I loaded the Mysticism panel.

"Clara had a follow-up appointment last Wednesday," Isabella said.

She pulled a form from the drawer and spread it out next to the declaration form.

The doctor's handwriting was particularly messy: the hearing threshold of the left ear has returned to normal, no traces of ether burns in the lungs are visible, there is no blockage in the trachea, and no idling.

The bottom column contains only one sentence: No restrictions on rank jumps were found.

Isabella, who had already reached the level of a minor proficiency expert, began to explain in detail the ritual requirements for advancing to the level of a minor proficiency expert.

"I'll read them out one by one. Richard and Sofia, you two listen carefully, you'll definitely need them later."

She was equally confident that Sofia and her nephew would both advance to junior proficiency.

"First, the object bearing the oath must undergo three transformations to qualify as a symbol of the oath."

Sofia raised her hand.

"Mentor, why three times?"

"The first time is recognizing the Lord, the second time is aligning with Him."

The direction you go determines the direction it will transform in.

A hidden growth vessel, a hunter's growth weapon, a scholar's...

She made a vague gesture in the air: "Transform into something recorded."

Richard thought of his Sphinx camera, which was indeed convenient for him to record things.

"The third transformation is the foundation for advancing to a minor mastery level."

Isabella continued her narration:

"At the moment of taking the oath, you must infuse a wisp of your own spirit into it."

"In addition, applicants must have already acquired the necessary skills, that is, their skills must be at a level that allows them to support themselves in their profession."

"What does 'being able to be independent' mean?" Sophia asked.

"It means that your skills have reached the point where you can stand on your own and your peers, even if they don't know you, will be influenced by what you do."

Clara touched the scar on her ear.

"It's not over yet. The etheric circuit must achieve a single deep resonance. Please attach your medical records from the past three years."

"The venue must be designated by the college, and the curtain penetration must be sufficient and controllable."

"Applicants must write a declaration, attaching both a first draft and a final draft, and submit it to the department meeting for record-keeping."

:

"One guard, who must be at least a minor expert; two witnesses; and one recorder."

Isabella finished reading and pushed the paper closer.

"Hunters swear an oath in blood, and secretives stand in formation."

"We scholars stand on the foundation of words."

The red pen cap was unscrewed, and the pen tip hovered above the column for the applicant.

"Clara, come here and sign this."

Clara stepped forward and took the pen, a pen she had held for half a year, having corrected countless papers for her tutor.

But holding it in her hand now, she felt it was a little too heavy.

She signed her name:

"Applicant for promotion: Clara Farfield"

"Signature: A brass tuning fork."

Richard came closer, and Clara didn't shy away, letting him look as he pleased.

Speaking of which, he did countless homework assignments with his senior classmate that year.

I know that her academic foundation and ether are among the best in her age group, and I also know that she is afraid of the cold and has a pink scar behind her left ear.

However, he never knew what his senior's signature item was.

Isabella reached out and took the pen back, writing her name in the Guardian column.

"There are two witnesses; I'll ask the professor for them tomorrow."

Then my aunt moved the pen down to the recorder's column and wrote: Richard Williams.

Richard was somewhat surprised: "Auntie, shouldn't the recorder be a graduate student? It's the department's rule..."

"The rules only state that the person being promoted should be a scholar or colleague they trust the most."

Isabella put the pen back in its slot.

"There was no specific rule about who it was. In the past, the vast majority of record keepers were the students who were closest to the promoted students. And those who were able to get to that level were basically graduate students."

She glanced at Clara beside her.

"She came to see me last Thursday and said one sentence while standing at the door."

Sofia lifted her head from her knees.

:

"What are you saying?"

Richard turned his head and saw Clara standing to the side of the writing desk, her expression unchanged.

"I said... I want Richard to be in the industry and keeping an eye on things."

Someone was blowing a whistle on the playground outside the window—one long and two short whistles—it was the freshmen forming ranks.

The number of male students enrolled this year was nearly half that of last year, and the remaining students lined up sparsely, though the whistles were blown louder than in previous years.

"Because you'll have to come to this point sooner or later."

Clara deliberately spoke in a formal, almost identical manner to when she tutored Richard.

I don't know if you've read about promotions for junior proficiency in books, but what you read in books is definitely not as good as experiencing it firsthand.

"By taking notes, you'll at least know what to do next when you stand up there yourself in the future."

Sofia lifted her face from her knees by the window, feeling like the only outsider in the room.

The only official website address for this novel is: ".". The website owner has only this one website, and other websites may be discontinued at any time.

"...And what about me?"

"You're standing next to Richard. You took notes in Mons last year, so you're familiar with that."

Clara encouraged her, saying, "Sophia, you'll have to get to this point sooner or later."

Isabella twirled the red pen halfway around and added another line at the bottom of the list.

Collaboration: Sofia Hardy

Clara whispered, "Richard, you still need to go for a physical exam."

"Yes," my aunt nodded.

"The recorder has to stand inside the circle until the last sentence is read out; the ether density inside the circle is several times that outside."

There is only one column left in the application form.

That section was printed at the very bottom of the page, in a smaller font size than elsewhere, followed by a parenthesis.

Pre-select traditional (optional)

"You can keep this column," Isabella's tone suddenly softened.

"If you fill in the road, it'll be locked up. You're only twenty-four this year, you still have a long way to go..."

Clara reached out and took the pen, writing down the classics and traditions without even thinking.

:

Isabella sat behind her writing desk and sighed:

"...You can choose Star Map. Star Map is currently in dire need of personnel, especially in the military."

"Classical texts are not popular during wartime; the front lines don't need people who can only read books."

"I know," Clara said with certainty.

"You don't know," Isabella realized her student had acted impulsively.

"You think being unpopular means sitting on the sidelines for years and not getting a teaching position."

No, you have to apply for funding yourself and explain to laypeople what you're researching.

I've explained it countless times, but every time I only get halfway through before they start checking their watch...

"But you led me down this path, and if I don't follow in your footsteps, then..."

Clara interrupted her tutor's long-winded speech, turned the pen around, and handed it back with both hands.

Isabella reached out to catch it but missed; the red pen slipped from between their fingers and rolled to the ground.

Clara was about to crouch down to pick it up when Isabella raised her hand to stop her.

"I'll do it myself."

That afternoon, the document was not altered again and was put into a brown paper bag and sealed.

After the event ended, the group walked to the corner of the corridor, where Isabella stopped and turned around.

"Clara, have Richard go to your place tomorrow to take a look at that tuning fork."

Before that, Richard needs to undergo a medical examination.

He noticed that the other person remained silent for a long time after reading the test report, so he took the initiative to ask.

"Doctor, is there a problem?"

The doctor scanned through each column on the form.

"You have more Ethereum reserves than most practitioners."

Richard was about to explain that the other party definitely couldn't detect the [Spiritual Appearance], but even without the [Spiritual Appearance], his circuits could hold more ether than those of the same rank.

The doctor raised his hand to stop him: "It's normal for people in our line of work to have some minor abnormalities."

Besides, you only have good qualities, so you don't need to explain to me.

"It's about the purity of the ether on your body... I'm not sure how to judge that."

:

The doctor adjusted his glasses and looked at him with a surprised expression.

"Among the files I've handled, there are over 700 cases of practitioners, with over 50 being minor experts and four being major experts."

"Everyone's ether is singular, and our solar tradition has that warm, cozy smell of a blanket after it has been aired out in the sun."

Hunting the moon is like holding a knife to your nose, reading classic texts is like smelling ink and paper, and the hearth fire is like being covered in smoke and flames.

Even with my eyes covered, I can tell which road someone is walking down just by their scent.

"I can't tell the difference between these."

The doctor picked up the form.

"I need to take it to the department office and let the professors take a look."

While waiting for the final results of his physical examination, Richard went to Clara's house.

The Farfield family lived in an affluent area on the west side of the city. He rang the doorbell, and his senior classmate answered the door.

Clara was wearing a beige knitted sweater that was clearly too small for her, with the sleeves covering her fingers.

"What are you looking at?"

"...It's nothing."

"This sweater belongs to my mother; she's taller than me."

She stepped aside to let the door open: "Come in, no need to take off your shoes."

Richard entered the room with his head down. The room was more spacious than he had expected, and the decoration was quite exquisite.

A cello case stands against the wall in the living room, next to a music stand.

It seems the Fafield family is indeed quite wealthy.

Come to think of it, even without considering the compensation for the deceased parents, the senior student has a cousin who is a skilled craftsman, and craftsmen are adept at making money.

The windowsill was wiped very clean, and there was a coffee smell wafting from the kitchen.

"The maid comes several times a week, but I didn't let her come today."

Clara brought over the coffee.

Richard's gaze fell on the other side, where seven or eight black and white photos were held down with thumbtacks.

The top picture shows a three- or four-year-old girl being placed into an open cello case, her eyes wide open.

In the next picture, the little girl is a bit older, holding a tuning fork in both hands and raising it to her ears.

:

Her eyes were closed, her lips were pursed, and she looked as if the whole world had to be quiet.

The couple next to them were holding their musical instruments, their eyes beaming with smiles.

This family used to be very happy. The three of them shared common interests and were well-off. Unfortunately… Richard looked on, lost in thought.

Clara came over, took the paper off the thumbtack, turned it over, and handed it to him.

There is a line of pencil writing on the back: Seven-year-old Clara.

"Written by my father."

Next is a group photo backstage at the orchestra, with people packed together. She was squeezed into the far end of the second row, with only half of her face showing.

The last one Richard saw was positioned slightly higher than the others.

The girl in the photo is thirteen or fourteen years old, taking a photo with her parents at the gate of Imperial University.

The box beside her was wider than a person, and her expression was serious as if she were about to go to the front line.

Richard couldn't help but chuckle.

Clara stretched out her hand and flipped the page over.

"I didn't say anything." Richard raised his hand.

"You smiled." Clara pretended to be angry and removed all the photos from the back.

Richard felt a little disappointed. He sat down on the sofa and found a neatly folded blanket next to him and a small, unopened jar of candy on the table.

Clara followed his gaze and explained.

Sofia stayed at my house for a few days last month.

Richard looked at the photos that had been put away and suddenly realized that he had never heard Sophia talk about her family.

Moreover, during long holidays, everyone else goes home, but Sofia is still in the building, and then her aunt drags her to Ashford's house for a free meal.

Clara could probably tell what Richard was thinking, but she didn't say anything, she just waved to him.

"The things are in my room, come in with me for a moment."

The senior's room was similar to her aunt's dormitory, with bookshelves full of sheet music and rubbings.

The room only smelled of paper and ink; there was no sign of daily life.

Clara took the box out of the drawer, and the two returned to the living room.

She placed the wooden box in the center of the tablecloth, lifted the lid, and there it was—the brass tuning fork from the photo.

:

There was a dent around the handle, which was probably from being handled countless times and rubbed by someone's palm.

"This is the St. Albans Cathedral from 1763, with tuning forks used by the choir."

Clara explained, "This tuning fork was given to my father the year the band's lead singer retired."

"Before the chief says to begin, you give this sound."

"Later they switched to working on the mystical side, and the band only knew that they had resigned."

"This tuning fork was among their belongings from their last field mission."

Richard opened his mouth, but his usual silver tongue completely failed him at this moment.

"Actually, I was just like you back then; I wanted to sign my name when I was seventeen."

Clara's eyes showed a hint of nostalgia: "My mentor forbade it. She said: If you take it now, you're taking a relic."

"She told me to wait."

"What are you waiting for?"

Clara looked up.

"Once I find out what I want to do with it."

Richard looked at her: "Senior, do you know now?"

Clara picked up the tuning fork from the tablecloth and held it between the two of them.

"understood."

"A tuning fork provides a standard pitch so you know that everything else is out of tune."

"The front lines don't need students right now, and the department is also downsizing."

"But someone always gives that sound before it even begins."

"Otherwise, if dozens of people walk together and only realize halfway through that they're all singing off-key, it will be too late."

She gripped the handle and tapped it against the edge of the table.

The sound came out, neither too high nor too low, neither too bright nor too muffled.

It was hanging in the room. Richard thought it had stopped, but when he leaned closer to listen, he found it was still ringing.

At that moment, the still water reflected the tuning fork, and the contents of it made his eyes widen.

There are no etheric layers in this tuning fork; its cleanliness is almost unsettling.

:

This signed item is as pure as its owner, consistent inside and out.

………………

In the morning, on the notice board at the entrance of the department office:

Announcement regarding this year's Debate Week:

This year's Debate Week is scheduled to open on October 8 and last for seven days, and will still be divided into three groups: preparatory, undergraduate, and postgraduate.

Given the current situation, this year's debate topics will focus primarily on wartime issues, while also incorporating classical ones.

Additionally: Following a joint consultation between the Academic Committee and the Departmental Council, starting this year, the score for the "Declaration" section of the Debate Week for all applicants seeking promotion to Junior Proficiency level can be used as empirical reference for the second "Pathway" and reported to the Departmental Council for record.

Richard stood in front of the notice, paying particular attention to the last supplementary paragraph.

"You saw it?"

Pendleton came down the corridor carrying a stack of files.

"Was this a new addition this year?"

"The newly added one was argued about for an hour and a half at the joint meeting last Thursday."

"What's all the noise about?"

"Does arguing with a student on stage count as evidence?"

He stuck the paste brush into the bucket.

"In the end, it was Sir John Müller (the great scholar and the head judge of the previous debate week) who made the final decision."

"What did he say?"

Pendleton cleared his throat and mimicked that serious tone.

"It's not good when students are locked in their studies. When they write in their own rooms, they write what they want to believe."

"Only by standing in front of a room full of people who don't want to believe you can you hone your true weight."

In the afternoon, Richard helped Pendleton copy the registration form in the department office and took the opportunity to glean some information about the contestants.

When I copied down to the ninth line of the graduate student section, I saw a familiar name: Reginald Thorpe.

This is the graduate student from the School of Political Science and Economics who rejected me last year; my senior, Clara, even helped me get revenge.

"Is he still applying this year?"

"He absolutely has to file this year." Pendleton closed the file.

:

He'll graduate next year; this is his last time.

Richard dipped his brush in ink again.

"Sir, why are the new generation of scholars who aspire to become experts in their fields so interested in this debate week in recent years?"

Pendleton glanced at him and slapped his hand on the edge of the table.

"Mr. Williams, please tell me: what is buried under those two lecterns in the Iliad?"

"A circle of silver thread."

"What's the purpose of that circle of lines?"

"Send every word spoken on stage behind the curtain."

"Oh, right."

Pendleton moved his chair back to make himself more comfortable.

"There are only a handful of places within the Empire where you can open your mouth and speak, and once you've finished speaking, the curtain behind you will rise up."

"A church is fine, but a church only lets you read prepared texts; it won't give you the opportunity to improvise."

"Field work is also an option, even more flexible, but field work can kill people."

"The remaining debate is quite crucial."

He held up one finger.

"There are seven days in a year. If you go up and speak for six minutes and someone pushes you down, you can revise it and go up again the next day."

"Establishing a model, being pushed, and establishing it again in seven days is much better than locking yourself in a room for months. Academic progress comes from exchange."

Richard wrote that sentence down.

"So last year's champion, Instructor Silas..."

Pendleton nodded: "Yes, he is one of the successful ones on this path."

"I was promoted last winter, officially hired this spring, and will be back in the fall to give you a lecture."

"Decades ago, many of the younger generation of scholars who crossed that threshold first honed their skills in the Iliad Building."

"Oh, and yours too."

Richard looked down at that column.

"Undergraduate First Year Group - Participation Eligibility Confirmation"

:

There is a note in the bottom right corner that was copied directly from last year's ranking report.

"A potential spokesperson worth keeping a close eye on."

"You'll submit it this year too," Pendleton said, looking at him. "If you don't, Sir John Muller will come and ask."

Richard picked up the paper.

Last year, I scored above eight points in every single one of those verbal exchanges.

At that time, I had not yet mastered how to use the Hermes mask painlessly, the Sphinx lamp had not undergone its second transformation, and the [Spiritual Appearance] column was 20; now it is 50.

"Okay, I'll sign up."

Room 314, all of Auntie's students are here today.

Sophia was leaning on the table by the window, Price was sitting in the chair by the door, and Thomson was standing in front of the bookshelf with a book in his hand.

Richard glanced at it; it was the fourth edition of "On the Weight of Judgments".

Isabella spread out the registration form and unscrewed the red pen cap.

"Clara, graduate student group."

The red pen has already been used.

"Sophia".

By the window, that pale golden head suddenly lifted up.

"Mentor! I can't do it!"

Sofia sprang up from the table.

"Last year, I was sitting in the audience and my palms were sweating. When I went up there, I couldn't even finish my six-minute opening statement!"

Isabella snorted coldly: "If you're not satisfied, stand there for six minutes and test your courage."

"Then if I go up there, I'll be embarrassing you!"

"I've embarrassed many people because of you."

Price burst out laughing at the door, but was called out halfway through her laugh.

"Price, you're going too."

"…Mentor, I really…"

"Thomson also reported."

:

The young man in front of the bookshelf looked as if a gun had been pointed at his head. His face turned pale: "Professor, I'm only good at remembering page numbers."

"Then you can just read out the page numbers on stage, or phone numbers will do."

This year, everyone in Room 314 participated.

………………

The practice sessions are scheduled for 6 p.m. every day in an unused teaching and research room.

"Sofia is yours."

Isabella assigned tasks.

"Why me?" Richard couldn't understand his aunt's meaning.

"Because as soon as she stood in front of me and began to recite the conjugation table in the third sentence."

My aunt brought up an old debate topic.

"I've been tutoring her since her pre-college days. She trembles when I put on a stern face, but she's definitely not afraid of you."

Having said that, Richard had no choice but to agree, and took the question away, only to be stopped again at the door.

"Oh, right."

"Please speak."

"Don't let her waste her time telling jokes."

Richard soon found out why his aunt had said that.

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

Sofia's debate topic was: During wartime, should scholars suspend all useless research?

"...I drew the affirmative side?"

"You drew the affirmative side."

"You want me to prove that I wasted these past six years?"

"right."

Sofia was prepared to stall for time from the start. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and after wiping, she grabbed her two braids and shook them.

He stood there for about ten seconds before taking a deep breath and stating his argument.

The first minute and a half was alright, after all, he has a master's degree here, which is much better than most people.

:

But in the second minute, she started repeating it.

She stopped completely very quickly.

"...That's all."

"Three minutes and twenty seconds left."

"I know."

"Then continue."

Sofia stood there, her face slowly turning red.

Then she threw her hands up, deciding to give up entirely.

"Then I'll talk about something else."

"...What?"

Do you know Diogenes?

Richard glanced at the time on his watch and, out of respect for his senior, replied.

"The one living in the barrel?"

"right!"

Sofia suddenly came to life, her eyes shining.

Alexander the Great went to see him, stood in front of his barrel, and said: "Whatever you want, I can give you."

"What did he say?"

He said, "Please move aside, you're blocking my sunlight."

"I know that."

"But we won't talk about it in the later lectures."

Sofia chuckled mischievously and whispered in her junior's ear.

"Diogenes, in the marketplace in front of everyone..."

"...doing that kind of thing."

Richard almost dropped his pocket watch.

He resented that his broad knowledge and general understanding allowed him to grasp things so quickly.

:

In Volume Six of "The Sayings and Deeds of Eminent Philosophers," Diogenes Laertius, the founder of Cynicism, advocated that anything that is in accordance with nature should not be done in secret—eating, sleeping, and everything else.

So, right in the middle of the Athenian marketplace, in front of everyone buying vegetables and selling fish, as well as passersby, he used his hands to satisfy that urge.

This passage is not found in any textbooks; that section only states: "The content is unsuitable and has been omitted."

After he finished, he said with a wronged tone: "If only I could fill my stomach just by rubbing it."

"Senior Sophia..."

"I am putting the traditions of classical texts into practice!"

She raised both hands: "Diogenes Laertius wrote it himself; I didn't change a single word!"

"I know, but this is establishing an argument, saying it on a public stage. Do you want the head judge to kick you off the stage?"

"I can't stand up anymore," Sophia said, sticking out her tongue.

For the rest of the time, she talked about how Diogenes carried a lantern around Athens in broad daylight looking for people, and how he shouted to the buyer when he was sold into slavery, "There is someone here who wants to buy a master, who wants him?"

As he finished speaking, the pocket watch had just run out of time, and Richard closed it.

"The timing was quite precise."

"I feel particularly motivated when I talk about this."

When it was Richard's turn, he drew the question, "In wartime, do newspapers have an obligation to tell the truth?"

The entire section was erected in four and a half minutes.

After they finished speaking, the two of them activated their spiritual vision together.

There were no silver threads in the teaching and research office, and what was emerging from the other side of the curtain was very faint.

Despite its simplicity, it still retains a shape; what Richard erected was a tower.

Below is Tacitus, in the middle is Milton's old article on freedom of the press, and at the top is a battle report from July of this year, half of which has been deleted.

Sofia walked halfway around and then raised her hand to press on the tower.

That hand went in.

"……Why?"

She pulled her hand out and pressed it again, but it went in again.

"Richard, this is empty."

"……I know."

:

"You borrowed too much stuff." She wiped her hands on her skirt, looking disgusted.

"Tacitus is Tacitus, and Milton is Milton."

"Your piece, just that thin slice at the very top."

Richard stood there, suddenly wondering whether those who profited from the war were parasites or pillars of the nation.

He won that match, but felt empty inside.

The next day, Sofia drew the question, "Where is the boundary of civilization?"

He got stuck after two minutes and fifty seconds of stating his point, and then started telling jokes to fill the time.

This time she was talking about Pompeii.

Do you know about the graffiti on the walls of Pompeii?

"I've seen the rubbing."

"The student version has been completely deleted," Sofia said through gritted teeth.

"The document in our department's archives is completely blank from item 17 to item 41, with the only explanation being that the content is inappropriate."

"How did you know that?"

"I copied the version that wasn't deleted!"

She cleared her throat.

"One of the rules reads: 'Whoever reads this sentence here has been deceived, because this sentence contains no content.'"

Richard chuckled.

"There's another one written by someone: I came here, I did that thing, I went home."

"...What did you do?"

"I don't know, he didn't write it!" Sophia clapped her hands.

"Two thousand years! Nobody knows what he did! Everyone who reads it thinks they know!"

"There is also a thirty-ninth article."

She lowered her voice again.

"That was a man cursing another man, and the cursing was so vulgar that when the professors in the department translated it, they rendered it as 'That man is of bad character.'"

"Where's the original text?"

:

Sofia leaned close to his ear and read half a sentence in Latin.

Richard choked on the cup of tea he was holding and it went straight into his trachea.

The Romans believed that the one who actively penetrated during sexual intercourse was a "man," while the one who passively received was not.

That was the insult they were referring to.

"...Where did you learn that?!"

"Caturlus's sixteenth poem!" she said with an air of self-righteousness.

"That opening sentence was printed with an ellipsis in your undergraduate textbook!"

"That's because it can't be printed!"

"Why can't it be printed? People wrote it two thousand years ago, and it has been passed down."

Sofia put her hands on her hips: "Tell me, what can be passed down for two thousand years?"

"..."

"The copy will rot, the temple fair will collapse, and the pillars will be moved to pave the road."

She counted on her fingers.

"This sentence has never been broken."

Why?

"Because it's funny."

She said it was only natural, and then she was stunned for a moment after saying it.

Just then, the door was pushed open.

Clara stood at the door holding a stack of rubbings.

She glanced at Sophia, who was laughing so hard she could barely stand, and then at Richard, who was still coughing.

Those deep brown eyes slowly narrowed.

"...What are you practicing?"

"Practice your argument!" Sophia put her hands behind her back.

"I heard it in the hallway."

"What did you hear?"

:

"Caturlus, the Sixteenth Poem"

Sofia froze.

"...You can recite it too?"

"All the graduate students in the department can recite it, but they won't recite it in the teaching and research office."

She closed the door again and left, and two suppressed coughs echoed down the hallway.

Sofia lay down on the table, openly slacking off.

Richard refilled her tea, but halfway through, his senses told him something was amiss.

He activated his spiritual vision and looked behind the curtain.

Upon seeing this, Richard frowned.

: