Chapter 234: The Professor's Recommendation Letter

Richard was being targeted.

The culprits keeping a close eye on him were a group of subject teachers led by Mr. Holland.

Mr. Holland was the first to make a move.

On the Tuesday after Easter, before the bell for the last afternoon class had even finished ringing, Mr. Holland was already waiting at the classroom door.

He carried a stack of books. The top one was Suetonius's "The Twelve Caesars", its spine plastered with colorful sticky notes.

"Williams," he said, waving Richard over. "East Wing lecture hall, let's go."

Mr. Holland's private tutoring sessions with Richard had previously been held once a week on Tuesdays, a schedule established back when they were preparing for the Cicero Cup.

Now, that schedule had changed.

Mr. Holland had increased the private tutoring from once a week to three times a week.

On Tuesdays, they covered history, analyzing Suetonius and Tacitus in exhaustive detail;

On Thursdays, they went over Ancient Greek grammar and conjugations;

On Friday mornings, they worked through past papers for the Imperial Capital University's preparatory course entrance exam.

"Classical languages make up the bulk of the summer seminar assessment."

Mr. Holland dropped the stack of books heavily onto the podium.

"Your foundation in Latin is solid enough. You even took second place in the Cicero Cup. Ancient Greek is your weak point, so you still need to catch up."

He opened a collection of past papers and found a page marked with a sticky note.

"Look at this question from last year. It asks you to translate a passage of Thucydides into the Albion language, and then back into Ancient Greek."

"Thucydides writes long, winding sentences, with clauses nested within clauses. A single sentence can drag on for half a page. That kind of prose is the ultimate test of your grasp on conjugations and cases."

Richard leaned in to look at the question.

Mr. Holland had already covered the margins with annotations in pen, even highlighting the most obscure irregular verb conjugations in red ink.

"In all my years of teaching,"

Mr. Holland set his pen down. "You're the first student who makes me feel like preparing for class is more exhausting than actually teaching it."

"Why?"

"Because with other students, if I explain something once, I'm just thankful if they grasp seventy or eighty percent of it."

Mr. Holland closed the test booklet.

"You listen once, and you manage to ask questions about the remaining twenty or thirty percent that I didn't even cover. If I don't prepare a little extra, you're going to stump me next time."

Richard smiled.

Mr. Holland wasn't doing this alone.

He seemed to have set a precedent, and the other subject teachers gradually sprang into action as well.

Ms. Grant was originally only in charge of the rhetoric section.

Now, she dedicated two lunch breaks a week to calling Richard into her office to go over the prose of Athenian writers.

Even Mr. West, who hadn't formally shown his face in a long time, called Richard in for the first time ever.

He tossed Richard a summarized excerpt from Velleius Paterculus's history and had him translate it aloud on the spot.

When Richard finished translating, Mr. West snorted.

"Passable."

After his assessment, he pulled a hand-copied list of difficult vocabulary from his drawer and shoved it at Richard.

"Take this and memorize it. If you fail the exam because of these, don't ever say I taught you."

Later on, the teachers actually began to lightly compete over Richard's schedule.

Since Mr. Holland had claimed Friday mornings for past papers, Ms. Grant immediately booked his Wednesday lunch breaks;

Mr. West complained that they were taking up too much of his time and threatened to carve out an hour after school on Fridays to lecture him on the syntax of historical rhetoric, starting next week.

Richard found himself divided among the teachers throughout the week, having to carefully calculate every minute, even when eating.

This commotion naturally didn't escape the notice of the other students who had stayed behind to prepare for their exams.

Percy once muttered in front of everyone that the teachers were playing favorites.

Before he had even finished speaking, a girl studying nearby shot back at him.

"Playing favorites?" The girl set her pen down. "What did you get on the last Latin test?"

Percy went silent.

"Williams took second in the Cicero Cup. Elite schools from all over the Imperial Capital were there, and he took second."

The girl counted on her fingers:

"His prose was featured as the headline in the 'Northern Literary Review', and Principal Fletcher himself said he's the most promising student Greenwood has had in twenty years."

"If the teachers don't give him special tutoring, who should they give it to?"

"You? Could you even pass the entrance exam for the Imperial Capital University's prep course?"

Percy's face flushed red at the reprimand. Finally, he choked out a response.

"...Fine, he really is smarter than me."

This group of students who stayed behind were genuinely stressed, but they still had some grace.

Anyone could see that Richard wasn't in the same league as them.

An hour of his studying was worth three of theirs.

Facing the same passage of Ancient Greek, they would painstakingly chew through it word by word using a grammar chart, while Richard could piece together the entire sentence structure with just two glances.

With such a glaring gap between them, jealousy was one thing, but no one dared to deny his skill.

In this year's graduating class at Greenwood, Richard was the only one who could even reach for a top-tier institution.

Mr. Holland was especially dedicated during that time.

Once, they were working on past papers until noon, and Richard's stomach growled.

Mr. Holland set down his pen and walked out without a word.

Half an hour later, he returned carrying two servings of roasted chicken legs from the cafeteria. He shoved one at Richard and started gnawing on the other.

"Back when we prepped for the Cicero Cup, we ate chicken legs too."

The bald, middle-aged man mumbled around a mouthful of chicken, "Once you pass the prep course exam, the money I spent on these chicken legs will be worth it."

"I haven't passed yet."

"You will soon," Mr. Holland said, picking his chicken bone clean. "I've been teaching my whole life; I still have an eye for these things."

"You, kid, are going to climb out of this well called Briston."

...

One evening in early May, Mr. Hutton sent someone to call Richard up to the third floor.

The old stove in the office was unlit; the spring chill had completely faded away.

Mr. Hutton sat in his armchair, Richard's sixteen-page summer seminar application spread across his lap.

Richard stood by the desk, waiting.

Mr. Hutton flipped to the "Social Experience" section, paused, and read it from beginning to end.

"Well written," he said, closing the application. "Nothing hidden or tucked away. Everything that needed to be written is there."

The old gentleman placed the application back on the desk and took a sip of warm water.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

Mr. Hutton set down his cup. "Professor Mortimer has agreed to write a recommendation letter for you."

Richard's eyes lit up.

"The professor is willing to write one?"

"He is." Mr. Hutton looked at him. "I wore the old man down for days over this."

"He refused at first," Mr. Hutton continued, finding it somewhat amusing himself. "The number of recommendation letters the professor has written in his entire life can be counted on two hands."

"Then how did he finally relent?"

"His current business trip takes him through several northern cities, and he was recently in Manchester."

"During your Easter break, I went to his lodgings every day. Three times a day. And every time, I brewed him a cup of tea so weak it tasted like nothing."

Mr. Hutton took another sip of water.

"By the fourth day, the old man couldn't take it anymore. He told me, 'If you keep bothering me, my old bones are going to be worn to dust,' and agreed to it."

Warmth swelled in Richard's chest. He stood up and bowed to his mentor.

"Thank you, sir!"

Professor Mortimer, a Major Adept Scholar and a tenured professor at the Imperial Capital University.

With a recommendation letter from someone like him sitting on the examiner's desk, his chances were considerably more secure.

The joy on Richard's face was impossible to hide.

Mr. Hutton looked at him, picked up his water cup, and slowly poured cold water on that joy.

"Don't get too smug."

"Huh?"

"You think just having a professor's recommendation letter guarantees your spot?"

Mr. Hutton set down his cup. "All of this is merely foundational."

"Foundational?"

"Let me give you an example. Do you remember Montagu?"

Richard recalled the blonde boy from the Cicero Cup.

The phrase "Pardon the conquered, and subdue the proud"—he still remembered it vividly.

"That child, Montagu. Do you know his family's background?" Mr. Hutton asked.

Richard shook his head.

"There is a Virtuoso in his family, and one who maintains a long-term interest in the family's current affairs."

A Virtuoso. And one who actually took an active hand in things.

Lieutenant Colonel Ord had only managed to get that Gale Tradition Virtuoso to act at the Bottom of the Unresponsive Pit because he was leveraging his official status.

Combined with the fact that the Virtuoso was born in a nearby village, he was barely convinced to make a move.

But the Montagu family had a Virtuoso like that watching over them at all times.

Richard's breathing slowed.

Mr. Hutton continued, "Major Adepts coming and going from their house are no different from ordinary guests visiting for the day."

"They drink tea with the old earl, chat, and leave after having a meal."

"Just think about what kind of family that is."

Richard stood by the desk, silent.

Mr. Hutton looked at him.

"Your grandfather is a Major Adept Hunter. Your aunt is a Minor Adept Associate Professor. And I've worn down a professor to secure you a recommendation letter."

"Laying all this out, it's the absolute peak of what Briston has to offer."

"But if you place all of this in front of a family like the Montagus..."

The hint of joy on Richard's face turned completely cold.

The office was quiet for a moment.

Outside the window, the sky slowly darkened. In the distance, factory chimneys belched black smoke, turning the evening sky a smoky yellow.

Seeing Richard's face calm down, Mr. Hutton revealed a hint of satisfaction.

"Being able to suppress your pride is a good thing."

"Those who get carried away by their own success don't go far."

"Now, let me talk to you about real business."

Richard stood up straight.

"Word came from your aunt," Mr. Hutton said. "She wants you to go to the Imperial Capital by the end of May."

"The end of May?" Richard did the math. "Doesn't the summer seminar start in June?"

"It's June," Mr. Hutton replied. "But your aunt said that if you go over early, she can find time to give you some extra tutoring."

"During the first three weeks of intensive coursework assessment, the passing rate is twenty percent."

The old man stressed this number heavily. "Out of a hundred people, only twenty will remain in the end."

"Your aunt wants you to be standing firmly among those twenty."

Richard tallied up his recent schedule.

Leaving for the Imperial Capital at the end of May.

Mr. Holland's private tutoring three times a week, the list of difficult vocabulary Mr. West copied for him, and Ms. Grant's Athenian prose during lunch breaks;

His grandfather's letter of introduction, his aunt's materials and extra lessons, a professor's recommendation letter that took four days to secure;

And back home, his father was so busy he didn't even sleep at the house, working overtime every day just to save up for his tuition;

The "Professor Rabbit" wearing a top hat that Evelyn baked...

So many people, so many hopes—all resting squarely on his shoulders.

None of them said it aloud, but the same words hid in all their eyes.

...You have to pass.

This was the heavy burden of expectation.

Succeed, or die trying.

Mr. Hutton looked at him and picked up his cup of warm water again.

"Go on home early."

Richard pushed the door open, stepped out, and headed downstairs.

...

By the time he returned home, the sky was completely dark.

Evelyn, wearing her checkered apron, was muttering something to the oven.

"Brother! You're finally back." She didn't even turn her head. "Hurry up and be the taste-tester. 'Professor Rabbit' has issued an exam question."

"Gingerbread can issue exam questions?"

"Of course it can."

Evelyn pulled out the baking sheet. Inside was a row of gingerbread rabbits wearing small top hats.

"'Professor Rabbit' is going to the Imperial Capital University. He has to take an exam, right?"

"He does."

"What subject is he taking?"

Richard looked at the pan of crooked-eyed rabbits and thought seriously for a moment.

"Classical languages, I suppose. Latin, Ancient Greek, and so on."

"Will he pass?"

"It's a toss-up." Richard picked up the one in the middle wearing the top hat.

"With the way he looks, one glance from the examiner and they'll suspect his brain is full of frosting."

"Your brain is full of frosting!"

Evelyn slapped the back of his hand. "This is 'Professor Rabbit,' the smartest one of all!"

Their mother, Margaret, walked in from the living room.

"Did Mr. Hutton talk to you about going to the Imperial Capital at the end of May?"

"He did," Richard replied. "Aunt wants me to head over early for extra tutoring."

Margaret began sorting through the leftover vegetables from lunch.

"I'll pack your bags. Keep your mind on your books."

"Okay."

"Also."

His mother's hands paused in their work.

"When you get to the Imperial Capital, whether you stay at your grandfather's house or a hostel, remember to write or call home every week."

"I know, Mom."

His mother carried the sorted vegetables to the stove.

"Dinner is oatmeal porridge."

"Oatmeal porridge again?"