I Loaded the Mysticism Panel
Chapter 8: Appendix C

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Appendix C

Starting Monday, Richard’s plate officially featured a deluxe meal.

Warren was very generous. As long as Richard had room in his stomach, he could order anything he wanted from the cafeteria.

Every mouthful of protein and fat Richard consumed went toward putting some meat on his paper-thin bones.

The other side of the bargain was also honored promptly.

For twenty minutes after lunch, Richard would go over the key points from Latin class with Warren in a corner of the dining hall.

He kept his explanations simple. He broke down the roots, linked the conjugation logic using the most straightforward framework, and then had Warren repeat it back to him.

He benefited from the teaching process as well.

To explain something clearly, he first had to go over it from beginning to end himself.

In turn, the process of teaching others solidified his own understanding.

The numbers on his panel were the most honest feedback.

With every effective act of teaching, the Scholarship progress bar would inch forward.

It wasn’t much, but it was about twenty percent faster than just reading on his own.

’To teach is to learn twice over. The ancients certainly weren’t wrong about that.’

Of course, before tutoring Warren, he had actually spent ten minutes explaining first-conjugation verbs to Hugh.

When he was done, he asked Hugh, "Got it?"

Hugh nodded earnestly. "Got it. Amo, amas, amat."

"Next, second conjugation: moneo, mones..."

"Wait a second." Hugh raised his hand to interrupt him. "That ’amas’ after ’amo’... what was the difference between it and ’amat’ again?"

"...I just spent ten minutes explaining that exact difference."

"Really?" Hugh tilted his head, a look of pure confusion on his face.

Richard patted his shoulder.

"Hugh, you’re perfectly fine just the way you are."

"That sounds like you’re giving up on me."

"I am, in fact, giving up on you."

"..."

He gave up on Hugh, but the benefits of teaching had been confirmed.

He just needed to find a student with a slightly better foundation who could keep up with his pace.

And Warren had happened to stumble right into his path.

During the lunch tutoring sessions, Grey was always nearby, her ears pricked.

She listened quietly, never interjecting or asking questions.

But Richard noticed that after he finished explaining something, she would lower her head and jot a few lines in the notebook she carried with her.

The next day, Grey flipped her notebook to a new page, looked up, and asked her first question.

"Richard, you mentioned that for the third-conjugation i-stem variant, the subjunctive mood endings overlap with the fourth conjugation in two places... could you go over which two they are again?"

Richard glanced at her.

’Anyone who can ask a question with that level of precision has to be sharp.’

"Sure. Move over here, I’ll draw a chart."

Grey pulled her chair over.

From that day on, the lunch tutoring session expanded from two people to three, and Grey started bringing him breakfast every morning.

Sometimes it was a hot pie, other times a sandwich, but they were always generously filled.

Warren called it "Richard’s after-school tutoring class";

Mason called it "a poor kid teaching rich kids how to study. Now I’ve really seen it all."

Richard paid them no mind, but after Warren told him what had happened that night, his mind began to race with new ideas.

The fact that Warren’s family was willing to raise such a fuss over the matter indicated that this "other world" held a place of considerable importance in high society.

Then again, there weren’t many families in Brighton’s merchant class who could hire a Spirit Medium to make a house call.

Warren would occasionally mention things about his family:

his father’s business, the tea parties his Mother hosted, the family’s "traditions" around the Day of Warding.

When he mentioned "traditions," his tone was vague as he glossed over the topic.

But Richard, however, had developed a particular interest in the term "Spirit Medium."

Thursday afternoon, the last class of the day was Mr. Hutton’s.

The topic was a comparative analysis of several controversial archaeological reports from the New Continent’s colonial period.

The material was dense, and a few boys in the back row had already started using their textbooks to hide their faces as they dozed off.

When the final bell rang, the classroom filled with the sound of scraping chairs as students began to pack their bags.

Mr. Hutton stood at the lectern, his movements unhurried as he gathered his scattered lesson plan notes and stacked them neatly.

"Richard, stay for a moment."

His voice wasn’t loud, and amidst the clamor of students packing their bags, only those in the nearby rows heard him.

Warren passed by, bag in hand, and raised an eyebrow at Richard. "Getting held back again?"

Richard shook his head, signaling that it was nothing.

Only when the classroom was empty and the footsteps in the hall had faded away did Mr. Hutton rise from his chair.

"I hear from Holland that you’re planning to enter the Cicero Cup?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent." The old teacher’s glasses glinted.

"You’ve changed a great deal recently. Holland has mentioned it to me several times."

Richard didn’t reply.

Mr. Hutton looked at him, then suddenly said something completely unrelated to their topic of conversation.

"Richard, do you like the library?"

"It’s all right. I’ve been going often recently."

The old teacher put his hands in his pockets, his gaze shifting back to the window.

"On the east side of the third floor, there’s a rather inconspicuous bookshelf."

"It’s sandwiched between the geography and agriculture sections, with no classification label."

"Fourth row, seventh shelf. You might find something in there that interests you."

Richard looked up, waiting for him to continue.

Mr. Hutton took a small object from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the edge of the lectern.

It was a thin piece of paper, folded into quarters. It was yellowed with age, and its corners were worn smooth.

"Here, you should hold on to this." He tapped the paper lightly with his finger.

"Once you get there, you’ll know what it’s for."

Richard walked over and took the paper in his hand.

Through his fingertips, he could feel that the paper was unusually thick, not like an ordinary page from a book.

"Sir, what is this...?"

"Just a piece of paper," Mr. Hutton said nonchalantly.

"Or perhaps it’s nothing at all. It depends on whether you can make use of it once you’re there."

He sat back down in his chair, picked up a pen, and began writing his lesson plan in that same unhurried manner.

"Go on, now. Don’t be late getting home."

Richard frowned, picked up his schoolbag, said, "Goodbye, sir," and left the classroom.

. . . . . . . . . .

After finishing lunch and his tutoring session the following noon, Richard skipped his usual classroom nap and headed straight for the library.

The Greenwood library was a separate, three-story red brick building, connected to the main school building by a covered walkway.

The first and second floors were well-lit, with large, south-facing windows. The tables and chairs were arranged in neat rows, each table equipped with a desk lamp.

During class breaks and lunch, students would gather here in groups to do their homework.

The third floor was clearly another world.

The light dimmed as soon as he reached the top of the stairs.

There were only two windows, both of which were mostly blocked by the side wall of the academic building across the way. The air was thick with the distinct, acrid scent of old paper.

The entire floor was deserted. Richard followed the shelf numbers, heading deeper into the stacks.

Large-format geography atlases took up two entire bookshelves, their covers printed with faded coastlines and contour lines.

Next to them were bound volumes of agricultural journals—rows of thick, leather-bound books with years stamped on their spines.

Fourth row, seventh shelf. Richard reached in and found his target.

The book wasn’t thick, maybe two hundred pages or so.

The gilt lettering on the cover was mostly faded; he had to get close to make it out.

The title read: *On the Organizational Forms of Early Agricultural Communities in the Western Continent, and Their Relationship with Natural Cycles*.

—A Comparative Study Based on Seven Field Cases

The author was credited only by the initials: EVM.

The publication information was printed at the bottom of the title page in a tiny font: Royal Anthropological Society Press, 1832 N.C.

It was a book from over seventy years ago.