I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard Williams.

The white-bearded gentleman burst into laughter.

The laughter drew the attention of several other passengers in the carriage, who turned around to look.

He took the hat off his knees and put it back down.

"I told my old friend that this year's runner-up performed better than the winner."

Richard smiled.

"Thank you for your kind words."

"Giving you face?" The white-bearded gentleman waved his hand. "You've got real skill."

He introduced himself as a retired judge who studied law at the Imperial College of Political Economy in Beijing when he was young.

He serves as an honorary judge for the Cicero Cup every year, but this year it wasn't his turn.

Mr. Grey Coat also gave his name: a wool merchant from Nottingham who had read about the Cicero Cup in the newspaper while on his way to do business.

"So it was you." The businessman shook hands with him.

"I read that article, 'Where are the Boundaries of Civilization,' in the newspaper."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't quite understand the 'water pipe' metaphor in that passage," the businessman admitted.

"But I told my son, 'It's okay if you don't understand it. You just need to remember that this passage was spoken by a sixteen-year-old.'"

"What a coincidence," Richard replied politely. "How old is your son this year, sir?"

"I'm nineteen, and I'm an apprentice in Nottingham."

The businessman sighed as he spoke.

"He doesn't read books."

The carriage swayed slightly.

The skyline of the capital city gradually lowered outside the window.

The centuries-old clock tower, once a slender spire, became a needle in the sky, then shrank into the twilight.

The judge took a small silver box from his inner pocket and opened the lid.

Inside, rows of slender cigars were neatly arranged.

"Want one?"

"Thanks, I don't smoke."

"What a learned man," the old judge said, closing his cigar box again. "What does your father do?"

"An engineer," Richard answered without hesitation.

"The arches under the three bridges in Briston were painted by my father."

The judge nodded.

"A good trade."

"He said so himself."

Where is your mother?

"She's in poor health and can only help out at home."

The old judge did not ask any further questions.

Upon arrival, Richard bid farewell to the two gentlemen and walked out of the station with his luggage.

The smell of coal smoke hit you as soon as you entered the station.

My nose was itchy for a moment, but I got used to it after a while.

Richard walked home along the slag heap, and several of his neighbors greeted him.

"The Williams boy is back?"

The old lady poked half her body out of the door, still holding her grime cloth used for wiping coal scales in her hand.

"Yes, Mrs. Wells."

"You've lost weight." The old lady squinted at him, looking him over. "But you seem much more energetic."

"What university did your mom say you got into?"

"Teito University."

The old lady clenched the gray cloth in her hand.

"well."

She said yes, but her expression suggested she didn't quite believe it.

Richard smiled and politely said he had to hurry home.

Richard stood at the door of the seventh house at the east end of the slag alley for a while.

He gently put his luggage down and took a deep breath.

Pushing open the door, a familiar scent greeted me.

The smell of homemade soap powder, the aroma of tea left over from the pot of tea my mother brewed, and the sweet scent of Evelyn's melted butter.

There was noise coming from the kitchen.

"Mom, we're out of flour, we'll have to go buy some tomorrow... And that tub of raisins, is it under your sewing basket?"

Richard stood silently in the entryway.

"Stop hiding it so well, okay? I'm making cookies, not stealing anything..."

Evelyn poked half her head out of the kitchen door.

The girl's hands were covered in flour, and there was a white mark on her face.

She saw the person standing in the entryway.

"……elder brother?"

Richard quickly took a few steps and held the pudding can up to the girl's eyes.

This time, he didn't really want to tease his sister.

Evelyn's gaze first fell on the jar, then on the griffin emblem.

She forgot to blink.

"You...you can't be serious?!"

"Madagascara vanilla bean caramel pudding, is that what you wanted?" Richard shook the jar.

Evelyn's mind was probably racing, and she couldn't keep up with her words for a moment.

"I……"

She was about to reach out and grab it when she suddenly stopped, looking at her hands covered in flour.

"I need to wash my hands, no, no, there's still food in the oven, I need to put the oven out first... Oh my god, oh my god..."

She turned and rushed back into the kitchen, knocking over the broom by the door.

Pots and pans clattered and clanged in the kitchen.

The mother came down from the top of the stairs.

"You're back?"

"I'm back, Mom."

Margaret reached out and touched her son's face, as if confirming something.

"How's it going in the capital?"

Richard pulled the acceptance letter out of his bag and handed it over.

"I passed the exam, and I came in second."

Margaret took the paper and held it carefully in her hand.

She stared for a long time, her eyes welling up with tears.

I'll make your favorite dish tonight.

"it is good."

………………

Dinner consisted of honey and thyme roasted lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and roasted sweet potatoes.

A plate of hot bread, sprinkled with coarse salt and rosemary, and half a bottle of leftover ale from the last holiday.

Rogers stood by the dining table without moving.

"This is……"

"Your son got into Beijing University."

Margaret handed over the acceptance letter.

Rogers took it and looked at it for a long time with his head down.

Second place.

He didn't look up.

"Um."

He handed the paper back to his wife.

Richard looked at his father from the other side of the table.

There are new small abrasions on my finger joints, and my back is slightly hunched, which is caused by years of sitting at a desk.

Her breathing was shallower than when Richard left the house.

The coal smoke of Briston has no mercy on its long-term residents.

Mother brought the soup up from the kitchen.

"Sit down, the soup is getting cold."

The four people sat down.

Evelyn took the glass jar out and placed it in the center of the dining table.

Her face was flushed, and her hands were still trembling.

"Dad! Look!"

"What are you looking at?"

Rogers Williams lifted his gaze from the spoon.

"Royal Hotel! Royal Hotel!"

Evelyn pointed to the griffin emblem on the jar: "Royal warrant holder!"

"Oh?" The father squinted and examined the jar, then looked at Richard.

"Did you have lunch at the Royal Hotel this morning?"

"I bought it and brought it back."

Rogers finished the soup in his bowl and then reached out to pour himself another half bowl.

"How much is this worth?"

"A serving of pudding isn't expensive," Richard replied.

"Where's the jar?"

"...More expensive than pudding."

"Dad, this jar can last a lifetime," Evelyn defended her brother.

The father nodded. "It was worth it for a lifetime."

Evelyn insisted on giving everyone a bite of the pudding.

The mother smiled and said that this was for her alone.

"No!" The little girl hugged the jar like she was hugging her own child.

"Everyone has to try a bite! I brought it all the way back from Beijing, it's not just for me."

"I bought it for you," Richard said.

"You're going back on your word!" Evelyn insisted. "One bite for each of us!"

She unscrewed the lid.

"Hmm..." That was the sound she made when she smelled the aroma.

There are four people in the family, each with one spoon.

The mother tasted it first; she picked up a small spoonful and put it in her mouth, swallowing it slowly.

"It's definitely a good product."

The father took a bite and smacked his lips.

"...It's pretty much the same as what your mom makes."

"dad!"

"It's almost the same." Rogers put down his spoon.

"Your mom didn't add any alcohol to her cream pudding. That little bit of alcohol masked the other flavors; it was actually a lazy way to make it."

The mother kicked her husband under the table.

"Once I've mastered it!" Evelyn declared, holding up an empty spoon. "I'll definitely do even better than this!"

"How do we compete?"

"I don't mix alcohol!"

"Okay," the father nodded. "Wait."

Everyone at the table laughed.

Evelyn insisted that her brother eat the last spoonful of pudding.

Richard couldn't refuse, so he ate it.

After the meal, the brother and sister washed the dishes together.

The younger sister was washing herself by the sink, while Richard stood beside her wiping her down with a dry cloth.

"Brother," Evelyn asked softly as she wiped the dishes.

"Does the pudding at the Royal Hotel really cost one gold coin?"

"It's not that expensive."

"But that's the Royal Grand Hotel."

"Didn't I just say that the expensive part isn't the pudding, it's the jar?"

"Hmm..." Evelyn carefully rinsed the jar under the tap.

"I'll keep it," the little girl said seriously. "I'll use this jar to store the good things I make in the future."

"it is good."

As her mother cleared the table, she casually remarked something.

"Your aunt wrote a letter."

Richard paused, his hand still holding the dry cloth as he wiped the plate.

"When did you arrive?"

"A week ago."

"What did she say?"

She said the situation outside might change, and advised our family to avoid traveling far recently.

After wiping the last dish, Mother stacked it in the cupboard.

She turned and glanced at Richard.

"It's good that you're back. It's safest for our family to be together."

........................

Greenwood Chapel was built in 1837, the year of the coronation.

The Greenwood school emblem and an open book hang from the dome.

Richard sat in the third seat in the front row.

Sitting next to me were six classmates from this year who had been admitted to other universities.

The auditorium was packed with people, and the parents were all dressed in their best clothes.

Principal Dr. Fletcher stepped onto the podium.

He placed his hand on the edge of the podium and slowly began to read his opening remarks.

"...This academic year, 317 students at Greenwood High School have completed their studies."

"in……"

The principal opened a piece of paper.

"Forty-two students received excellent grades in all subjects."

applause.

"Eleven people received commendations from the Board of Trustees."

More applause.

"Six people received offers of admission from external higher education institutions."

A buzzing sound filled the auditorium.

Six students is a pretty good result for a high school in a northern industrial city like Greenwood.

"One of them..."

The principal looked up.

"Admitted to the Department of Classical Studies at Teito University."

The auditorium fell silent for a moment.

For these parents in Briston, Imperial College University was a name in the newspapers, a place only for the children of wealthy families.

You need to have a private tutor from the age of twelve, attend boarding school, and have a substantial family fortune.

Greenwood School has been established for sixty years, and this has never happened before.

Principal Fletcher pushed his glasses up his nose.

Richard Williams.

The applause started from the parents' seats at the back and swept forward row by row.

As the applause swept across the front row, Warren stood in the central aisle and gave Richard a thumbs-up.

The mother did not applaud from the back row of parents' seats.

She simply sat there, her hands resting on her knees, a faint smile on her lips.

The applause lasted for a long time.

Principal Fletcher vacated his position to the school board.

The school board member who came this time was a gray-haired industrialist named Hamilton.

He owns two ironworks in the western suburbs of Briston, and further north, an autonomous canal wharf.

"Gentlemen."

Mr. Hamilton spoke.

"According to the Greenwood Board of Trustees bylaws, there are three Board of Trustees Scholarships for this year."

The parents' section quieted down, with a few parents of younger children craning their necks to look.

"The first one."

Mr. Hamilton held up an envelope.

"Awarded to Richard Williams, who won second place in the National Cicero Cup Latin Speech Contest and was admitted to the Department of Classics at Imperial University."

Scholarship amount: £50 per academic year, for a period of two years.

Richard was stunned.

He had never heard of this scholarship before.

Fifty pounds for two years, that's one hundred pounds.

"What happened?" a classmate asked in a low voice.

"Aren't the Board of Trustees scholarships awarded to scholarship recipients? I remember it being stated in the bylaws..."

"You're talking nonsense," another person chimed in.

The charter states that it is awarded to Greenwood students who have achieved outstanding results in their graduation year.

How to define significant achievement is up to the school board.

"Fifty pounds for two years..."

"He's the second in this training program at Imperial University. In all these years, Greenwood has never had one person twentieth."

"...Alright then."

Richard stepped onto the podium.

Mr. Hamilton shook his hand.

"Young man, I hope that the future of Briston will be proud of you."

"……thank you."

Mr. Holland sat in the teachers' section, his eyebrows dancing with excitement as he spoke animatedly to Ms. Grant beside him.

Mr. West sat on Holland's other side, arms crossed, muttering something under his breath.

Mr. Hutton did not attend; he never attends these events.

But the businessmen on the board of directors knew nothing about academia.

The old gentleman has been rooted in Briston for decades, and many people on the board of trustees recognize him.

Richard knew exactly why he had received the scholarship.

After the awards ceremony, it was time for refreshments.

The refreshments were laid out on the lawn outside the auditorium.

Sandwiches, scones, and several pots of black tea were laid out on the table.

Younger students were running around, being pulled back by their parents to eat less.

The parents surrounded Richard.

"Young man," a mother said, grabbing his arm.

"My son is fourteen years old this year, and he studies very hard."

Can you tell me how you started learning Latin?

"The textbook is from..."

"Just tell us one thing, how did you manage to learn it?"

Richard was surrounded and couldn't get away.

A father with his child was observing his clothes, probably estimating the value of the fabric.

Bristol is an industrial city, and northerners value practicality.

Richard politely dealt with the group while glancing around.

Warren squeezed through the crowd for a long time before finally sticking his head in.

"Richard!" He grabbed Richard's sleeve. "You're surrounded by these parents and can't escape, are you?"

"Warren..."

"I knew you could do it!" Warren was also wearing a brand new suit.

"Come here, my dad asked me to pull you over there, he wants to say a few words to you..."

Richard followed Warren and squeezed through the crowd.

Several parents followed behind, asking questions.

Warren's father, old Crowley, stood on the other side of the lawn.

He held up a cup of tea and gestured towards Richard from a distance.

Richard.

"Mr. Crowley."

"Congratulations," old Crowley said in a deep voice.

"He spent a month at home bragging to his mother that his classmate had been admitted to a university in Beijing."

His mother now asks every other child she sees, "Do you know my son's classmate?"

Richard exchanged pleasantries for a while, then said goodbye to Crowley and his son.

Warren extended his hand to shake his.

"……Take care of yourself."

Take care of yourself too.

Richard turned and walked towards the auditorium.

Warren stared at his back for a while.

"dad."

"Um?"

"With Richard going to the capital, I'm afraid I'll have fewer and fewer opportunities to see him in the future."

"Um."

"He's sure to go very far in the future."

Old Crowley didn't say anything; he picked up his teacup and drank the rest of his black tea.

"You have to go your own way too," he said to his son. "He goes his way, you go yours."

Mr. Holland came out of the auditorium and found Richard.

"Williams".

"gentlemen."

Mr. Holland took out a thick sketchbook.

"He was brought by Hugh Mason; he went back to the countryside with his family for the summer."

"A Collection of Sketches of Chicken Legs"

"Hmm." Mr. Holland gave a wry smile.

"I've never understood why he's so obsessed with chicken legs."

"He said he enjoys observing the anatomy of a well-cooked chicken leg."

"...Did he tell you that himself?"

"Yes."

Mr. Holland shook his head.

Richard took the sketchbook.

The cover had a few words written in Latin: de cruribus gallinaceis (On Chicken Legs).

It's obvious at a glance that Mr. Holland helped with the translation.

He turned to the last page of the sketchbook.

The top part is a golden-brown roasted chicken leg, and the bottom part has a tiny smiley face drawn on it.

Richard closed his sketchbook and put it in his bag.

The mother was not in the crowd.

Richard looked around and found her under an old oak tree.

"mom."

"Um."

"I'll save this scholarship money at home for Evelyn to use when she goes to the capital."

The mother did not speak.

After a while, she reached out and gently tapped her son on the head.

"Take care of yourself first."

Sunlight filtered through the oak branches and leaves, dappling the two of them.

Richard patted the grass clippings off his mother's skirt.

"Mom, let's go home."

His secondary school years ended here.

Ahead lies the capital city, the clock tower of the Classics Department, the debate week, and the speakers;

It is the world behind the wall, a perpetual blank space on the map of the New World;

And then there's that war that hasn't even started yet, but whose smoke can already be smelled.

But right now, all he wants is to go back to his home at the east end of that slag heap alley.

Tonight's dinner probably won't be oatmeal porridge.