I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

The business card was made of thick cardstock. Its corners weren’t gilded, and it had no ornate patterns—only the most minimalist layout.

The front was printed with a single line of text: Isabella Ashford, Associate Professor, Classics Department, Imperial University.

Below that were the mailing address and phone number for the department office.

The card was set on the low table and pushed in front of Richard.

”You’ve already been added to the Classical Society’s recommendation list.”

”Being on the list means a few things. The wealthy families of the Imperial Capital hire private tutors from this list.

The pay for a one-hour session is equal to an ordinary worker’s full day of wages. Your teacher should have told you about that.”

”Additionally, those on the list are eligible to audit academic lectures held by the Classical Society and can also apply to use parts of the Imperial University Library’s collection.”

”The collection at the Imperial University Library...” Richard was most interested in that.

The Imperial University Library was countless times larger than Greenwood’s three-story red brick building. ’Would it also have a row of shelves with no classification labels?’

Isabella seemed to read his expression.

She didn’t directly address the unspoken question, instead approaching it from another angle.

”But I must remind you of something.”

”You placed in the Cicero Cup, so you probably think that was a pretty big deal.”

Richard didn’t respond, waiting for her to continue.

”To tell you the truth, in the evaluation system of our circle, the Cicero Cup is considered nothing more than an appetizer for the preliminary selections.”

”Every autumn, the Classical Society holds this event. They pick a few dozen middle school students with a foundation in Latin to compete. What they’re filtering for is raw ore.

Whether that ore can be refined into something useful... well, there’s still a long road ahead.”

A professor holding a teacup walked to the other side of the window and began chatting with the father of another contestant.

Her fingers casually brushed the silver chain around her neck.

Richard distinctly felt an extremely thin layer emanate from Isabella. It descended around the corner where they sat, partitioning the world three steps away as if it were another room.

The buzz of the tea party was still there, but it sounded as if it were on the other side of a cotton wall.

He could even see the professor’s mouth moving, but the sound was reduced to a faint drone.

Conversely, any conversation between him and Isabella probably couldn’t pass through this curtain.

Isabella’s expression didn’t change; it was as if she had only scratched her neck.

She got down to business:

”The High-level Academies each have their own academic speech traditions. Dozens of these academies regularly co-host a much larger-scale ’Debate Week’ that lasts for seven full days.”

She drew a circle on the low table with her finger, illustrating the ring-like formation of the academies.

”The contestants in the Cicero Cup are middle school students, and the judges are members of the Classical Society.

The contestants in Debate Week are the top undergraduate and graduate students from each academy. The judges’ panel is filled with tenured professors and leaders in their fields. Occasionally, people from the government will also be in attendance to observe.”

She smiled.

”You can think of the Cicero Cup as a village threshing-floor competition. Debate Week is the arena in the provincial capital. The venue is bigger, the rules are stricter, and the audience’s eyes are sharper.”

Richard sorted and filed this information away in his mind.

His prior knowledge of the Cicero Cup, gleaned from Mr. Holland, was limited to the prize money and the recommendation list. He had no concept of its place in the overall academic evaluation system.

Now he did. It was an entry-level screening, and nothing more.

”So if I wanted to take the academic path in the future...” he asked tentatively, trailing off.

Isabella nodded, seemingly pleased that he had made the connection himself.

”The path of a Scholar has several distinct hurdles as you advance.”

Her gaze grew serious.

”The first hurdle is matriculation: getting into a proper High-level Academy to obtain a basic academic identity.

The recommendation list and your results in the Cicero Cup can help you knock on that door, but that’s all. Whether you can actually test in is up to you.”

”The second hurdle is to establish yourself within the academy. Debate Week isn’t just a competition; it’s also a showcase.

What you say on stage, how you say it, how you respond to tricky questions... there are more people watching from offstage than you imagine, and they’re looking for things deeper than you think.”

Her right index finger gently rubbed the links of the fine silver chain.

”Those who perform exceptionally well in the major speech competitions will be noticed.”

”Noticed by whom?”

Isabella didn’t answer directly.

She picked up her now-cool red tea, took a sip, and swallowed it slowly before speaking.

”Have you ever wondered why the academic system places so much importance on public speaking?

Latin rhetoric, impromptu debate, constructing an argument under a time limit... these skills are actually of rather limited use in day-to-day academic research.

A scholar can do their research behind closed doors, quietly poring over documents and writing papers. They don’t need to stand before hundreds or thousands of people and declaim passionately.”

She set down her teacup, her gaze falling toward the chapel’s main hall.

Through the open doors of the side hall, one could see the tall stone pillars and stained-glass windows of the main hall.

”But a Scholar can’t stay locked in their study forever.”

”At a certain stage, you need to speak to the outside world on behalf of your discipline, your academy, and even the larger system behind you.”

She emphasized those last few words.

”At that point, you are no longer just a researcher.

You are a Speaker, someone who transmits information to the outside world on behalf of a vast intellectual tradition.”

Richard’s heart skipped a beat.

The word ”Speaker” collided with another set of information in his mind.

In the Tier sequence he had read about, every transition above Practitioner required the completion of a ritual.

The essence of the ritual was an ”Announcement to the Curtain.”

Announcement, oath, oration.

’If the conditions for a Scholar’s Tier Transition are related to ”Announcement,” then public speaking ability is no longer just a competitive chip in the academic arena.’

’It might be directly related to how far one can go in the larger system behind the Curtain.’

Isabella didn’t explicitly state this connection. Perhaps she was waiting for him to figure it out himself, or perhaps she had intentionally stopped there.

”And after becoming a Speaker?” Richard asked.

Isabella nodded.

”The benefits are many. As for what they are specifically, it’s too early to say.

You haven’t even crossed the first threshold. Knowing too much would only be a burden.”

”I’ll tell you just one thing.”

”In our field, every Tier Transition requires the Cultivator to announce themselves.

The Announcement takes different forms. Hunters announce themselves with blood and blade; Secretive Ones, with formations and sigils.”

Her index finger tapped lightly on the low tabletop.

”What do you think a Scholar uses for their Announcement?”

’With words. Words forged from knowledge, tempered by a thousand trials—words capable of bearing true weight.’

As the answer surfaced in his mind, Richard suddenly understood why the Classical Society began screening for talented speakers as early as middle school.

The Cicero Cup was the first link in a very long chain.

From filtering the raw ore, to polishing and refining it, and finally forging someone who could stand above the Curtain and ”speak” into the depths on behalf of an entire tradition.