I loaded the Mysticism panel.

After the debate week concluded, a tea break was held in the side hall of the Iliad building.

The food and drinks were similar to what we had last time.

People are different.

The Cicero Cup tea break also includes high school teachers and parents.

This time, the people walking around with cups in hand were lecturers, upperclassmen, and well-dressed socialites.

Richard stood in the corner, holding a cup of red tea, trying to blend himself into the wallpaper.

He genuinely dislikes these kinds of social occasions.

But less than three minutes after he stood there, Isabella walked straight toward him from the other end of the crowd.

"Come with me."

She began to greet Richard as she passed by.

"Tea breaks are social occasions; you can't just sit in a corner, finish your tea, and run away."

My aunt walked slowly, just enough for Richard to keep up.

"You and Montagu are the only two preparatory students to advance to the finals during the debate week."

At least three people here today want to talk to you; if you avoid them, it's like slapping them in the face.

Which three?

Isabella nodded very lightly to the left front with her chin.

"The guy in the gray suit by the fireplace is a director of the Imperial University Alumni Foundation."

He has two nephews who applied for preparatory courses this year but didn't get in. You can talk to him about anything, just don't mention preparatory course admissions.

She veered slightly to the right.

"The one with the dark green tie is the vice-principal of the Royal Academy."

He has old ties with the Montague family, so just be polite and courteous, but don't say too much or too little.

"How much is appropriate?"

"Four round trips."

Richard silently complained to himself, "Four rounds, it's like doing positional exercises."

"The third person will come to you on his own."

Isabella brought the rim of the cup to her lips.

"Don't panic when the time comes."

"Who is it?"

My aunt didn't answer; she had already been stopped by a middle-aged female scholar who was walking over with a cup in her hand.

But even though my aunt is gone, I still have my senior from school.

Clara appeared on Richard's right at some point.

"My mentor asked me to show you around."

"How do I turn it?" Richard asked, trying to learn.

"Just follow me." Clara held her teacup, her pace almost as slow as a stroll.

"You can't walk fast during the tea break, or it'll look like you're rushing to a market."

She led Richard around the snack table on the south wall and walked along the edge of the crowd for most of the way.

Clara would whisper an introduction to each person she passed by, close to Richard's ear.

"From the Faculty of Arts."

"The Hermann family's."

"...Oh, he's not important."

As Richard approached the fireplace, the director in the gray suit extended his hand to him.

"Mr. Williams? He performed exceptionally well during Debate Week."

"Thank you." Richard shook his hand, with just the right amount of pressure.

"You're in the Classics Department? I have two nephews who are also very interested in Classics."

Richard recalled his aunt's words of advice and answered them smoothly.

"There are many avenues for classical studies. Most secondary schools across the country offer Latin courses. If you build a solid foundation, you'll have many options in the future."

He steered the conversation toward secondary education, and the other person indeed followed up with a few words about the current state of education.

Four round trips.

As the fourth sentence was finished, Richard saw someone else walking towards the council in the distance, so he naturally bowed and took his leave.

Clara remained silent the entire time, only speaking after they had walked a distance away.

"good."

Hearing "it's alright" from Clara's perspective is roughly equivalent to someone else saying "it's great."

The vice president with the dark green tie is a bit more difficult to deal with than the board members.

He asked two tricky questions about the debate topics for Debate Week, as if he were testing me.

Richard answered steadily and confidently. The vice president smiled, nodded at him, and turned to go elsewhere.

"You might run into this person again in the future," Clara added from the side.

"I've got it."

Clara led him around a little more and stopped in front of a row of chairs against the east wall.

"Sit here, the third person is coming soon."

Before Richard could ask who it was, a voice came from behind him.

"Williams".

Richard turned around.

Sir John Muller stood three steps away.

The chief judge of the Debate Week, a great expert, and one of the most brilliant minds in the Imperial academic world.

"Sir." Richard bowed slightly.

Sir John Müller sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Your opposing view on that 'wartime lie' was quite good."

"Thank you, Sir."

The old man, holding his cup, said, "Among the preparatory students, you're the first one I can recall who can create a backlash form."

Richard didn't respond, waiting for the other person to continue.

Sir John Muller placed his teacup on the small round table beside him.

"You know why you lost to Thorpe."

"There isn't enough ether."

"Hmm." The old man stood up and said this before leaving.

"Reread Chapter Seven of 'On the Weight of Judgments,' that chapter is about what you're lacking."

he's gone.

Clara emerged from behind the stone pillar beside her, a smile playing on her lips.

"The coach was watching you the whole time the jazz was talking to you."

Richard glanced back at the other end of the crowd.

Isabella looked past the shoulders of those around her and at her nephew, a smile playing at the corners of her eyes.

Then he turned his head away and resumed his fake smile.

………………

St. Bridge Girls' College.

Grey sat by the window in the common room, holding a letter in her hand.

The letter was sent by my mother, and it mostly talked about how the price of spices in the capital had gone up again.

The letter ended with the sentence: "Just keep Richard's affairs in mind."

She folded the letter and stuffed it into her skirt pocket, and then three people surrounded her from behind.

The leader was Cunningham, who was the most popular student in the class.

She has blonde hair and wears a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose that she doesn't actually need.

"Grey." Cunningham pulled a chair over and sat down next to her.

"You went during Debate Week, right?"

"I went, it was organized by the class." Grey turned a page of the cookbook in her hand.

"Mmm-hmm." Cunningham rested his arms on the back of the chair. "And then?"

"And then what?"

"And then you left with that Mr. Williams from Imperial University."

Grey stopped when she turned to the page for "Honey Shortbread" in the recipe.

"You saw it?"

"The whole class saw it." Martha, who had followed behind, leaned closer.

"Your braid was shaking when you stood there waiting for him."

"You've misread it." Grey turned the page.

"Did we mistakenly see the part where you two walked together?"

The third girl was named Heidi.

She peeked half her face out from behind Cunningham's shoulder.

"He stood under the streetlight for quite a while. What did he say?"

Grey looked up, her blue eyes practically overflowing with impatience.

"It mentioned the contestants for Debate Week."

"That's all?"

That's all.

The three people looked at each other in bewilderment.

Cunningham was the first to come to her senses; she pushed the decorative glasses up her nose.

"Grey, Grey..." she drawled.

"Second place in the Cicero Cup, top student in the Imperial University preparatory program, one of only two preparatory students to make it to the finals during Debate Week."

She counted on her fingers for a long time.

"I heard that there are Ashford relatives in the family."

She clenched her five fingers together.

"What exactly is your relationship with him?"

Grey closed the cookbook, slamming it shut so hard that the spine made a dull thud.

"Old classmate."

"Ha." Heidi laughed teasingly.

"An old classmate can make you start researching which restaurant near Beijing University is the best a week in advance?"

Grey's face flushed red.

Last week, when she was flipping through booklets in her dorm room, Heidi happened to pass by her door.

"I looked up restaurants because I wanted to eat Beijing cuisine."

"In your cookbook..." Cunningham pointed to the book in her hand, "which page has 'Beijing cuisine' on it?"

Grey stuffed the recipe into her skirt pocket and stood up.

"I'm going to the classroom."

"Don't go!" Martha tugged at her sleeve. "We're just curious."

"What are you curious about?"

"I'm curious how you managed to snag all the good ones in advance."

Heidi's words were tinged with sarcasm.

The students of St. Bridge all knew that the flower arranging, piano playing, and tea ceremony etiquette taught at the school were ultimately teaching them how to get married.

Marrying well is a skill.

Marrying a middle-aged, wealthy businessman with a large belly, or a son of a high-ranking official with several mistresses, is probably the most realistic outcome for most of them.

Grey appears to have established a relationship with a nearly flawless young man at a fairly early stage.

This inevitably made them feel bitter.

Grey stood there, surrounded by three people, her heart filled with a mixture of frustration and pride.

What's annoying is that these people are staring at her private affairs like they're staring at honey in a jar, wishing they could reach in and dip a finger in to taste it.

She didn't want to admit the part she was proud of.

That day they walked past the fountain together, and she asked Richard to read the Latin inscription on it, which he did.

When the boy's voice drifted through the autumn air, she felt her heart was about to jump out of her chest.

How can I explain this to Cunningham and the others?

Grey pulled her sleeve out of Martha's hand.

"He had good grades in high school, so it's normal for him to be this outstanding now."

"and you……"

"No, that's not you." Grey's tone hardened.

She walked away without looking back.

After walking to the corner of the corridor and making sure no one was following her, she leaned against the wall and let out a long sigh of relief.

My hand slipped into my skirt pocket and touched the corner of my mother's letter.

I know what I'm doing.

But she herself didn't know what that number actually was.

………………

At the seventh house on the east end of Slag Lane, Rogers sat at the dining table, flipping through today's "Beijing Morning Post".

The front page was a full page of war.

The artillery fire of Ypres, a blurry, blackened photograph.

Below is a recruitment poster, depicting a young man with his chest puffed out and the words "Serve the country".

Rogers turned to the second edition.

On the second page, half a page was dedicated to another report.

"With the nation in peril, young people at the highest institutions of learning are still debating whether to call someone a hero or a victim."

Rogers' gaze fell on a large group photo at the bottom of the report.

That was a group photo of the contestants and judges after the debate week ended.

Dozens of people were crowded together on the stone steps of the Iliad building.

Rogers squinted and searched one by one.

"Evelyn," he called out.

"They're here!"

Evelyn, wearing her checkered apron, ran out of the kitchen, her hands still covered in flour.

"What's wrong, Dad?"

"You have a sharp eye." Rogers pushed the newspaper over and pointed to the group photo.

"Can you help me find your brother?"

Evelyn leaned closer, her nose almost touching the newspaper.

She searched very carefully, looking at each row one by one.

"...Found it!"

Her finger poked at a tiny figure in the group photo.

That person was standing in the third row, near the edge, and was of medium to tall height.

Her face was only the size of a grain of rice, and her features were so blurred that they were hard to see.

Evelyn recognized her at a glance.

"That's him!"

"How did you recognize me?"

"The way he's standing!" Evelyn said with certainty.

"When my brother stands, his shoulders are always straight, unlike others."

Rogers leaned over to take a look.

That tiny human figure, no bigger than a grain of rice, certainly had well-proportioned shoulders.

"He's standing way back," he muttered. "Next time, make him stand a little further forward."

Margaret came downstairs.

"What are you looking at so early in the morning?"

"Your son," Rogers said, handing him the newspaper. "He's in the paper."

Margaret took the newspaper.

The figure was so small that it was almost squeezed out by the people around it.

But that was her son.

"...It actually made it into the Beijing Morning Post."

Evelyn had already snatched the newspaper back.

"I have to cut this out!" she said quickly, "to stick it on our living room wall!"

"Don't cut it," Margaret stopped her. "Keep it for your brother to see when he comes back."

"Then I'll buy a few more!" Evelyn had already taken off her apron.

"I want to buy ten copies of today's *Beijing Morning Post*!"

"Why buy so much?"

"Give them away!" Evelyn said matter-of-factly, "Give them to Mrs. Weir, or to the school teachers!"

As she spoke, she had already left the house.

On the other side, in Greenwood's teachers' lounge.

Mr. Holland also spread the copy of the "Capital Morning Post" on the table.

"Ms. Grant," he called to the side, "look, look at this."

Ms. Grant walked over and looked at the group photo.

Which one is Richard?

"This one," Mr. Holland said, pointing to the tiny, rice-grain-sized human figure, "the third row, on the side."

Ms. Grant leaned closer to take a look.

"So small."

"What's wrong with Xiao?" Mr. Holland pushed the newspaper in front of her: "Xiao is also in the 'Capital Morning Post'."

"In all these years at Greenwood, which student has ever been featured in a major newspaper in the capital?"

Mr. West sat in the corner with his arms crossed.

"What place?" he asked abruptly.

"First in the preparatory group," Mr. Holland replied.

"The report said that he was also singled out by the head judge."

Mr. Hutton sat in his office, with today's newspaper beside him.

When the old man read the line "Should he be called a hero or a wronged soul?", he stopped stroking his pipe.

He searched for a long time among the densely packed portraits before finally finding the tiny figure standing on the edge of the third row.

Mr. Hutton stared at the figure for a long time.

"Hero or wronged soul?"

He muttered something under his breath.

"This kid has been born in a year when this kind of question should never have existed."

He closed the newspaper and put it back on the corner of the table.

In October 1914, the flames of war were still burning across the sea.