I Loaded the Mysticism Panel
Chapter 6: Cicero Cup

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Cicero Cup

Today was Friday. On the school bus, Evelyn sat in the row behind him, squeezed in with two other girls.

She poked Richard’s back. "Did you really walk all the way home yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"Weren’t you tired?"

"It was fine."

"Liar." Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Mother said they could wring water out of your shirt when you got back."

Richard didn’t answer, but one of the girls next to her couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh.

Evelyn shot the girl a glare, looking a little annoyed.

......

His morning classes were packed, with history and geography back-to-back.

Sitting in the classroom, Richard discovered for the first time that classes didn’t have to be so agonizing.

In the past, listening to lectures was like hearing things through a layer of water. The teacher’s words would echo in his ears, and he could never grasp the main points.

But things were different now. The change brought about by unlocking Scholarship allowed his brain to automatically categorize information.

When the teacher introduced a concept, he could quickly connect it to things he already knew.

When the lesson turned to the distribution of colonies on the New Continent, the coastline he had drawn in yesterday’s geography class automatically appeared in his mind.

When the teacher spoke of the history of improvements to the steam engine, the years and names were no longer just a jumble of figures forced together.

They automatically arranged themselves into a timeline, the cause and effect of each event clear at a glance.

[Scholarship Lv.1] Progress: 5%

It had increased quite a bit after two classes. Learning in the classroom was indeed more efficient than just reading books on his own.

If he maintained this pace every day, adding in self-study after class...

’I can probably reach Level 2 within a month, maybe even faster.’

The third class was Latin. Latin was the dividing line that separated a "gentleman’s education" from a "craftsman’s education."

Students who could achieve good grades in Latin had the opportunity to apply for advanced studies at the Imperial University after graduation.

Those who couldn’t would generally only be able to attend a local technical college.

The Latin teacher, Mr. Holland, was in his early forties, with a broad frame and a triple chin that cascaded over his collar.

His voice was usually muffled when he spoke, and the students privately called him "the fat man with a mouthful of walnuts."

But as soon as he began to recite Latin, he was like a crowing rooster—his voice rising and falling with rhythmic force, full of vigor.

"Today, we will review Cicero’s first Catiline’s Speech."

He opened his textbook and clasped one hand behind his back. "Warren, recite the third paragraph."

Warren stood up. He stumbled through the recitation, but he managed to get it all out in the end.

Children from wealthy families had private tutors from a young age, so they at least had a foundation.

"Acceptable. Sit down." Holland turned to the back row. "Hugh, you’re next."

Hugh’s face went pale as he stood up.

He opened his mouth and stammered out the beginning:

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

(O Catiline, how long will you abuse our patience...)

And there he got stuck.

Holland prompted him, his face expressionless:

"Quam diu etiam furor iste tuus nos eludet?

(How long is that madness of yours still to mock us?)

Hugh repeated the line, his face flushed, but then he got stuck again.

"That’s enough. Sit down."

Holland continued calling on students in order. The person sitting behind Hugh happened to be Richard:

"Richard, you give it a try."

A few heads turned, their owners clearly hoping for some drama.

Their gazes were tinged with schadenfreude; the sickly boy had always been consistently at the bottom of the class in Latin.

Richard quickly scanned the textbook, then closed it and stood up.

In his memory, this recitation had always been a nightmare.

The Latin text was awkward to pronounce, and Cicero’s long sentences were full of complex, nested clauses—clauses within clauses.

For a sickly boy who suffered from frequent headaches, it was no different from chewing on a piece of leather that could never be softened.

But now, as he opened his mouth, the Latin sentences came to him automatically.

From the beginning to the fourth sentence, then the fifth, and onwards he went.

There was no hesitation between sentences, nor did he deliberately speed up.

By the time he finished the entire paragraph, Holland’s perfunctory expression had turned into one of scrutiny.

"Richard, you..."

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Your pronunciation, it’s improved so much since last week.

Especially your differentiation between long and short vowels—it’s very precise. You must have been studying hard recently, haven’t you?"

"Yes, sir. I’ve been cramming the fundamentals lately."

Holland grunted in acknowledgment, didn’t press further, and continued with the lesson.

As Richard sat down, he caught Hugh’s expression out of the corner of his eye.

His face was a perfect picture of "When did you become like this?"

......

After the bell rang, the classroom grew noisy.

Students packed up their textbooks, the legs of their chairs scraping harshly against the floor.

"Richard, come over here for a moment."

The balding, middle-aged man stood by the lectern, one hand resting on the desktop, the other twirling a piece of chalk.

The other students filed out, a few of them glancing over before leaving.

After the classroom had emptied, Holland placed the chalk in its tray and clapped the dust from his hands.

"Are you aware of the ’Cicero Cup’ held every autumn in the Imperial Capital?"

"...Not really."

"It’s a jointly-organized Latin speech competition. Greenwood gets two or three spots each year, usually for the upperclassmen."

He put his hands in his pockets.

"But this year is a bit special. Not enough of the upperclassmen have signed up."

As he said this, he had an air of resignation unique to teachers.

The students here at Greenwood are all terrified of participating in this kind of competition.

For Holland, letting the spots go to waste was equivalent to losing face with his connections in the Classical Society.

He had originally planned to have Lillian Hayward participate.

The girl has a solid foundation, and her written work has consistently ranked at the top.

But last semester, during a small-scale school presentation with an audience of only twenty-odd people, Lillian’s voice trembled the entire time she was on stage, and she couldn’t speak without her notes at all.

A speech competition usually has an audience of several hundred people; for her, it would be a disaster.

Today in class, Richard’s performance had surprised him.

The boy must have put in some serious effort after class, so Holland decided to take a chance.

"I’m still short one student for the competition. Are you interested?"

Richard’s first instinct was to refuse. With his golden finger, the proper path was to develop quietly and accumulate strength slowly.

"There’s prize money for the top three." Holland glanced at Richard’s obviously ill-fitting leather shoes.

"First place is fifty pounds, second is thirty, and third is fifteen."

The refusal that was about to leave Richard’s lips died on his tongue.

"On top of that, students who place will be added to the Classical Society’s recommendation list."

Holland added,

"The wealthy families in the Imperial Capital look for tutors from that very list.

Once you’re on it, the fee for one hour of tutoring is equal to a common laborer’s full day of wages."

Fifty pounds!

Even if he only got third place, fifteen pounds was an amount his Mother would have to scrimp and save for two months to accumulate.

And the recommendation list had even more long-term significance—it was a channel for continuous income.

He swallowed the refusal on the tip of his tongue. "I’ll do it."

Holland nodded, his face showing no particular expression.

"The competition is in a month and a half. I’m free on Tuesday afternoons. I can give you private tutoring, no charge."

"Thank you, sir."

The balding, middle-aged man just waved his hand dismissively and turned to erase the blackboard.

He had just picked up the eraser when Richard walked over. "Sir, let me."

Holland froze for a second, and the eraser was taken from his hand.

Richard wiped the board from left to right, top to bottom, cleaning every spot that needed it, standing on his tiptoes for the parts he couldn’t reach.

Chalk dust drifted down in clouds. He turned his head to avoid it and kept wiping.

After he finished, he knocked the dust from the eraser, placed it back in the chalk tray, and turned to get his schoolbag.

He didn’t say another word from start to finish, as if the act wasn’t worth making a fuss over.

Holland stood by the lectern, watching his retreating back with a hint of confusion.

In his twenty years of teaching, it wasn’t that he’d never had students who voluntarily helped erase the blackboard.

But most of them would look back at him after they were done, hoping to score some brownie points.

But this quiet kid was so straightforward about it. He finished the job, grabbed his bag, and left, as if he were just turning off a light on his way out.

Richard picked up his bag and walked toward the door.

As he reached the doorway, a voice called out from behind him:

"Richard, your foundation is better than you think. Don’t waste it."

The curve of Richard’s lips tightened slightly as he schooled his expression back to its usual state.

’He had already verified the improvements brought by [Scholarship], and now he had private tutoring on top of that.’

’A month and a half was enough time to level up to [Scholarship Lv.2] with half a month to spare for consolidation. Perhaps he could even compete on the same level as those who’d had private one-on-one tutoring since childhood.’

’As for whether he could actually place, there were too many variables. It was too early to say.’

’But at least he now had a clear short-term goal. All that was left was to put in the time, day by day.’

On his way back, he ran into Hugh at the turn of the stairs.

The boy was leaning against the wall, waiting for him, his stubborn bangs flopped down again.

"What did Holland want with you?"

"He asked me to enter a competition."

"What competition?"

"A Latin speech competition in the Imperial Capital."

The expression on Hugh’s face went through three stages.

First surprise, then confusion, and finally, a wry smile full of admiration.

"But you used to be at the bottom of our class."

"That’s why I have to start cramming."

Hugh wanted to say something encouraging, but after turning the words over in his mind, he only managed to squeeze out:

"If you need help... never mind, my Latin is even worse than yours."

"You can be my audience," Richard said.

"When I’m practicing, you can sit and listen. It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand. Just help me with my stage presence."

"I can definitely do that."

"Then that’s settled."