I loaded the Mysticism panel.

When Sir John Müller stood on the stage, even ordinary people could feel the weight of his presence.

"Gentlemen."

"At this moment, war is raging in the Old World."

"I saw a list this morning."

"Many of the names on the frontline casualty list are students I taught."

"Some might ask, given the chaos outside, why are we still debating in the lecture hall?"

Sir John Müller looked at the onlookers from all directions.

"Debate is asking questions while standing on a pile of corpses."

"The blood shed by those children on the front lines needs to be explained by the living people here: what were they dying for?"

What should their deaths be called? Who should speak for them the words they didn't say?

"Young people here today."

His gaze fell upon the group of undergraduates, graduate students, and preparatory students around him.

"You are standing on this stage today not only to demonstrate your abilities on your own field."

"You stand on this stage to speak for those who can no longer speak."

"If they say something wrong, they'll die again."

"Only if they say the right thing can they rest in peace."

No one in the lecture hall made a sound.

"alright."

The old man paused briefly.

"I've said too much, but I hope it doesn't disrupt your schedule."

He nodded slightly toward the host and walked back to the judges' table.

Richard only has one game this morning.

The drawing of lots took place in a side hall on the west side of the lecture hall, where a lottery bucket was placed.

The senior student who was drawing lots took a slip of paper from the bucket, unfolded it, and read it aloud.

Richard Williams, Imperial University Preparatory Course.

Debate Topic: Are those who profit from war parasites or pillars of the nation?

"For."

The second slip of paper was then pulled out.

"Sinclair Bolton, Manchester University Foundation Year."

"The opposing side."

Goodness, the first topic was so explosive, and I was even on the losing side.

The lottery for the outer undergraduate group has already begun.

Richard is focusing on the graduate students.

Silas Penrose has not arrived yet.

Before the competition, his senior, Clara, mentioned this name to him.

The Royal Academy's top contender this year, and widely considered the favorite to win the debate week.

It is said that he has already grasped the "entry point" of the industry and is not far from becoming a minor expert.

After the draw, the contestants from various universities gradually dispersed.

Catherine emerged from the side hall at some point and stood beside him.

"This match won't be easy for you."

Why?

Richard glanced at the red-haired girl.

"Because you're on the positive side in this case, you have to speak for those who profit from the war."

Catherine analyzed calmly:

"You need to articulate the idea that 'hoarding and speculation has its market logic' in a pleasing and logical way."

"I've read the article you wrote."

"Today's topic is probably something you're saying against your will, isn't it?"

………………

When Richard arrived at his seat, the lecture hall was already full.

There wouldn't normally be this many people in the first session of the preparatory group.

However, the topic of "profiting from war" was a powder keg in the capital in early October.

Grain prices change every week, coal prices double in a month, and sugar is becoming a precious commodity.

The ladies in the west of the city were asking around for black market coffee, while the working-class families in the east of the city were missing a dish on their dinner tables.

Everyone condemns the unscrupulous merchants who hoard goods for profit, but half of the businesses of the major families in the capital are related to wartime supplies.

Richard looked at the audience.

Several middle-aged men, dressed in perfectly tailored suits, sat in the last row.

They came to listen to this speech, and they were also the ones who were being criticized.

Richard turned his gaze back to the debate stage.

Sinclair Bolton stood ramrod straight behind the podium opposite him.

The slightly loose courtyard robe looked empty on him.

The host walked to the center of the stage.

"First round of the preparatory group."

"Six minutes for the opening statement, affirmative side goes first."

The silver lights in the lecture hall lit up.

Richard's heartbeat slowed down.

This isn't the kind of verbal duel like the Cicero Cup; it also involves shaping things behind the scenes...

Richard's breathing descended to the lower position of his humid breathing.

He raised his head.

"Distinguished judges, dear listeners."

"The topic we are discussing today seems to be asking an ethical judgment."

"Bookworms? Beams?"

"Both words are extremely heavy, yet both words are too big."

"It's so big that we're already taking sides the moment we open our mouths, and we're already criticizing or praising people before we've even discussed anything."

"The affirmative side wants to do one thing today... to pull this issue down from its position."

"Pull it down and discuss it based on facts."

He raised his hand, and his words pressed down the curtain, revealing a rudimentary shape—the beam.

"Let's start with the official statistics."

The war started this year, and the annual military supplies for 200,000 soldiers on the front lines will cost 18 million pounds.

Seventy percent of this money came from wartime bonds, subscribed by major commercial banks and private capital—the very people you've been referring to as "war profiteers."

"They hoarded goods in the market and made huge profits;

They converted huge profits into bonds, channeled them back into the imperial treasury, and then used them to buy boots, blankets, canned goods, and horses for the front lines.

He paused, then began to cite historical allusions.

"You may find this unpleasant to hear, but such people have appeared in history."

"Krassu".

"He was the richest man in Rome, and he made his fortune by buying up houses in Rome that had burned down, and he used his own money to support several legions."

The Romans condemned him for his insatiable greed... yet they also placed him alongside Caesar and Pompey as one of the three greatest leaders of the Roman Empire, recognizing him as a pillar of the state.

"If you find his money dirty..."

A hint of amusement crept into Richard's voice.

"When Emperor Vespasian imposed a tax on chamber pots, his son complained that the money was filthy."

He held up a gold coin and asked his son, "Can you smell the stench?"

"pecunia non olet (money has no odor)."

"The gold coin used to buy military boots doesn't ask whose hunger it came from."

The soldiers on the front lines only asked one question: "Do you have any boots to wear tonight?"

Someone in the lecture hall gave a very soft "hmm," and the presidents of those companies straightened their backs a little.

Richard himself knew that the "beam" he had made, with its intricate patterns and imposing appearance, was actually hollow inside.

A hollow column that looks nice but is useless.

Because he himself didn't believe a single word of it.

He didn't trust them, so he went to borrow them.

Borrowing Crassus's corpse, borrowing Vespasian's gold coins, borrowing the weight of something that has been dead for over a thousand years, he can support this pillar that he himself cannot support.

What's borrowed is never truly your own.

But it doesn't matter, as long as the opponent can't push it.

"The second fact is that those who profit from war are not a monolithic group."

"There are cold-blooded speculators hoarding grain and coal inside, just to resell them at high prices."

The affirmative side acknowledges that such people are parasites.

Some industrialists' factories were also requisitioned to work day and night to produce military boots and blankets... Without them, there would be no boots on the front lines.

This kind of person is a pillar of society.

"Therefore, the affirmative side argues that 'profiting from war' is too broad, and it is wrong to lump parasites and pillars together in condemnation."

"We can't condemn Dongliang along with the parasites just because we're criticizing them."

"The argument is complete."

A round of applause, neither loud nor enthusiastic.

Richard returned to the podium, while the boy opposite him frowned.

In this section, he deliberately separated the bookworms from the beams.

"The opposing side's argument."

Sinclair Bolton walked up to the podium, speaking with a strong Northern accent.

"The affirmative side spoke at length."

Bonds, eighteen million pounds, Crassus, Vespasian gold coins—it was all described beautifully.

"I admit I don't speak as eloquently as him; my Latin is so-so."

The boy looked up.

"But I want to tell you something I witnessed firsthand."

"My father was a worker at the West Manila docks. He died last winter when the docks collapsed."

He had just finished work the night of the landslide, with a week's wages in his pocket... one pound and six shillings.

"My mother raised my sister and me by taking on embroidery work until late at night, earning two pence for each handkerchief she embroidered."

"When the war started, flour rose from one and a half pennies to three pennies, and sugar rose from two pennies to six pennies."

"My mother skipped a meal and gave that meal to my younger sister, who is nine years old this year."

The lecture hall was so quiet you could hear the wind blowing through the dome.

"The affirmative side argues that among those who profit from the war, there are both corrupt officials and pillars of society, and they cannot be condemned together. I agree."

The boy's gaze fell directly on the square podium.

"But the affirmative side overlooked one thing."

The woodworms and the beams looked exactly alike to the workers.

They hoarded flour and sugar too, making profits they couldn't have imagined before the war, so my mother could skip a meal.

"The affirmative side brought in Romans who had been dead for over a thousand years."

"I moved in with my deceased father."

"He carried sacks of coal, flour, and our family's food for twenty years."

"My mother opened the door this morning and couldn't see Cicero, only the price of flour per pound today."

"The opposition's claim of 'profiting from the war' is indiscriminate, regardless of whether the people involved are parasites or pillars of society."

To a dockworker's son, they were all the same—the same group who stole food from our mouths.

"The argument is complete."

The room was completely silent.

The applause started from the first few rows of the public seating and spread forward row by row, making it much more lively than before.

Only the men in the back row didn't clap; they looked embarrassed.

Under Richard's keen observation, the hollow "beam" was almost collapsed after being pushed hard by the other party.

What the other person said sounds too convincing.

There was no acting on stage; it was about his own life... his father's sack, his mother's handkerchief, and the meal his sister shared.

But ultimately, it didn't collapse.

"Cross-examination, with the affirmative side asking questions."

Richard walked to the podium.

"Mr. Bolton, I have the utmost respect for your family's affairs."

"But I would like to discuss the facts with you."

The wartime statistics bureau's September report stated that flour price increases were due to 40% of the disruption of sea routes, 30% of the conscription of agricultural workers and reduced domestic production, and only 30% of the increase was related to speculation.

The meals your mother missed were 70% due to sea travel and conscription. What do you think of that?

The judges nodded slightly; this young man was indeed very intelligent.

Bolton glanced down at the manuscript paper, then put it aside.

"Mr. Williams, my mother doesn't know how to calculate percentages."

Seventy percent of those three pennies came from seafarers, and thirty percent from unscrupulous merchants… She didn’t care.

"Your data is real, but it has nothing to do with the meal my mother didn't eat."

Richard felt a slight tremor in his chest, but this time it was much shallower.

"The second fact," he continued.

"To date, war bonds have been subscribed to £21 million, 90% of which came from commercial banks and private capital, and will be used to supply the front lines in the coming year."

Your father... if he were still alive, he would most likely have been drafted to the front lines.

"Those boots he's wearing were bought with money taken from the pocket of a shady merchant. What do you think?"

Someone in the lecture hall hissed very softly; it was a sharp, piercing sound.

The boy's pupils contracted.

"You're right. If he were alive and conscripted, the boots he was wearing were probably bought with money from a shady merchant, I admit it."

"But you forgot one thing."

Those boots could have been purchased with direct funding from the imperial treasury.

A 30% increase in wartime taxes would be enough to buy ten times the amount of military boots as bonds.

Why doesn't the Ministry of Finance raise taxes? Because wealthy people won't accept tax increases.

"So the Ministry of Finance didn't touch their taxes, but instead used hair bonds and asked them to subscribe to them..."

They subscribe, earning interest; they hoard, earning even greater profits.

"You said, 'Without this money, there will be no military boots on the front lines,' and that's true."

But it comes with a caveat: "They dare not touch the cheese of these rich people."

The boy looked up.

"You are defending these people today, but you are not arguing that 'they are pillars of society' at all."

You argued that "we dare not touch them," but you misrepresented this "dare not" as "pillars of society."

A collective gasp filled the room.

Richard nodded behind the podium.

This cut went right to the root.

But the workers in the public seats looked at the boy with more approval in their eyes.

Someone in the Iliad building spoke on their behalf.

"The affirmative side, continue."

Richard pursed his lips and stepped forward.

"I accept the last question about 'political weakness'."

But let me ask you, if the empire really did impose a 30% tax on the wealthy, what would they do?

They will transfer assets to neutral countries, shut down domestic factories, and disrupt supply chains.

By then, there won't be a single pair of military boots left, and even more people will die on the front lines. Your mother's one meal will become two or three meals.

"The strong do what they can, and the weak endure what they must endure... These are the words spoken by the Athenians at the foot of Milos."

That's just how the world is, don't you think?

Richard has laid bare the whole game: this is just how the world is, accept it.