I Loaded the Occult Panel

He could physically feel the changes from unlocking the eating skill during his very first meal.

Not only could he eat more, but the same plate of food kept him full for much longer.

In the past, he would start feeling weak two hours after eating. Now, his energy lasted right through to noon.

A subtler change surfaced on the third day: he noticed his nails were growing faster.

Faster nail growth meant more efficient keratin synthesis; his protein absorption had genuinely improved.

Previously, more than half the nutrients in his food had gone to waste. Now, his body converted everything he ingested into energy as efficiently as possible.

The improvements from the sleep skill were even more obvious.

On the first night, he fell asleep less than three minutes after lying down.

It used to take him at least ten to fifteen minutes to drift off. His mind would race with random thoughts, and he would shift through seven or eight positions under the covers before finally settling.

Now, falling asleep was almost absurdly smooth. The moment his head hit the pillow, his breathing automatically shifted into a slow-wave rhythm, and his consciousness was softly enveloped.The depth of his sleep had improved as well. For three nights in a row, he slept straight through until dawn.

When he got up on the fourth morning, he looked in the mirror and saw a somewhat unfamiliar face.

His eyes were brighter.

They weren’t radiating light, but the whites were whiter and his pupils were sharper.

The three Body skills were working in tandem, their effects stacking exponentially.

Breathing optimized his oxygen supply, eating optimized his nutrient intake, and sleep optimized his nighttime recovery.

What he ate during the day was efficiently absorbed, then efficiently utilized while he slept at night, all underpinned by the continuous optimization of his Breathing.

His battered body was being repaired piece by piece.

He sat back at his desk and opened Cicero once more.

He possessed a luxurious abundance of energy, his mind working rapidly.

The progress bars on his Panel steadily advanced.

[Breathing Lv.2] Progress: 46%

[Learning Lv.2] Progress: 26%

[Sleeping Lv.1] Progress: 3%

[Eating Lv.1] Progress: 2%

Four tracks ran simultaneously, each moving at a steady pace toward its respective goal.

...

The Imperial Capital saw a rare sunny day for the Cicero Cup.

Ashford House sent a carriage to take him over, and the driver stopped at the carriage lot on the west side of the chapel.

”Young Master, I’ll wait for you at St. Augustine Square after the competition ends.”

”Alright.” Richard grabbed his satchel and hopped down from the carriage.

He quickly spotted the Greenwood delegation in the crowd.

Mr. Holland stood beneath a stone pillar near the chapel’s side door, clutching a folded piece of paper—likely a program or schedule.

Seeing Richard approach, the balding middle-aged man looked him up and down.

”Put on some weight recently?”

”The food in the Imperial Capital might just be a little better.”

Mr. Holland patted his shoulder, then gave it a squeeze.

”No, you really do seem a bit more solid. What have you been eating every day at Ashford House?”

”Fried eggs, bacon, milk... as much as I want, anyway.”

”I knew it. You need a full stomach to keep a sharp mind.”

Mr. Holland shook out the folded paper, revealing the schedule for the day’s events.

”Have you been staying up late to review? Do you have enough energy?”

”Plenty.”

”Good.” He folded the paper back up. His jacket pocket wasn’t deep enough, leaving a corner sticking out.

Mr. West stood beside him with his hands tucked into his overcoat pockets, a Greenwood school badge pinned to his chest.

Unlike his scrutinizing look at the small exhibition, today he took the initiative to nod at Richard.

”Ready?”

”Ready, sir.”

Mr. West gave a hum of acknowledgment and looked back at the crowd in the square.

A female teacher stood next to the two men.

She had dark curly hair and wore gold-rimmed glasses.

She had also been in the lecture hall during the small exhibition. Richard remembered her face, though he hadn’t had the chance to meet her.

”This is Ms. Grant,” Mr. Holland introduced. ”From the rhetoric department.”

Ms. Grant gave a slight nod. ”I heard your trial lecture. I’m looking forward to your official performance today.”

”Thank you.”

”Nervous?”

”I’m alright.”

”’Alright’ means you’re a little nervous.”

Ms. Grant pushed up her glasses. ”A moderate amount of nerves is a good thing. It shows you’re taking this seriously.”

Richard looked to the other side, where two senior students crouched beside a stone pillar.

One clutched a satchel, rummaging for something; the other had his hands in his pockets, staring up at the chapel dome.

Seeing Richard arrive, the one flipping through a book looked up.

”Williams.”

”Hello.”

”I’m Palmer, and this is Hutchinson,” he said, pointing next to him.

Hutchinson looked away from the dome and nodded at Richard.

”You’re the speech genius Mr. Holland was talking about?”

”Not a genius, just a contestant.”

”We’re just here to go through the motions,” Palmer said candidly, patting the textbook in his hand.

”I’ve read through this thing three times and still haven’t memorized it. I still can’t tell if the perfect tense of a first-conjugation verb is ’i’ or ’isti’.”

Hutchinson chimed in, ”Stop making excuses for yourself. I haven’t even opened mine.”

Palmer looked at him. ”Then what are you doing here?”

”Mr. West said this counts as a social practice credit.”

”...You came all the way to the Imperial Capital for one credit?”

”The train ticket is reimbursed,” Hutchinson replied, pausing to think.

”And we get to explore the Imperial Capital while we’re at it. You know that pie shop next to King’s Cross Station? My cousin says their steak and kidney pie is the best in the Empire.”

”Do they serve it with mustard?” Palmer asked, suddenly intrigued.

”Of course. Rumor has it they mix it themselves and throw an entire horseradish into it.”

Mr. West finally interrupted their chatter.

”You two, just don’t mispronounce anything when you get up on stage...”

Palmer waved a hand. ”Don’t worry, I plan to fake a sore throat by the third paragraph and step down.”

Hutchinson shot him a look. ”Have you no shame?”

”As long as I get the credit, who cares about shame?”

The two locked eyes and laughed.

Richard chuckled as well.

He had been worried that the seniors might take issue with a junior representing the school in the competition.

It seemed his worries were entirely misplaced.

These two had their own pace and agendas: one came for the credit, and the other came for the pie.

Greenwood’s only requirement for them was to show up, and they had shown up.

As for the results, that was Richard’s problem.

Mr. Holland scanned the crowd in the square.

”Eton’s delegation is here.”

He pointed to a group on the east side of the square.

Several sharply dressed young men stepped down from two four-wheeled carriages.

The boy walking at the very front was blond and slender. Every crease in his school uniform was as straight as if measured with a ruler.

He was talking to the teacher beside him, occasionally turning to smile at his peers. His smile was perfectly relaxed.

That relaxation wasn’t an intentional act; it stemmed from an ingrained certainty, known since birth, that he was going to win.

You wouldn’t find any hostility in someone like him, because hostility was a trait reserved for those deprived of resources.