Chapter 243: Social Circles

The Classical Society's tea party was set for the afternoon of the first Sunday in June.

Isabella brought Richard along.

Before they left, his aunt had called him into her office to explain exactly what to expect.

"Don't treat today's tea party as a standard social mixer."

Isabella straightened her clothes as she spoke.

"It's a prelude to the summer seminar.

"The seminar officially starts next Friday.

"There's nearly a week between now and then.

"It's been a tradition of the Classical Society for years: hosting a tea party the Sunday before classes begin, gathering the most important people attending this year's seminar in one place."

"To meet each other ahead of time." Richard nodded.

"Exactly. To let you all feel each other out early."

Richard thought back to a few familiar faces.

"The competitors from the Cicero Cup will be there today."

Isabella saw right through him.

"Montagu, Blackwood, and that Phillips boy from Harrow School. All three enrolled in the seminar this year.

"You'll more than likely run into them today."

Richard knew what to expect now.

The same group he had competed against at St. Augustine Chapel all those months ago—after half a year, their paths were crossing again.

Then, his aunt laid down the unwritten rules for the tea party.

"Right, there's one thing I need to make perfectly clear."

"First is Professor Mortimer's letter of recommendation."

Richard grew alert.

"That letter is the biggest card in your hand."

Isabella spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

"If someone brings it up today, you can admit to it. But you absolutely must not mention it first."

Richard understood what she meant.

"Meaning that every time this card is mentioned, it loses a fraction of its weight. The more I bring it up myself, the more insecure it makes me look, like I'm just showing off."

Isabella smiled in satisfaction. "Not bad. You're as perceptive as ever."

She gave one final piece of advice.

"You might run into some unfriendly faces today.

"Remember, no matter who they are, you have the Ashford family, you have me, and you have Professor Mortimer behind you. You aren't inferior to anyone."

"...Understood."

...

The tea party was held in a garden villa at the Classical Society's Imperial Capital headquarters.

By the time Richard followed his aunt through the doors, a large crowd had already gathered inside.

The ether concentrations radiating from the people in the room varied wildly.

There were a few individuals who gave Richard a sense of danger even without him extending his threads of Inspiration—entities whose Ranks were far above his own.

Isabella led him through the crowd.

From time to time, people nodded to her in greeting.

"Associate Professor Ashford."

"Lady Isabella."

After a few steps, a middle-aged man in gold-rimmed glasses approached them.

"Lady Isabella, it's been quite a while. And this is...?"

"My nephew, Richard Williams. He's here in the Imperial Capital for the summer seminar."

"Oh..." The middle-aged man looked Richard over. "The runner-up of the Cicero Cup?"

"The very same."

"Incredible, truly incredible. So young and so accomplished."

After a few more pleasantries, the middle-aged man departed.

Richard stayed close behind his aunt, observing the room.

Scholars, professors, aristocratic heirs, and government officials all shared the same space, laughing, chatting, and clinking glasses.

Beneath the room full of smiling faces lay an invisible web of connections.

Academia and the noble families were deeply intertwined.

Halfway through the tea party, the activity around Richard began to pick up.

First, an old scholar ambled over with a teacup in hand.

"Young man, I hear Old Mo wrote you a letter of recommendation?"

Richard braced himself. Here it was.

He remembered his aunt's warning: admit it, but never volunteer it.

"Professor Mortimer was too kind. I hardly deserve such an honor."

"Heh." The old man grew intrigued.

"Old Mo has incredibly high standards. Ordinary folks can't even catch his eye.

"I've dealt with him for decades. The line of people begging him for a recommendation could stretch from here to the city gates, and he hasn't agreed to a single one.

"You're the exception. How did you manage to get his attention?"

"I really don't know. My Guide asked for it on my behalf."

"Your Guide?"

"Mr. Hutton. A history teacher at Briston Greenwood."

Upon hearing Mr. Hutton's name, the old man instantly lost interest, excused himself after a brief word, and wandered off.

As soon as he left, several others began casting glances in Richard's direction.

Some took the initiative to approach and chat with him, their words laced with attempts to win him over.

"Mr. Williams, if you end up at the Imperial Capital University in the future, you must come visit us more often."

"For a young man to have such an opportunity... your future is boundless."

Others simply stared at him from afar, their eyes cold.

Out of the corner of his eye, Richard noticed two young men in dark suits huddled in a corner, muttering to each other.

Their gazes were far from friendly.

He mentally divided the reactions of everyone in the room into two broad categories.

Those who approached him saw him as a rare commodity worth investing in.

Those who glared at him thought he was unworthy of his position.

Richard understood perfectly. Professor Mortimer's letter truly was an excellent card.

Once it was played, some would prop him up, while others would try to trample him.

The ones propping him up wanted to use him, and the ones trampling him were jealous of his luck.

Whether they praised or scorned him, it only proved the card carried real weight.

While he was chatting with one of them, someone in the crowd suddenly waved at him.

"Richard!"

Richard looked toward the voice.

A young man was grinning as he squeezed his way over, holding a teapot in one hand and pinning a book under his arm.

It was Phillips from Harrow School—the guy who could "always get his hands on tea."

"It really is you."

Phillips walked up and immediately topped off the teacup Richard had set on the table.

"Try this."

Receiving no warning from his Inspiration, Richard glanced at his aunt standing a short distance away, took the cup, and had a sip.

The tea was warm and smooth, with a lingering sweetness. It was in a completely different league from the swill the waiters were carrying around the room.

"This is genuinely good tea. Where did you get it?"

"The back room." Phillips jutted his chin toward the depths of the hall.

"The stuff they serve out here for the guests is second-rate. The good batch is locked in a cabinet in the back, reserved specifically for the old fogeys.

"I had to pester the waiter for fifteen minutes and tell him a joke before he agreed to spare me a pot."

Richard laughed.

Phillips had shown this exact same talent during the Cicero Cup.

No matter where he went, he could always track down the good tea.

"I heard you're attending the summer seminar too?"

"Yeah."

"What a coincidence. So am I."

Phillips dropped the book from under his arm onto the windowsill, freeing his hand to drink.

"We didn't really get a chance to talk properly back at the Cicero Cup."

Richard glanced at the book's cover.

Surprisingly, it wasn't a collection of practice exams or a Greek grammar textbook.

"Metamorphoses?" (Not Kafka's, the classical one.)

"Yep." Phillips looked rather smug. "It's good stuff."

"You're using this to prep for the exams?" Richard asked.

"Of course not," Phillips answered matter-of-factly. "It's not like a question about Ovid is going to pop up on the assessment."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"Because it's a good book."

Phillips said it as if it were a universal law.

"Look at everyone in this room. Every single one of them is strung as tight as a bowstring.

"They read Tacitus only because they're worried about the translation portion of the exam.

"They memorize conjugations because they're terrified of slipping up in front of the examiners.

"Books are just stepping stones for them. The moment the door opens, the stone gets tossed aside."

"I'm not like them." He patted his copy of Metamorphoses.

"If you don't read to pass exams, aren't you just reading for nothing?" Richard teased.

"For nothing?" Phillips looked as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

"You eat a table full of good food, and it's completely digested two days later. Did you eat for nothing?

"You watch a great play, and two weeks later you've forgotten it all. Did you watch it for nothing?"

"I suppose not."

"Reading is exactly the same." Phillips took a sip of his tea.

"The moment you dive in, you feel joy. That's the entire point of reading it.

"Counting on it to earn you something later on—that's not reading. That's banking."

Listening to the guy's wild logic, Richard felt a bit surprised, but also a sliver of admiration.

As the two of them chatted over tea, they suddenly noticed a shift in the atmosphere.

A minor commotion rippled through the crowd.

The guests turned their eyes toward the entrance in unison.

Richard looked toward the door as well.

A blond young man strolled in. It was Alexander Montagu.

He spotted Richard on the other side of the room, and the two exchanged polite nods.

The moment Montagu looked away, a crowd swarmed him.

"Young Master Montagu."

"Alexander."

Montagu handled them one by one, his demeanor perfectly poised and his manners flawless.

Standing at a distance, Richard watched Montagu encircled by the crowd.

Before, he had only a vague concept of what it meant to be a family "always watched by Virtuosos."

But at this moment, Richard finally understood.

The aura Montagu carried was fundamentally different from the other scions of great families in the room.

No matter how composed the others acted, there was an underlying caution in their bones, a fear of making the slightest misstep.

Montagu was different.

His composure was carved into his very bones.

It was the composure of someone who knew: What stands behind me means I don't need to be careful.

"Almost forgot the main event." Phillips jerked his chin toward the other end of the hall. "There's someone you should meet."

Following his gaze, Richard saw a man in a somewhat worn suit standing beneath a pillar, holding a small plate.

He looked to be in his thirties, and there were two untouched pastries resting on his plate.

He wasn't chatting with anyone; he was just watching.

Phillips waved him over.

"Pendleton," he introduced.

"He's a veteran of the Classical Society. There's no one in this hall who doesn't know him.

"He's also the head of miscellaneous affairs for this year's seminar. You'll be asking him for favors more than once."

"You call me the head of miscellaneous affairs..." Pendleton shifted his plate to his left hand and shook Richard's hand.

"But in reality, I'm the guy who assigns beds to a bunch of young lords and ladies, registers the rosters, and helps them find their lost toys."

"Richard Williams," Richard introduced himself. "From Briston. I'm attending the seminar."

"I know you." Pendleton picked up a pastry. "The one who got a letter of recommendation from Old Mo."

"Since we've run into each other, let me show you the ropes. In the Imperial Capital, recognizing people is more important than recognizing words."

He raised a hand and casually gestured toward the center of the hall.

"That cluster in the middle, mostly women? Those are the young ladies from the House of Earl Blackburn, dragging their cousins along.

"Officially, they're here to listen. In truth, it's a matchmaking session—figuring out which young master fits which of their girls."

Richard looked over.

A group of richly dressed young people was gathered there, laughing gracefully.

"The one standing by himself against the east wall is the representative from the Department of Internal Affairs."

Pendleton pointed eastward.

"Officially, he's here to observe the ceremony. Unofficially, he's here to take down names.

"The rumors of war are growing more urgent by the day. The Department of Internal Affairs is taking incredibly detailed notes this year."

Richard committed it to memory.

The Department of Internal Affairs taking a roster meant the government was counting how many usable assets they had left.

"Further in." Pendleton tilted his chin deeper into the hall.

"The ones in the black robes with buttons all the way up to their chins? School of Theology."

Three or four young men in dark robes were clustered in a corner, standing in stark contrast to the luxurious attire worn throughout the hall.

Pendleton's hand drifted toward the window.

"The redhead. You recognize her, right?"

A red-haired girl was standing by the window. It was Catherine.

She held a cup of tea but barely drank from it, and she made no effort to socialize. She likely knew that even if she put herself out there, few would pay her any mind.

"I recognize her," Richard replied. "We chatted briefly after the Cicero Cup."

Noticing his gaze, Catherine turned and gave Richard a faint nod.

Richard returned the nod but didn't let his thoughts linger on her for too long.

Some things only invited trouble the deeper you thought about them.

"The rest of them are more of the same."

Pendleton dropped his hand. Just as he was about to tuck it away, he paused mid-air and changed direction.

"Oh, there is one more. You two might hit it off."

He pointed to a figure standing in the furthest corner by the windows.

It was a girl. She wore a plain, dark dress and lacked even a single piece of jewelry.

She was also watching the people in the hall, but her method was entirely different from Pendleton's.

Pendleton was watching the spectacle; she was watching the rules.

Which gesture paired with which pleasantry, what sort of person stood in what kind of position—she stared, memorized, and learned.

She was learning a set of rules no one had taught her since birth.

"Edith Carter,"

Pendleton supplied the name.

"The only one attending this year's seminar on a recommendation quota."

Richard fixed his eyes on the girl.

In her, he saw the faint shadow of someone else.

"What does a recommendation quota mean?" he asked, turning back.

"An old tradition of the Classical Society," Pendleton explained.

"Every year, aside from the official recommendation lists, they set aside one or two spots for impoverished students with genuine talent.

"The funding comes from the estate of a former president.

"He was dirt poor in his youth, so on his deathbed, he established a foundation specifically for destitute children who couldn't afford an education.

"One or two a year. After decades, you can count the ones who actually made something of themselves on one hand."

Richard stared at the girl in the corner. "What's her background?"

Pendleton continued his explanation, sounding as though he had a massive database of personnel files stored in his head.

"From a small northern town. Her father hauls sacks in a mill."

"When she was fourteen, the Classical Society sent people to the countryside to scout for talent. They found a stack of her copied notes in the scrap pile of a Sunday school.

"She took an old monument in the town's church that no one could decipher, chewed through it word by word, and translated more than half of it on her own.

"No reference charts, no Guide. She relied purely on her own two eyes and an unyielding stubbornness."

Something struck a chord in Richard.

Too similar. They were far too similar.

"How far do you think she can go?" Richard asked.

Pendleton picked up the pastry he'd been holding for ages and finally popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"Truthfully?"

"Truthfully."

"At the absolute highest, she touches the threshold of Minor Adept, but she won't cross it." He swallowed the pastry.

"No one is going to support her past that. The doors are welded shut. There's zero chance she can gather the resources for the First Oath Ceremony on her own."

"Then why does the Classical Society even bother keeping the recommendation quota?"

"Because it's useful." Pendleton set the plate back onto the windowsill.

"Running the field ops no one wants to run, guarding the old seals no one wants to guard... It's all done by people from the recommendation quotas. The young lords and ladies from the great families are far too precious. They won't even touch that kind of work."

Richard recalled the "gear system" his mother had once mentioned.

Naturally, the official system couldn't consist entirely of Hunters. Those from the recommendation quotas were likely the logistics clerks accompanying this army.

"There are exceptions, though." Pendleton dusted the pastry crumbs off his hands. "You've heard of Haldane, right?"

"The author of Introduction to Veil Dynamics." It was a name that echoed like thunder.

"Exactly." Pendleton nodded.

"Haldane came from a recommendation quota. The son of a country blacksmith who clawed his way up from the quota all the way to a professorship at the Imperial Capital University, and wrote the book that still looms over everyone today."

Richard looked at the girl in the corner named Edith.

She was still watching, still learning.

This was perhaps the path Lillian could have walked.

But Lillian had turned her head to look at another path.

She had seen a faster road—a road that could pull her mother out of the sanatorium.

Edith noticed his gaze. Across the hall full of opulently dressed nobles, their eyes met.

She offered a bashful smile and nodded at Richard.

Richard returned the nod.