I Loaded the Mysticism Panel
Chapter 15: Parallel Tides

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Parallel Tides

The first three rows of the lecture hall were occupied.

In the center of the first row sat Mr. West, a man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair combed meticulously in place.

Next to him was a female teacher Richard didn’t recognize, wearing thin-framed glasses and holding a pen.

Scattered across the second row were seven or eight upperclassmen, the grade emblems on their uniform cuffs a year higher than Richard’s.

One of the boys had his arm draped over the back of his chair, a look in his eyes that suggested he was just there for the show.

In a corner of the third row sat Lillian.

When she saw Richard enter, the girl blinked, then her gaze quickly returned to her notebook.

Richard made a quick assessment in his mind.

’This is a bigger crowd than I expected. Mr. Holland didn’t tell me there’d be an audience. He probably did it on purpose.’

’At the official Cicero Cup competition, the audience will be in the hundreds.’

’If I can’t even handle a dozen people, then going to the Imperial Capital would be a complete waste of time.’

"All right, Richard. Go on up."

Mr. Holland sat down in the first row and jutted his chin toward the stage.

Richard placed his schoolbag on a chair by the door and walked onto the stage.

He stood at the lectern facing the audience, taking in everyone’s expressions.

Mr. West’s hands were folded in his lap. His expression was placid, as if he were waiting for a play he had little interest in to begin.

The female teacher—whom Richard guessed was a rhetoric or public speaking instructor—had her pen poised over a sheet of paper, ready to take notes at any moment.

Some of the upperclassmen were whispering among themselves. Others had already leaned their heads back against their chairs, adopting a "let’s get this over with" posture.

Lillian was in the third row, in the seat closest to the window. The light illuminated one side of her face.

She had turned to a new page in her notebook.

Mr. Holland had told him that Lillian was the original choice, but the girl got so nervous on stage that she couldn’t go off-script.

The spot had been transferred to Richard, which must have been a relief for Lillian.

’But after that relief,’ he thought, ’she probably still wanted to see just what level the person replacing her was at.’

"The first oration, from the first to the fourth paragraph," Mr. Holland specified. "A complete performance, from the beginning."

This was the most classic and most difficult passage.

In it, Cicero denounces Catiline to his face in the Senate. The opening four paragraphs are the climax of the entire oration and the text most studied over the last millennium.

Richard took a breath.

The feeling of openness in his lungs, cleared by the [Breathing] Skill, allowed the air he inhaled to travel deeper than before.

His chest expanded, his diaphragm lowered, and his vocal cords readied themselves:

"Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?"

(Catiline, how long will you abuse our patience?)

The rhythm was hidden in the meter, with alternating long and short syllables forming a natural drumbeat.

When Cicero wrote these sentences, he had arranged the word order specifically for its acoustic effect.

"Quem ad finem sese effrenata iactabit audacia?"

(To what end will your unbridled audacity flaunt itself?)

In the second row, one of the boys brought back the arm he had draped over his chair.

"Nihilne te nocturnum praesidium Palati... nihil horum ora vultusque moverunt?"

(Does the nightly guard on Paladin Mountain not move you? The city’s watchmen? The people’s fear? The assembly of all good men? This most fortified place for holding the Senate? The looks and expressions of all who are present—do none of these move you?)

This line was a textbook example of Cicero’s use of anaphora:

Six repetitions of "nihil" (nothing/not) built upon each other, layer by layer: from the patrols to the watchmen, from the people to the good citizens, from the place itself to the very faces of everyone present.

Richard had made an adjustment in his recitation: he slightly elongated the pause between each "nihil," allowing the repetition to build momentum.

It was a technique he had discovered during his coaching sessions with Mr. Holland.

Anaphora couldn’t be recited matter-of-factly, or it would sound no different from someone reading a list.

True anaphora was like the tide, each wave rising higher than the last. When the final wave receded, the silence it left behind was heavier than any sound.

Mr. West’s posture hadn’t changed, but he had moved his fingers from his knees and placed them on the table in front of him.

Lillian’s pencil stopped moving.

She had originally opened her notebook just to jot down any obvious memorization errors or pronunciation issues.

But after hearing just four sentences, she realized she was in no position to pass judgment.

She set her pencil down on her notebook, folded her hands, and began to listen in earnest.

Richard continued on, moving into the second and third paragraphs.

At the end of the fourth paragraph, he lowered his gaze, his eyes landing on a scratch on the front edge of the lectern.

After a moment of silence in the classroom, Mr. West was the first to applaud, a half-beat ahead of Mr. Holland nearby.

The female teacher clapped a few times before lowering her head to scribble in her notebook.

As for the upperclassmen, their lax attitudes had completely vanished.

Lillian applauded as well.

Before coming, she had anticipated only two possible outcomes.

The first was that Richard would perform poorly, confirming her judgment that giving him the spot was a waste.

The second was that he would do passably well—able to recite it all, but crudely. That, too, would be within her expectations.

There was no third possibility. At least, she didn’t think a classmate of hers was capable of it.

Memorizing it wasn’t special. Accurate pronunciation could also be achieved through hard work.

But a speech was not mere recitation. The kind of control he had over rhythm and breath simply couldn’t be developed in a few weeks.

’When did this dead-last student turn into... this?’

She couldn’t find an answer.

"Richard," Mr. West began.

"Sir."

"There’s a small issue with your handling of the anaphora," Mr. West noted, getting straight to the point.

"The six ’nihil’s. You built up the first five, and the effect of bringing it down on the last one was good.

But the interval between the third and fourth was too even, which causes it to lose a bit of steam for the listener.

I suggest you pause a little longer after the third one. Let the audience think the sequence is over. When the fourth one comes, the impact will be much greater."

Richard replayed the rhythm in his head.

’An expert’s touch really is different. Mr. West is the department head, after all. He immediately pointed out an issue I hadn’t even noticed.’

"I understand. Thank you, Sir."

Mr. West nodded, then stood up and said something to Mr. Holland.

Richard’s hearing was decent enough that he vaguely heard the words "worth a shot."

After everyone had left, only Mr. Holland and Richard remained in the classroom.

Mr. Holland raised his teacup to his lips and took a sip.

"Mr. West has high standards. For him to say ’worth a shot,’ you can take it as high praise."

"You’re too kind, Sir."

"It’s not me flattering you. Your progress has been too fast."

Mr. Holland set his teacup on the lectern and sized him up, the astonishment in his eyes more intense than on previous occasions.

A student at the bottom of his class had brought his Latin up to this level in just two weeks.

The word "talent" felt too simple. He had been teaching for twenty years and had seen many talented students.

Talent usually manifested as a high starting point, a quick learning curve, and few mistakes.

But Richard’s case was different.

The boy had started from an extremely low point. Just two weeks ago, he was stumbling over basic conjugations.

But his rate of improvement was on an accelerating curve. It was as if a steam engine had suddenly been installed in his brain, with its output doubling every day.

’Is this what they call ’having a breakthrough’?’

Mr. Holland didn’t press him for a reason.

Whatever the cause, prying was unnecessary. A breakthrough was a good thing.

"Come with me. I have something for you."