I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The last match of the group stage was scheduled for the afternoon of the fourth day.

There were more people in the Iliad building than in the previous days.

It's been almost two months since the start of the war, and the list of frontline soldiers keeps growing longer every week.

Those restless people in the city simply squeezed into the lecture hall to listen to these young people arguing for the dead.

Richard walked into the west wing, where a queue had already formed in front of the lottery box.

The senior student who signed on behalf of the student took a slip of paper from the bucket, unfolded it, and read aloud:

Richard Williams, Imperial University Preparatory Course.

Debate Topic: Can a lie be considered a form of mercy during wartime?

"The opposing side."

The second slip of paper was then drawn.

"Roland Ashby, undergraduate from Trinity College."

"For."

Richard turned and glanced at the other side.

Roland Ashby was half a head taller than him, and his Trinity College dark green robe was perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle.

He had a strong jawline and wore thin-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.

He overheard people whispering nearby.

"The Ashby family owns a newspaper, right?"

"The Imperial Capital Chronicles belong to his family."

"No wonder he could still laugh even after drawing the affirmative side; they're experts at defending lies."

Richard walked to his seat and stood down.

He drew the opposing side in this round, and had to speak for the "truth".

Rather than defending the trading company, he is more credible on the opposing side today.

He was confident.

The host walked to the center of the stage.

"Final match of the pre-college group stage. Undergraduate Roland Ashby vs. pre-college student Richard Williams."

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

The silver line around the lecture hall floor lit up.

Ashby walked up to the podium and spoke with the smooth, sophisticated accent typical of the upper class in Beijing.

"Distinguished judges, dear listeners."

"Today's topic, I'd like to start with a mother."

"Her son sank with his ship off Dogg Beach last month."

The telegram from the Admiralty read "Missing."

"The 'disappearance' is a lie."

No one returned alive from the ship; the Admiralty knew this perfectly well.

Why?

Ashby's voice slowed down.

"Because the 'disappearance' left a crack, the mother could still hope through that crack, hoping that one day her son would come back alive from the prisoner-of-war camp."

Plato spoke of "noble lies" in "The Republic".

He raised his hand, and the silver thread around the side of the curtain began to condense downwards.

"For a city-state to survive, it needs a story that everyone believes, but which may not be true, to unite people's hearts."

"The empire is at war today."

Those children on the front lines need to be believed to be dying for a just cause;

Those mothers back home need to believe that their sons' deaths had meaning, or... that there is still a glimmer of hope for them to live.

"The affirmative side's argument today is: In wartime, a lie that allows the living to survive is an act of mercy."

"The truth has its advantages, but the truth couldn't save that mother."

Applause broke out.

Richard's psychic vision remained active.

On the other side of the curtain, Ashby's words conjured up the image of his mother standing on the dock.

Her eyes were fixed on the sea, which stretched out empty and vast, but there was no sorrow on her face, only waiting.

It's beautifully made; it's peaceful and warm.

But that "peaceful" place was empty.

It relies on a ship that will never return to keep it afloat, and for every day it survives, it has to fill that ship with hope.

"The opposing side's argument."

Richard walked to the podium.

"Mr. Ashby told me about a mother waiting for a ship, and I felt deeply sorry for her."

"But the affirmative side missed one thing."

The city of Plato speaks of "noble lies," and is inhabited by philosopher-kings who see the truth clearly.

Lies are told to the ruled; the liar knows the truth in his own heart.

"The lies we tell during wartime are different today."

"The liars today are the newspapers and the propaganda department."

They knew from the beginning which statements were true and which were false.

"But if you keep lying, something strange will happen."

He stopped.

"The liar believes his own lies."

"The editor who wrote 'retreat' as 'advance' wrote it ten times and even he himself felt it really was 'advance';

The person who described three hundred corpses as "minor" would stop thinking three hundred was a large number after writing it ten times.

"On that day, lies will have no master."

Richard's voice echoed from the stone wall of the lecture hall.

"A lie without an owner, believed by everyone, even by the one who tells it, comes alive."

"It needs to eat to survive, and it eats those who believe in it."

On the other side of the curtain, Richard finished speaking.

Ashby pressed out the image of a mother waiting for a boat, and a faint shadow appeared out of thin air behind her.

The figure, faceless, reached out and pulled things out of her mother's back, strand by strand.

People who can be seen through spiritual vision slow down their breathing.

"It gave that mother a glimmer of hope, but each time it did, it robbed her of a sliver of clarity."

"That's not called kindness."

Richard looked at the lecture hall opposite him.

"This is called...feeding a person alive with lies."

The lecture hall fell silent.

On the other side of the curtain, Ashby's "serene" mother figure had been stripped away until it was almost transparent.

At the far end of the judges' panel, Sir John Müller's eyes revealed a hint of admiration.

In his essay "On the Weight of Judgments," he wrote: "The most feared form created by words is the form of backlash."

This is the most difficult and weighty part of the judgment.

Richard, a pre-college student, made it.

During the cross-examination, Ashby was very persistent.

"Mr. Williams, your lies will backfire."

What would that mother have done if she had found out her son was dead on the spot?

"She will be grieving," Richard replied.

"So grief-stricken that you can't bear it anymore?"

"I can't hold on any longer, it's true." Richard looked at him.

"But Mr. Ashby, the 'support' you gave her was borrowed."

"What you're giving her is her own clarity of mind; what you're giving her is 'slowly dissipating'."

During the closing phase, Ashby uttered his final words.

"...I stand by my argument: a lie that lets someone live one more day is better than a truth that makes someone collapse on the spot."

Richard walked to the podium.

"Mr. Ashby said, 'Live one more day.'"

"I admit that this day is real."

"But this day is being borrowed in advance."

"If you borrow money from tomorrow today, and from tomorrow to the day after tomorrow, someone will always have to pay the debt in the end."

"It was that mother who paid the debt."

"The truth hurts, of course."

But the pain has passed, and the person is still alive; they can still cry, still feel hatred, still remember their son, and slowly continue living.

"The opposing side maintains its original argument: In wartime, lying is not kindness."

"It just moved the pain to the end and added interest."

"complete."

The host announced this on stage.

"The final group stage match of the preparatory group."

The opposing side wins.

The applause erupted in unison.

Richard bowed slightly to the speaker opposite him.

Ashby nodded to him and stepped off the stage.

Richard felt more at ease after winning this match.

This time, he spoke from the perspective of his own beliefs.

After the group stage ended, the list of those who qualified from the preparatory group was posted on the department's bulletin board.

Richard's name is in the first tier, followed closely by Montagu's.

Both of them made it to the finals.

Catherine was not on the list.

Richard stood in front of the notice board and read it twice.

At the end of the third position, there was a line of small print: "Kathelyn Blackwood, withdraws from the race."

She didn't lose; she withdrew voluntarily.

Nemesis's mask lent her a knife that was too sharp.

Once the knife is drawn, it will draw blood, and once blood is drawn, it won't stop.

She probably realized it herself when she withdrew from the competition.

Quitting was the only way for her to stop.

"She withdrew from the competition."

Montagu walked over at some point.

"What a pity," Montagu said with some regret. "She should have been a shoo-in for the finals."

"She's not at school," Fisher said, leaning closer with a worried look on his face.

"I went to the row of study seats she usually sits in yesterday, and it was empty."

She didn't come to the inscription class this morning either.

Several other classmates have also been talking about Catherine in private these past few days.

Her personality isn't usually very likable.

Cold, outspoken, and prone to offending people.

But some people admire her decisiveness.

"She's so straightforward, it's really worrying that she suddenly disappeared," one girl said.

Richard didn't get involved.

He had a rough idea of ​​where Catherine had gone.

The final round is different from the group stage.

With all three age group winners grouped together, pre-college students may have to face off against graduate students.

The number of spots suddenly dwindled to a dozen or so, each one having fought their way up from their respective competitions.

On the opening day of the tournament, the area outside the Iliad building was even more crowded than in the previous days.

Richard looked at the countdown on the panel.

The debate week had reached its fifth day, and with the pre-competition preparations, there was only one day left in the countdown to planting the seeds.

As he walked up the steps, imagining the effects of unlocking the seed, he heard a particularly orderly shout halfway up.

The voices were different from those elsewhere; they belonged to a group of girls.

He looked in the direction of the sound.

At the bottom of the steps, a group of female students wearing dark blue stand-up collar school uniforms crowded under the sycamore trees.

There was a familiar figure in the line, standing at the very front.

Grey didn't style her hair today; her long, dark hair was loosely tied back with a ribbon.

She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, raised her chin slightly, and looked around, searching for something.

Seeing Richard walk down the steps, the girl straightened her back even more, as if afraid that someone wouldn't see her.

Richard paused for a moment and nodded slightly in her direction.

A blush instantly rose on the girl's face, and she quickly turned her head away, pretending to talk to the classmate next to her.

But that furtive glance she gave him... Richard suppressed a laugh and climbed the steps.

Debate Week, a grand event for young people, is a scene that girls' schools should use for "cultivation".

Richard handed the pass to the protocol officer wearing white gloves at the door and entered the lecture hall.

On the first day of the finals, he did not have his own court.

I found a seat on the west side and sat down to watch what others were doing.

The first round consisted of two students from the graduate student group.

Richard is focusing on the guy named Silas Penrose.

The Royal Academy's top seed this year, widely considered the favorite to win the championship.

It is said that he has already grasped the basics of the profession and is only one formal announcement away from becoming a minor expert.

As soon as Penrose stepped onto the stage, the ether in the lecture hall seemed to sink.

He was not tall, and his back was slightly hunched.

He speaks slowly and deliberately, and every word he utters carries weight.

Richard used his spiritual vision to look at the other side of the curtain.

Penrose's stance was more solid and stable than that of the other contestants.

The figures of preparatory students and undergraduates are floating on the curtain, while his figure is nailed into the curtain.

"This is the level at which you've grasped the basics," Richard thought to himself.

Those who have honed their skills to the elite level in the industry have reached a new level in both their signature items and their main job.

After watching several games, Richard got a general idea of ​​the key players in the finals.

By the time the show ended, it was already getting dark.

Richard was stopped by someone as soon as he came out of the lecture hall and stepped down the stairs.

"Richard!"

It's Phillips.

The guy, carrying a teacup, swayed over from under the sycamore tree.

He was accompanied by a young woman, his fiancée who had dragged him away from the grass last time.

"I've been watching TV all day, and I'm exhausted."

Phillips took a sip of tea: "I need to have some to moisturize myself."

"Why are you getting tired just sitting here watching?"

Watching others argue is more tiring than arguing yourself.

Phillips is still full of nonsense:

"You have to worry about this, and then you'll be anxious about that later. It's exhausting."

His fiancée, standing beside him, lifted her skirt and gave a curtsy.

"Mr. Williams, I didn't have a chance to get to know you properly last time."

Her manners were impeccable.

"I am Constance Black Ben."

Richard returned the greeting.

"Miss Black Ben."

"Just call me Constance," she said politely. "Phillips is very grateful for your help."

"Not at all." Richard glanced at Phillips. "He usually gets all the benefits from... his tea."

Phillips chuckled.

Constance glanced at her fiancé but said nothing.

I walked over and slapped the guy on the back, making him stand up straight immediately.

Richard found it somewhat amusing.

This pair is the opposite.

The hunter girl held herself up like a well-bred young lady; the bookish young man was full of twisted logic.

"Miss Constance is also a professional in this field, isn't she?" Richard asked tentatively.

Constance glanced at him, her polite demeanor masking a hunter's straightforwardness.

"As you can see, my family is in this business, and someone has to take over in my generation."

"Her father is about to be promoted to a master."

Phillips chimed in, with a hint of boasting: "Our ancestors also included some outstanding individuals."

"Not as good as Mr. Williams' maternal grandfather," Constance said naturally, adding, "My elders all respected Lord Gerald."

Richard smiled but didn't respond.

As the three were talking, Phillips looked behind Richard.

"...Richard." He winked at his tea friend, "A girl came to see you."