I loaded the Mysticism panel.

As evening fell, Richard opened the door to his house.

The smell of burnt cotton from the heated iron, mixed with the scent of mothballs, wafted down from the direction of the upstairs bedroom.

He put down his schoolbag and went upstairs.

The master bedroom door was ajar, and the mother was standing by the bed.

A complete set of clothes was spread out on the bed: a dark gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a women's blazer.

The three-piece suit belonged to my father; the fabric was fine-textured tweed, with a corner of the lining peeking out, its sheen soft.

The iron rested on the stone mat on the bedside table, its heat still rising.

The mother was bending over, pressing down a crease on the collar of her coat with her palm.

Its corners are embroidered with tiny letter abbreviations, the lettering of which has faded.

My mother kept this outfit at the bottom of her trunk, only taking it out when she needed to go back to her parents' home.

"mom."

The mother looked up and withdrew her hand from her collar.

"You're back? I've kept some soup and bread warm on the stove for you."

"Um."

There was a pair of gloves next to her mother's coat.

The gloves were old, worn thin at the fingertips, but were wiped very clean.

"I've also packed your and your sister's clothes." The mother turned around, opened the wardrobe, and took out two sets of clothes.

Richard's outfit consisted of a dark blue suit jacket paired with gray trousers, with a rather formal cut.

He picked it up and compared it to himself; the sleeve was about an inch too short.

"You've grown taller recently." His mother came over and pinched his shoulder.

"If I adjust the cuffs a bit, it should be enough."

She took a ruler and thread from the sewing basket and told Richard to put on his coat.

Stand up straight.

Richard stood up straight, and his mother squatted down to measure the position of the cuff with a ruler.

Her movements were very skilled; she held the safety pin between her lips, measured it, took it out of her mouth, and then stuck it into the fabric to secure it.

"mom."

"Um?"

"Once we get there... is there anything I should be careful about?"

The mother paused, the safety pin piercing the cuff at a slightly off angle.

She straightened the safety pin with her thumb before speaking:

"Just answer truthfully whatever your maternal grandfather asks you. Don't say anything more or look around."

She fastened the last safety pin, stood up, and rubbed her knees.

"If Vincent strikes up a conversation with you..." She hesitated for a moment, "just respond politely."

Richard took off his coat and handed it to his mother, who took it and draped it over her arm.

"Thank you, Mom."

The mother hummed in agreement, then turned and hung the clothes in the closet.

The sound of Evelyn and her father talking could be heard downstairs. The content was unclear, but her father's voice was lower than usual.

The family of four is preparing for the same thing, but their preparations are in different directions:

The father was preparing his dignity, the mother was preparing her armor, the sister was preparing her eyesight, and he was preparing his brain.

During the few days of preparation, Evelyn became much quieter.

She didn't press Richard about what he did at night, nor did she bring up any more inferences about "gangs" or "sugar daddies."

Even the frequency of his usual eye-rolling decreased, which instead created a subtle tacit understanding between him and Richard.

On Saturday morning, Richard sat at the dining table flipping through an ancient script reference book he had borrowed from the library.

He deliberately chose this book with a normal cover, "A Collection of Inscriptions on Metal and Stone from the Western Continent," which was thicker than a brick and could cover most of a plate when spread out on the dining table.

The mother came out of the kitchen carrying a plate and glanced around.

"Richard, did you stay up very late again last night?"

She saw the dark circles under her son's eyes.

The combination of continuous high-intensity daytime training and intensive nighttime study reduced sleep time to five or six hours.

Although breaking through the first milestone in breathing techniques prevented him from dozing off during the day, his facial features couldn't fool his mother.

Before he could speak, Evelyn peeked out from around the corner of the stairs.

"He's reviewing Latin; the Cicero Cup is almost here."

The girl was wearing a nightgown, and her braids were half-undone and draped over her shoulders.

Because he had a hairband in his mouth, his voice was muffled.

But they successfully changed the subject.

Margaret glanced at her daughter and went over to help her braid her hair.

When she returned to the kitchen, Evelyn slipped on her slippers and sat down at the dining table.

"Don't overthink it, I just don't want to hear Mom nagging you."

She pulled a slice of bread from the basket, spreading marmalade on it while muttering to herself:

"You need to rest properly... If you work yourself to the point of collapsing in the capital, you'll embarrass your whole family."

"Won't."

"You'd better not."

………………

Monday afternoon was his last tutoring session before leaving for Beijing; tomorrow he would be going to the train station with his family.

Mr. Holland did not make any noise today.

He moved a chair to the side of the podium, less than two steps away from where Richard was standing.

"No simulations today."

He placed the teacup on the windowsill.

"Your pronunciation, rhetorical comprehension, and typhoon control are all up to par. I've basically taught you everything I can."

He took a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him: "The results of the last meeting."

Richard took it and unfolded it.

The paper contained a handwritten list of several names, each with their school and grade indicated next to them.

"These are some of the more outstanding participants this year. I got them from the Classical Society through someone."

Mr. Holland wiped his mouth:

"They all had private tutors who provided one-on-one guidance from a young age, and they attended top public schools in Beijing."

"Your basic level is already sufficient, but compared to those in the capital who received elite education from a young age, there is still a gap in your foundation."

He put the teacup back on the windowsill and turned to face Richard.

"But the Cicero Cup quarter-finalists' performance during typhoons and on-site interactions, their state of mind when they go on stage—whether it's genuine or just mechanical recitation—can't be hidden."

He patted Richard on the shoulder:

"The judges don't look at how well you've memorized it; they look at whether you truly understand what Cicero is saying on stage and then present it in your own way."

He walked back to his chair and sat down.

"Let me tell you a little story from history one last time."

"In fact, when Cicero vehemently criticized Catiline, most of the people in the Senate were his political enemies."

He had no army or assassins to help him; he relied solely on his own words, turning each word into a nail, driving them one by one into everyone's ears.

"Catiline eventually ran away; he was driven out by the voice of such an eloquent speaker."

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair:

"You are standing on the pulpit of the Chapel of St. Augustine, and many of the people sitting below are noble children and well-known professors."

"Most of them don't think a student from Briston could get a ranking."

"But I think you can prove them wrong."

Richard folded the list and put it in his pocket: "I will."