Chapter 323: The Makings of a Spokesperson

"Cross-examination," the moderator announced. "Affirmative first."

Thorpe stepped up to the podium.

"Miss Farfield, is exempting an only son fair to those who have already died?"

Clara looked at him.

"A good question, Mr. Thorpe. That depends... on whether the people you send up there are just being used to fill a trench."

She raised a hand, conjuring a trench out of thin air beside the hearth.

"What the frontline lacks are capable soldiers.

A reservist who can carry a rifle and hold the line goes there to fight.

But when a family's sole breadwinner is sent just to make up the numbers, they are only thrown into the trench to take the first round of artillery fire."

Clara tapped a spot along the edge of the trench.

"Sometimes it comes down to which family has no voice and no money to offer, and using their sons to fill the gaps first.

Those who should be exempt cannot be, while those with the means to hide avoid it completely."

A collective gasp rippled through the lecture hall.

Some insiders knew that none of the three Thorpe brothers had actually gone to the front; the eldest merely held a hollow title in rear logistics.

Clara did not look at Thorpe.

She kept her attention on the trench she had manifested.

"This kind of conscription has not put a single able-bodied man where he belongs, nor has it blocked a single shell for the people who need it.

It only preys on families with no connections."

Sitting in the audience, Richard felt a sudden jolt.

Clara was more measured than Catherine.

Those who understood caught her meaning perfectly, yet she stayed within the confines of the debate topic from start to finish without ever crossing the line.

Thorpe's face flushed a deep, mottled red, but he was completely helpless against the argument.

"Three minutes for closing statements," the moderator said. "Affirmative first."

Thorpe walked to the podium.

He was seething, but he had to drag the topic back during the closing phase.

"Miss Farfield cleverly divided conscription into two types.

But regardless of which it is, someone has to fight the war, and an only son is still an able-bodied man.

The affirmative stands by its original argument."

He stumbled through the speech, and his ether fell into disarray.

Under Richard's Spirit Vision, the scales swayed violently.

"Negative, closing statement."

Clara stepped up to the podium.

On the other side of the veil, the hearth of that family still glowed. Beside it, two white-haired elders sat with their faces tilted upward.

"The negative believes that those who should go are soldiers who can actually reinforce the frontline.

It comes down to where those sent to the front actually end up... whether they reinforce the lines, or whether they simply destroy a household that should never have been touched."

"The negative stands by its original argument. That concludes my statement."

Thorpe's scales tottered so fiercely they nearly toppled over.

The moderator announced from the stage.

"Match five of the finals.

The negative leads by 1.0 total points. Victory to the negative."

Richard watched Clara on the stage.

She had won cleanly, venting the frustration from yesterday's match on behalf of her junior without causing any trouble for herself.

Thorpe's face was livid as he walked off the stage.

He passed by Clara, likely wanting to say something.

Clara did not look at him, turning and walking down the steps.

Phillips leaned in. "That was satisfying!"

He raised his teacup. "She got revenge for you!"

"Yeah."

"This senior of yours is really something." Phillips looked thoroughly impressed.

"She usually seems so quiet, but the moment she strikes, she points out all of the Thorpe family's dirty connections."

Richard smiled.

Clara walked down the steps, passing by Richard.

Richard stood up. "Senior."

Clara stopped and glanced at him. "Finished watching?"

"I have."

Richard felt a little embarrassed.

"I was just outmatched yesterday. I shouldn't have needed you to stick up for me today."

Clara hummed in response, then suddenly asked, "Have you eaten?"

Richard did not know why she was asking. "...I ate."

"Good." Her tone was flat.

"You boys tend to obsess over things when you lose, but don't forget to eat."

"I know. Thank you, Senior."

Richard thought of the upcoming schedule.

"Senior, are you... facing Silas next?"

Clara nodded.

"Sit near the front and watch closely. If you don't understand something, ask me later."

With that, she turned and left.

...

By the final day, there were not many people left.

Richard entered the lecture hall early and found a seat near the front.

Phillips sat down next to him holding a cup of tea. His fiancée, Constance, had also come today, taking a seat on his other side.

There were only eight people left in the side hall.

The first two matches went quickly.

Clara won.

But it was a difficult victory.

Her opponent possessed thick ether, and Clara had to rely purely on rhetoric to claw the points back.

In another match, Silas faced off against another graduate student.

The form established by the opposing graduate student was crushed under his pressure, the whole mass floating toward the surface of the veil.

Silas did not even have to push hard. The moment his wall, welded firmly into the veil, stood there, his opponent's form retreated on its own.

It was frighteningly easy.

Silas versus Clara was scheduled for the third match.

"Debate Topic: Should those who die for their country be called heroes, or should they be called wronged souls?"

Richard scanned the audience.

In the autumn of 1914, an unprecedented scale of death had come crashing down on everyone for the first time.

The sons of high society died in the trenches just the same, and there was not a single common household without someone who would never return.

How to address these dead was the rawest nerve in the entire nation.

And the two young people on the stage were about to debate whether or not their sons should be called heroes.

"Silas Penrose, Affirmative, Heroes."

"Clara Farfield, Negative, Wronged Souls."

Richard's heart sank.

They had to stand in front of a crowd whose sons were currently on the frontline or had just died in battle, and call those sons "wronged souls."

Naming was a Scholar's duty; it was the power to define.

Call them heroes, and they would be granted sleep-return as heroes—dignified and peaceful, while the living found encouragement.

But that title was also the fuel that kept the fires of war burning.

Call them wronged souls, and the truth would be exposed; perhaps then they could close their eyes in death.

Yet, "acknowledging you were wronged" was tantamount to pointing those perished voices toward a target for their resentment, making things even more dangerous.

Both names came with their own price, and no one could say which was right.

"Six minutes for opening statements. Affirmative first."

The ring of silver thread on the floor lit up.

Silas walked to the podium.

Those in the audience who could not see the veil leaned forward slightly, possessed by an inexplicable desire to believe, to be comforted.

Silas spoke, his voice steady, every word smashing into the veil and taking root.

"What I stand for today are heroes."

"The people of the Black Soil River believe that a person has multiple souls, one of which is called their 'name.'

As long as their name is still spoken, they remain alive;

once a name is forgotten or chiseled away, only then does true death occur.

They call it the 'second death.'"

A stone wall of a temple rose on the other side of the veil.

Under Richard's Spirit Vision, that stone wall was densely carved with countless names.

A stone warrior stood before the wall, grasping a weapon and staring ahead. There was no pain on his face, only a nearly divine serenity.

"Ramesses II fought the Hittites at Kadesh.

After returning home, he had this battle carved into every great temple in the Empire.

A battle chiseled into stone became an imperishable legacy spanning three thousand years."

Silas gestured toward the stone wall.

"By treating those who die for their country as heroes and carving their names one by one, they will live forever in the prayers and memories of future generations."

Ether poured into the stone wall following the motion of his hand, deep and steady.

"When a soldier gnaws on hard bread in a trench, listening to the artillery fire overhead, what sustains him is the thought: 'My death has meaning. I will be remembered.'"

"The affirmative's argument: those who die for their country should be called heroes. That concludes my statement."

Applause broke out. Several ladies in the front rows of the public seating pulled out their handkerchiefs.

Their sons were on the frontline; they needed to believe their sons were heroes.

"Negative, opening statement."

Clara stepped up to the podium, her voice calm.

"Mr. Penrose's Wall of Heroes grants the dead peace."

"Call him a hero, and he 'rests in peace,' while the living are encouraged.

Once encouraged, the next batch is sent to the front.

When the next batch dies, call them heroes too, carve another line into the wall, encourage everyone again, and send another batch."

"This wall is one that can never be finished.

For every person who dies, another name is added to the wall. The taller the wall grows, the more people die."

"Because this wall itself is an instrument that urges people to their deaths."

She looked across the podium.

"Most people do not even know why they die. Coaxed to the frontline by the word 'hero,' they die in the mud."

The grief of the mothers in the audience was laid bare. A few bowed their heads.

Some acknowledged in their hearts that Clara spoke the truth, yet no one was willing to call their own son a wronged soul.

During the cross-examination, Clara struck precisely at the "urge to die" hidden beneath that wall, but Silas simply shoved the entire wall forward with his ether.

A delicate truth could not hold up against the crushing weight of comfort.

"Three minutes for closing statements," the moderator said. "Affirmative first."

Saturated with ether, the stone wall stood completely motionless within the veil.

Silas walked to the podium.

"Those who die for their country should be called heroes."

"If a name can let the dead rest and give the living the strength to carry on, then it is the right one.

The affirmative stands by its original argument. That concludes my statement."

"Negative, closing statement."

Clara stepped up to the podium and looked at the unmoving Wall of Heroes across from her.

"Just because a name brings comfort does not mean it is true."

"The negative stands by its original argument. The truth is cold, but someone has to say it."

The judges deliberated for a long time—a full ten minutes.

Sitting in the audience, Richard already knew what the result would be.

The moderator announced from the stage.

"Affirmative, Silas Penrose: 9.0 in Rhetoric, 9.6 in Declaration.

Negative, Clara Farfield: 9.3 in Rhetoric, 8.4 in Declaration.

The affirmative leads by 0.9 total points. Victory to the affirmative."

It was exactly like Richard's situation from before.

In the two afternoon matches, Silas smashed through all opposition, securing first place overall.

He was awarded the "Spokesperson" qualification, earning the right to represent the academic community at the Imperial Academic Annual Conference.

Once the awards ceremony ended, Richard left the lecture hall.

Pendleton was waiting for him at the door.

"Congratulations, Williams."

"Congratulations for what?" Richard smiled. "I was knocked out in the first round."

"Getting knocked out in the first round depends on the person." Pendleton pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Look at this."

Richard took it.

It was the overall tournament rankings.

In the Preparatory Group, Richard's name was ranked first.

In the overall standings, Richard ranked upper-middle.

Pendleton pointed to the bottom of the paper, where a single line of notes had been added.

"A promising spokesperson candidate worthy of long-term observation."

Richard lingered on that line.

"What does this mean?"

"It means your name has been put on a special list."

"You took first in the Preparatory Group, and your Rhetoric scores were high in almost every match. The only thing you lost in was ether."

Pendleton took the paper back.

"The judges saw it very clearly."

Pendleton continued, "Your senior, Clara, also took fourth place overall."

"That marks the end of Debate Week."

He nodded at Richard.

"Go back and get some good rest."

Just as the two were speaking, a red-haired figure approached from a distance.

Catherine walked up to Richard, took a small notebook and pencil out of her satchel, quickly wrote a line, and flipped the notebook over.

"First in the Preparatory Group. Congratulations."

Richard looked at the words.

"What about you?" he asked. "Is your voice feeling any better?"

Catherine shook her head and wrote another line.

"Getting there."

"Catherine."

The red-haired girl looked up.

"Once your voice recovers, I'll treat you to a huge feast."

"Not meat pies."

Catherine's eyes crinkled in a smile.

She scribbled one more line in her notebook and flipped it around for Richard to see.

"It's a deal."