Cicero Cup

Today was Friday. On the school bus, Evelyn sat one row behind him, squeezed in with two female classmates.

She poked Richard in the back. "Bro, did you really walk home like that yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"Wasn't it tiring?"

"It was okay."

"Liar." Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Mom said your shirt was soaked enough to wring water out of it when you got home."

Richard did not respond, but one of the girls beside her could not help laughing.

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

The morning schedule was packed, with history and geography taught back-to-back.

Sitting in the classroom, Richard realized for the first time that lessons did not have to be so painful.

In the past, listening to class had felt like being underwater. The teacher's words would begin to echo the moment they reached his ears, and he could never grasp the key points.

Now, things were different. The changes brought by Scholarship allowed his mind to sort information automatically.

Whenever the teacher explained a concept, he could quickly connect it to things he already knew.

When the teacher discussed the colonial distribution in the New Continent, the coastline they had drawn in geography class yesterday automatically surfaced in his mind.

When the teacher covered the development of the steam engine, the years and names were no longer numbers crammed together. They arranged themselves into a timeline, with the causes and effects immediately clear.

His experience was steadily increasing.

[Scholarship] Lv.1 Experience: 8/200

After two lessons, it had gone up several points. Learning in class really was more efficient than reading on his own.

If he maintained this pace every day, along with self-study after class—

Reaching Level 2 within a month was foreseeable. Perhaps even sooner.

The third lesson was Latin. Latin was the dividing line between a "gentleman's education" and a "craftsman's education."

Students who earned good grades in Latin had the chance to apply to Imperial University after graduation.

Those who could not generally had no choice but to attend a local technical college.

Mr. Holland, who taught Latin, was in his forties. He was broad-built, with three chins stacked above his collar.

His voice was usually muffled when he spoke, and the students privately called him "the fat man with a walnut in his mouth."

But whenever he began reading Latin aloud, he became like a crowing rooster, his voice ringing with strong rhythm and force.

"Today, we'll review Cicero's first Catilinarian Orations."

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

Warren stood up and stumbled through it, but managed to finish.

Children from wealthy families had private tutors from an early age. At the very least, they had some foundation.

"Not bad. Sit down." Holland turned toward the back rows. "Fenton, your turn."

Hugh's face turned pale as he stood.

He opened his mouth and began haltingly.

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

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

He got stuck there.

Holland prompted him expressionlessly.

"Quam diu etiam furor iste tuus nos eludet?

("How long will that madness of yours continue to mock us?")"

Hugh repeated it with a red face, then got stuck again.

"All right, sit down."

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

"Williams, give it a try."

Several curious heads turned in the classroom.

There was a hint of schadenfreude in their eyes. This sickly boy had always reliably ranked near the bottom in Latin.

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

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

Latin itself was awkward enough, and Cicero's long sentences were intricately nested, with clause upon clause.

For a frail boy who often suffered headaches, it was no different from chewing on a piece of cowhide that would never soften.

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

From the beginning through the fourth sentence, then the fifth, and onward.

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

When he finished the entire passage, Holland's routine expression shifted into scrutiny.

"Williams, you..."

"What is it, sir?"

"Your pronunciation has improved far too much since last week.

"Especially your distinction between long and short vowels. You must have been studying very hard lately, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. I've been cramming the basics lately."

Holland grunted and did not press further, continuing with the lesson.

As Richard sat down, he caught sight of Hugh's expression from the corner of his eye.

His face plainly said, When did you become like this?

After the dismissal bell rang, the classroom grew noisy.

The students packed up their books, chair legs scraping sharply against the floor.

"Williams, come here for a moment."

The bald middle-aged man stood beside the podium, one hand braced against the desk while the other spun a piece of chalk.

The other students filed out. A few glanced this way before leaving.

Once the classroom had emptied, Holland placed the chalk in its tray and dusted his hands.

"Do you know about the Cicero Cup held every autumn in the Imperial Capital?"

"...Not really."

"It's a jointly organized Latin speech competition. Greenwood gets two slots every year, usually given to upperclassmen."

He slipped both hands into his pockets.

"But this year's situation is a little special. There aren't enough upperclassmen signing up."

There was the helplessness unique to teachers in his tone when he said this.

The students at Greenwood were all afraid of participating in this kind of competition.

To Holland, leaving the slots unused would mean wasting the reputation he had built within the Classical Society.

He had originally planned to send Lillian Hayward.

The girl had a solid foundation and consistently ranked near the top in written work.

But during a small school presentation last term, in front of only twenty-some people, Lillian's voice had trembled the entire time she was onstage. She could not even look away from her script.

A speech competition generally had hundreds of people in the audience. To her, it would be a disaster.

Richard's performance in class today had greatly surprised him.

The boy must have put in considerable effort after class, so Holland decided to give him a try.

"I still need one student to participate. Are you interested?"

Richard's first instinct was to refuse. With his cheat ability, quietly developing and slowly accumulating strength was the right path.

"The top three get prize money." Holland glanced at the clearly ill-fitting leather shoes on the other boy's feet. "First place gets fifty pounds, second gets thirty, and third gets fifteen."

Richard's mouth, which had been about to refuse, stopped.

"Besides that, students who place will enter the Classical Society's recommendation list."

Holland added,

"The wealthy families in the Imperial Capital who hire tutors recognize that list.

"Once you're on it, an hour's tutoring fee can equal a regular worker's daily wages."

Fifty pounds!

Even third place, fifteen pounds, was the amount his mother would carefully budget with a butter knife for two months.

And the recommendation list held even greater long-term significance. It was a source of continuous income.

He swallowed the refusal that had reached his lips. "I'll participate."

Holland nodded, with no excess expression on his face.

"The competition is in a month and a half. I'm free every Tuesday afternoon, so I can tutor you privately. No charge."

"Thank you, sir."

The bald middle-aged man merely waved a hand and turned to erase the blackboard.

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

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

From left to right and top to bottom, Richard wiped every reachable spot clean. Whenever he could not reach, he rose onto his toes.

Chalk dust drifted down in clouds. He turned his face aside to avoid it, then continued wiping.

Afterward, he knocked the dust from the eraser, returned it to the chalk tray, and turned to pick up his schoolbag.

From beginning to end, he did not say another word, as though it was not worth making an issue of.

Holland stood beside the podium, watching his back with some confusion.

In twenty years of teaching, he had not lacked students who volunteered to wipe the blackboard.

But most would turn back and glance at him after finishing, hoping to earn a point in his favor.

This usually quiet child, however, was straightforward. He finished, picked up his bag, and left, as though he had merely switched off a light while passing by.

Richard picked up his schoolbag and headed for the door.

When he reached it, a voice called from behind him.

"Williams, your foundation is better than you think. Don't waste it."

The curve of Richard's lips faded as he returned his expression to normal.

He had already verified the improvements brought by Scholarship, and he would also have private tutoring.

A month and a half was enough for him to reach [Scholarship Lv.2] and still have another half month to consolidate his gains. Perhaps he could reach the same level as those who had received one-on-one tutoring since childhood.

As for whether he could place, there were too many variables to say for certain now.

But at least he had a clear short-term goal now. All that remained was to fill each day with effort.

On his way back, he ran into Hugh at the stairwell corner.

The boy leaned against the wall waiting for him, his stubborn fringe drooping again.

"What did Holland want with you?"

"He asked me to join a competition."

"What competition?"

"A Latin speech competition in the Imperial Capital."

Hugh's expression went through three stages.

First surprise, then confusion, and finally a wry smile tinged with admiration.

"You used to rank near the bottom of the class."

"That's why I need to start cramming."

Hugh wanted to say something encouraging, but after the words rolled around in his mouth several times, all he managed was,

"If you need help... forget it, my Latin is even worse than yours."

"You can be my audience," Richard said.

"When I practice, sit below and listen. It's fine if you don't understand. Just help me watch my stage presence."

"I can judge stage presence, at least."

"Then that works."

The two walked side by side toward their next classroom, while the numbers on the panel quietly ticked at the edge of Richard's awareness.

[Breathing] Lv.1 Experience: 28/200

[Scholarship] Lv.1 Experience: 10/200

One increased simply by staying alive, the other by studying. Both were moving.