella came over.

She was standing not far away and witnessed the whole thing.

"Have you seen enough?"

Richard: "I've seen enough."

Isabella: "What are your thoughts?"

Richard thought for a moment and said, "I am indeed no match for the Montague family."

Isabella: "If we can't compare, then we shouldn't compare."

The path of a scholar is never about who has the strongest roots, but about who can see just a little bit more.

She smiled and then praised her nephew:

"However, what you just said was indeed very well said."

They take all the glory upon themselves and do not live off the legacy of their ancestors.

It's easier said than done.

Nine out of ten people in this house talk a big game, but in reality, they still have to rely on the powerful figures behind them to survive.

"The fact that you could say it in front of the whole room today, leaving everyone speechless, is truly..."

Isabella paused, her gaze towards Richard filled with satisfaction.

"Walk."

Isabella led Richard outside.

Just as they reached the door, Phillips caught up with them.

"Richard, leave your contact information."

Phillips handed him a note: "The training is about to begin, let's keep in touch."

Richard: "Okay."

Phillips waved and turned back to the tea party.

Richard put the note away and followed his aunt out the door.

The capital city is not much different from the north.

As evening approaches, the sky will gradually darken as well.

One by one, the gas lamps on the street lit up.

Richard got into Ashford’s carriage.

The carriage then started moving.

The wheels rolled smoothly on the stone pavement.

By the time we got back to Ashford House, it was already past ten o'clock.

After washing up, Richard didn't rush to sleep.

He recalled what happened in the office that day.

Isabella: "During the training, highly skilled experts will conduct on-site inspections."

At that moment, Richard asked, "Inspect what?"

Isabella: "Looking at the potential."

The Department of Classics relies on this one training program all year round, hoping to gather the best talents from all over the country in one place.

Several of the department's leading professors will take turns visiting; at least one of them will be a highly knowledgeable expert.

Richard was somewhat surprised: "Would a master like you come to personally visit a student who didn't even sign their name?"

"Yes!" Isabella answered decisively: "Study programs are where the academy system takes root."

The future leaders of which talents will be able to take on which direction will be largely determined within this month.

Therefore, the senior experts will come to take a look, the purpose of which is to check on the department's performance.

"That's not all."

My aunt added, "The training office is located at Imperial University, where the ether concentration is high and there are many nodes on campus."

At this time of year, the students' inspirations all come together, making it a lively and exciting time!

"Even experts occasionally catch a glimpse of such a lively scene."

"An expert?" Richard's breathing became lighter.

"Yeah, they've been on the other side of the curtain for too long, it's getting boring."

And places where young people congregate are vibrant, clean, and exciting—a novelty for them.

After the conversation in the office ended, Richard secretly remembered what was said, but didn't take it too seriously.

Sitting at his desk tonight, he suddenly connected this matter with another one.

Theological Salon.

This gathering took place in the middle of June.

The training program will begin next Friday and continue for four weeks.