I Loaded the Occult Panel

The business card was thick cardstock. Its edges lacked gold foil or elaborate patterns, featuring only the most minimalist layout.

A single line of text was printed on the front: Associate Professor Isabella Ashford, Department of Classics, Imperial Capital University.

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

The card rested on the low table, pushed across to Richard.

”You’ve already made it onto the Classical Society’s recommendation list.”

”Making the list means a few things. Wealthy families in the Imperial Capital pick from it when hiring tutors.

”An hour’s wage can match what an ordinary worker earns in a day. Your teacher should have mentioned this.”

”Additionally, those on the list are eligible to audit academic lectures hosted by the Classical Society and can apply to access certain collections at the Imperial Capital University Library.”

”The Imperial Capital University Library’s collections...” This was what interested Richard the most.

The Imperial Capital University Library was vastly larger than that little three-story red-brick building at Greenwood. Would it also house a row of unclassified bookshelves?Isabella seemed to read his expression.

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

”But I should remind you of something.”

”You placed in the Cicero Cup, so you probably think that’s quite a big deal.”

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

”To tell you the truth, within our field’s evaluation system, the Cicero Cup is merely an appetizer.

”The Classical Society holds this competition every autumn, pitting a few dozen middle-schoolers with a foundation in Latin against each other. What gets sifted out is raw ore.

”Whether that raw ore can be refined into anything of worth—there’s still a very long road ahead.”

Across the room, a professor holding a teacup walked over to the window and struck up a conversation with a contestant’s father.

Isabella casually brushed the silver chain around her neck.

Richard distinctly felt a gossamer-thin layer of something spread outward from her, draping over their corner and partitioning the world just three steps away into an entirely different room.

The buzzing chatter of the tea party lingered, but it sounded muffled, as if blocked by a wall of cotton.

He could see the professor’s mouth moving, but the words were reduced to an indistinct hum.

By the same token, any conversation between him and Isabella would likely never leak past this invisible curtain.

Isabella’s expression remained unchanged, as though she had merely scratched her neck.

She got down to business:

”Institutions of higher learning all possess their own traditions of academic speech. Dozens of them regularly co-host a much larger Debate Week, lasting for seven full days.”

She traced a circle on the low table, gesturing to the ring-like layout formed by those academies.

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

”The competitors in Debate Week are the sharpest undergraduates and postgraduates from various universities. The judges’ panel is filled with tenured professors and academic leaders, and occasionally, officials from the government sector will sit in to audit.”

She smiled.

”You can think of the Cicero Cup as a scuffle on a village threshing floor, whereas Debate Week is the grand arena in the county capital. The venue is larger, the rules are denser, and the audience’s eyes are far sharper.”

Richard mentally categorized and filed away this information.

His previous knowledge of the Cicero Cup, courtesy of Mr. Holland, had been limited to the prize money and the recommendation list. He had possessed no concept of its true standing within the overall academic evaluation system.

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

”If I pursue the academic route in the future...” he probed, trailing off.

Isabella nodded, likely pleased he had caught onto the thread himself.

”On the Scholar path, there are several distinct hurdles as you climb.”

Her gaze turned serious.

”The first hurdle is admission—getting into a proper university and acquiring a foundational academic identity.

”The recommendation list and your results in the Cicero Cup can help you knock on that door, but nothing more. Passing the entrance exams is entirely up to you.”

”The second hurdle is securing a firm foothold within the academy. Debate Week isn’t just a competition; it’s a showcase.

”What you say on stage, how you say it, how you field tricky questions... there are far more people watching from the audience than you imagine, and they observe from far deeper angles than you realize.”

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

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

”Noticed by whom?”

Isabella didn’t answer directly.

She picked up her cooled black tea, took a sip, swallowed slowly, and finally spoke.

”Have you ever wondered why the academic system places such heavy emphasis on speaking?

”Latin rhetoric, impromptu debates, constructing arguments under a time limit... the actual utility of these skills in day-to-day academic research is quite limited.

”A Scholar can simply close their door to conduct research. Quietly flipping through literature and writing papers is enough. They have no need to stand before thousands of people and deliver impassioned speeches.”

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

Through the side hall’s open doors, the high stone pillars and stained-glass windows of the main hall were visible.

”But a Scholar cannot stay locked away in a study forever.”

”When you reach a certain stage, you need to represent your discipline, your academy, and even the much larger system standing behind you. You have to speak to the outside world.”

She emphasized the words ”speak to the outside world.”

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

”You are a spokesperson, someone who broadcasts a message to the outside world on behalf of a massive tradition of knowledge.”

Richard’s heartbeat quickened a fraction.

The word ”spokesperson” clicked with another piece of information in his mind.

In the sequence of Ranks he had read about, every leap above Practitioner required completing a ritual.

The essence of the ritual was a ”declaration to the veil.”

Declaring, swearing an oath, speaking out.

If the conditions for Rank progression on the Scholar path were tied to ”declarations,” then public speaking skills were no longer just a bargaining chip in the academic arena.

They might directly dictate how far one could go within that much larger system behind the veil.

Isabella didn’t explicitly point out this connection. Perhaps she was waiting for him to piece it together himself, or perhaps she had deliberately stopped there.

”And after becoming a spokesperson?” Richard asked.

Isabella nodded.

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

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

”I will only tell you one thing.”

”In our field, every step of Rank progression requires practitioners to declare themselves.

”The forms of declaration vary. A Hunter declares with blood and blade, while those of the Secret declare with arrays and drawings.”

Her index finger lightly tapped the low table.

”What do you think a Scholar uses to declare?”

With words. Words forged from knowledge, tempered through a thousand trials, and capable of bearing immense weight.

As this answer surfaced in his mind, Richard suddenly understood why the Classical Society began scouting public speaking talent as early as middle school.

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

From sifting raw ore to polishing and refining it, ultimately forging someone capable of standing upon the veil, speaking to the greater depths on behalf of an entire tradition.