Chapter 313: Playing Dumb

Debate Week was on its third day, and the Iliad Hall buzzed with a fresh variety of excitement every day.

Bustling as it was, Richard didn't have a session of his own today.

He had just finished breakfast when his aunt intercepted him at the main doors of the dining hall.

"You don't have a session today."

Isabella shoved a rolled-up oilpaper package into his hands.

"Perfect timing. Come with me."

The moment Richard touched it, he recognized the material—it was the scrap of the Flagbearer's Flag Fabric.

"The professor agreed to look at it?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

"He did." Isabella maintained her usual indifferent expression.

"With Debate Week underway, several professors who usually travel are back on campus."

Isabella led him toward the Petrie Building.

"Professor Mortimer is here too. If we head over now, we can catch him."

When they reached his office, his aunt raised her hand to knock, but voices drifted out from inside first.

There was more than one person in there.

Her hand paused in midair. She exchanged a glance with Richard before knocking.

"Come in," the old professor's dry, raspy voice called out.

Pushing the door open, they saw that Mortimer indeed wasn't alone.

The old professor sat in an old armchair.

At the end of the desk near the window sat a chipped old teapot, steam still rising from its spout.

Beside the teapot sat someone Richard knew all too well.

"Ah!"

Mortimer cradled his teacup and took a sip, a hint of comfort washing over his wrinkled face.

"Now that hits the spot."

"If you like it, Professor, I'll blend some more for you later," Phillips said with a grin.

Richard stood in the doorway, staring at his tea-drinking buddy.

Phillips looked up, spotted him, and waved. "Yo, Richard!"

"...Why are you here?"

"I told you earlier, I was going to come join the fun for Debate Week."

Phillips set the teapot back on the desk. "I just didn't tell you which day."

Richard shook his head and chuckled.

Who would have thought this guy would skip the crowds at Iliad Hall and sneak straight into Professor Mortimer's office?

"Young Phillips here brewed a truly excellent pot,"

Old Mortimer said, sipping his tea.

"It takes that tiny bit of sweetness, sourness, and bitterness, and presses them right back into my tongue, thread by thread."

"I can actually taste it."

Richard swept his gaze across the desk and noticed two glass jars resting by Phillips's feet.

"What are those?"

"I'll tell you later," Phillips replied, still grinning.

Isabella offered Mortimer a slight bow. "Professor."

"Oh?" The professor looked up. "Little girl, who might you be?"

Richard's heart tightened.

Isabella's expression didn't change.

"Isabella Ashford, Associate Professor in the Department of Classics."

"Ah... Ashford..." The old man cradled his teacup. "From Gerard's side?"

"Yes."

"Was your mother named..." The old professor frowned, trying hard to remember.

"What was it again? Let me think... A name related to a flower..."

"Professor, you used to teach my mother," Isabella reminded him. "Her name is Rosemary."

"Ah." The old man nodded slowly. "Rosemary. I remember now."

Richard stood behind his aunt in silence.

The professor certainly hadn't forgotten.

Playing dumb was a very useful shield.

Once that shield was raised, anyone begging him, rushing him, or trying to pry something out of him would find their efforts skipping off it like a stone on water.

"Professor," Isabella said, not bothering to beat around the bush.

"You promised last time that you'd take a look at the Flag Fabric scrap in Richard's possession."

"I promised?" The old man cradled his teacup. "I promised such a thing?"

"Just last month, you published a thesis revision proposal in the department,"

Isabella pointed out expressionlessly.

"For the superimposed prints of the 'Silencing Knot' and the 'Reverse-Reading Lock,' you modified three inscriptions and hid a pivot point."

The old man's hands, which were holding the teacup, paused.

"You can revise a paper like that with absolute clarity."

Isabella looked at him. "Yet you claim you didn't agree to something that happened just last week."

Beside them, Phillips kept his head down, holding his teacup without daring to move an inch.

Mortimer took a slow sip of tea. "Isabella, you're just like young Hutton."

"One pestered me for four days to write a letter; the other pestered me for two weeks to dismantle something."

The old professor shook his head. "You lot are going to grind my old bones to dust."

"If I didn't pester you..." Isabella set the roll of oilpaper on the desk.

"Your door barely opens a few times a year. Where else would I find you?"

The old professor grunted, turning to look at Richard without saying a word.

Isabella shot her nephew a look.

Richard took a deep breath. "Professor."

"This piece we have is material from a high-tier evil creature. The contamination is extremely heavy."

"I entreat you to spare some time to dismantle its inner layers for us."

"Mhm, if you need something, you have to ask for it yourself. Don't rely entirely on your aunt." Mortimer finally nodded. "That's more like it."

As he spoke, he unwrapped the oilpaper.

The moment the palm-sized scrap of Flag Fabric was exposed, the ether field in the office subtly shifted.

Since Phillips had inscribed his Name, his sensitivity to ether reactions had sharpened a bit.

He subconsciously scooted his old teapot closer to himself.

Richard quietly unfurled his [Concealed Spirit Vision].

Mortimer extended his trembling hand, picked up the Flag Fabric, and inspected it.

That hand brushed ever so lightly against the air surrounding the fabric.

Richard's breathing slowed.

In his Spirit Vision, the dozens of layers of residual thoughts tangled around the Flag Fabric were being "read" apart, layer by layer, from the outside in.

Whichever layer the old professor read, that layer would dissipate on its own, like an old painting being slowly unrolled.

"A Flagbearer, hm... Something that's newly cropped up in the Ash Belt over the past few years."

"You recognize it?" Richard asked.

"I don't," the old professor said without looking up. "But I can read it."

He tapped a spot on the Flag Fabric with his fingertip.

"Look here. This banner contains two attributes.

One is 'Gather,' and the other is 'Backflow.'"

Richard leaned in closer.

"Both of these attributes still remain in this scrap."

Mortimer continued to dismantle the Flag Fabric.

When he read down to the innermost layer, his fingertip hooked the strand belonging to the Flagbearer itself.

That strand snapped.

In Richard's Spirit Vision, the danger radiating from the Flag Fabric plummeted sharply.

The dozens of layers of residual thoughts dissipated completely, peeled away layer by layer like an onion skin.

"Done." Mortimer set the scrap down on the desk. "The residual thoughts are stripped clean, but the attributes remain."

"Its 'Gather' attribute can be used to make a small flag.

When working in the field, you often encounter scattered, low-tier evil creatures. Clearing them out one by one is exhausting.

Plant this flag, and it can gather them all into one place."

"The other is 'Backflow.' When an evil creature dies, its contamination scatters in all directions. Once it scatters, it becomes the fuel for a new weak point."

The old professor tapped the desk.

"Use this material to make a 'Drainage Urn.'

If an evil creature dies near it, all of its contamination will follow the 'Backflow' and pour straight into the urn.

Seal the urn, and the contamination is locked away for good."

"This kind of item is exactly what the front lines need most."

"Many people die in wartime, fattening up the weak points one after another.

If we could collect the contamination right while clearing out evil creatures, preventing it from festering in the soil..."

Mortimer added another comment.

"These two attributes are a pair. 'Gather' converges, and 'Backflow' returns.

If you found a craftsman with sufficient skill, they could weave both together to make an artifact that can both 'converge' and 'return'."

"However..." He shook his head.

"The contamination in this material is too heavy. Weaving the two attributes together is exceptionally difficult; an ordinary Minor Adept likely couldn't manage it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Richard said with a slight bow. "Thank you for your guidance, Professor."

Mortimer took another sip from his teacup and looked toward Richard.

"Little Richard, about your first debate in Iliad Hall the day before yesterday.

'Are war profiteers the vermin of the state or the pillars of the nation?' Was that it?"

"Yes."

"You drew the affirmative, arguing on behalf of those war profiteers."

"You won that round, but you felt the victory was meaningless, didn't you?"

"...You're right." Richard didn't know why he was suddenly bringing this up.

"That debate topic of yours..." the old professor continued, "was deliberately arranged by someone."

Richard's head snapped up.

Isabella's expression shifted as well.

"Professor, are you saying..."

"That drawing bucket." Mortimer dropped his usual faint smile. "I went through it myself."

The office fell so quiet they could hear the rustle of the sycamore leaves blowing in the wind outside.

"I read your essay in the Northern Literary Review."

"...You read it too, Professor?" Richard's voice was a bit dry.

"Of course. That essay of yours was beautifully written, and quite eye-catching.

Those folks from the Commerce Guild felt choked up after reading it, while the Ministry of Propaganda's eyes lit up."

The old professor looked at him.

"Isabella understood this better than anyone, which is why she kept pushing you to come to Imperial University."

"The waters in our department run deep, but the rules here are firmly set.

As long as the rules stand, outsiders can't touch you."

"But for this Debate Week." The old man set down his teacup.

"Someone wanted to bend those rules. They couldn't move against you directly, so they tried to use this topic to beat you down."

"That 'war profiteering' topic was tailor-made for you."

Richard thought back in silence.

"You drew the affirmative and had to speak for the Commerce Guild."

"If you spoke beautifully, they would record that segment.

If they ever needed it in the future, they could dig it up and publish it in the papers: 'Imperial University's Richard Williams publicly defended wartime plutocrats during Debate Week.'"

"If you spoke poorly and lost, it would be even easier: 'This second-place student from Imperial University couldn't even out-debate someone from Manchester. He's nothing but an empty name.'"

Richard stood there, speechless for a long time.

He had won that round, but the victory had left him feeling hollow.

Yet he had never imagined that it was actually a pit someone had dug for him.

"Then..." Richard's voice was a bit hoarse. "Professor, are you saying this match shouldn't have happened at all?"

"Mhm." The old man held his teacup.

"I skimmed through the list of debate topics the day it was submitted, and I knew what was up the moment I saw this one."

"I made a few changes to it."

"Changed it?"

"The original topic was far sharper.

With a slight modification, its entire nature changed.

It was no longer aimed at you personally. It became nothing more than an ordinary question meant to test students."

Hearing this, Isabella quickly stepped forward and offered a deep bow.

"Professor, allow me to thank you on this child's..."

"That's enough." The old professor raised a hand, stopping Isabella mid-bow. "It was just a small effort."

Phillips leaned in at that moment and perceptively refilled the empty teacup.

"Little Richard," Mortimer spoke again. "I have one more thing to say to you."

"Go ahead, Professor."

"If you want to write essays, you can keep right on writing them."

"...Professor, you mean?"

"Write." The smile resurfaced on Mortimer's face. "Whatever you write, I will cover for you."

"Those bastards can only make trouble for juniors who don't have anyone backing them up.

If someone has their back, they wouldn't dare make a move."

"Write with peace of mind. I'll keep an eye out for you."

Richard stood there, speechless for a long time.

Perhaps feeling the atmosphere was a bit heavy, Mortimer suddenly turned his head and glanced at Phillips.

"Young Phillips, where is that fiancée of yours?"

Phillips was a little confused. "You recognize her, Professor?"

"The last time you brought her to this office, she didn't even dare cross the threshold." The old professor's tone was uncharacteristically gentle.

"She's a good girl. Don't ruin her."

Phillips blushed slightly.

"Professor, as if I'd dare... I sent her off to Iliad Hall to watch the debates today.

Her legs shook just looking at you. It's better to let her be comfortable over there."

The old man nodded and said no more.

Isabella put away the cleanly dismantled Flag Fabric.

"Professor, we won't intrude on you any longer."

"Mhm." The old professor didn't even lift his eyes from his newspaper.

Phillips suddenly remembered something and lifted the two glass jars from by his feet.

"Almost forgot. Richard, this is for you."

Holding the Flag Fabric, Richard took the jars with one hand, a bit slow to react.

"...For me? What is this?"

"Honey citron tea," Phillips said with a grin.

"Didn't you mention it to me before? You said your aunt loved drinking this sweet stuff, so I made two jars for the associate professor to try."

Richard blinked in surprise. He had indeed mentioned it in passing... He hadn't expected this guy to remember, let alone actually prepare two jars.

Isabella was standing right beside them.

She looked at the two jars, then at Phillips, feeling somewhat baffled.

She had been brewing honey citron tea herself for over a decade. She could mix it with her eyes closed.

A junior she rarely interacted with was eagerly gifting her two jars of it, making it seem as if she couldn't even brew a simple sweet drink herself.

"...That is very thoughtful," she thanked him flatly, reaching out to take the jars from Richard's arms.

Phillips winked at Richard.

Richard found himself torn between laughter and exasperation.

...

After leaving the professor's office, Isabella sent her nephew away.

She returned to her own office, sat down, and spent the entire afternoon grading papers.

It was nearly dark when she finally remembered the two jars, casually taking one out.

As she unscrewed the lid, the scent of citron immediately wafted out.

Isabella frowned.

It wasn't the usual cloying, syrupy sweetness.

Citron tea that wasn't sweet—wouldn't that be dreadfully sour?

She poured half a cup and took a cautious sip.

Then she set the cup down, her expression shifting again and again.

After a moment.

Isabella silently poured another half cup and let out an incredibly soft hmph.

"...It's alright, I suppose."