Chapter 503: Senior Clara's Preparation for Promotion

"Clara had her follow-up check last Wednesday," Isabella said.

She pulled a form from her drawer and spread it out next to the application.

The doctor's handwriting was exceptionally messy: left ear hearing threshold returned to normal, no lingering signs of ether burns in the lungs, no blockages in the ether circuit, and no idling segments.

The bottom column contained only a single sentence: No contraindications found for rank advancement.

As an experienced Minor Adept herself, Isabella began detailing the ritual requirements for promoting to the Minor Adept rank.

"I'll read them out one by one. Richard, Sophia, listen closely. You will definitely need this later."

She was equally confident that both Sophia and her nephew would reach the Minor Adept rank.

"First, the Signature item must undergo three metamorphoses to qualify as a vessel for the oath."

Sophia raised her hand.

"Mentor, why three times?"

"The first time is for acknowledgment of the master, and the second is for alignment.

"Whichever direction you walk, it will metamorphose in that direction.

"For the Secret path, it grows into a vessel. For Hunters, a weapon. And for Scholars..."

She made a vague gesture in the air. "It metamorphoses into an object of record."

Richard thought of his Sphinx Lamp camera. That certainly made recording convenient.

"The third metamorphosis is the true foundation for promoting to Minor Adept."

Isabella continued her explanation.

"The moment you take the oath, you must fuse a sliver of your own spirit into it."

"Additionally, the applicant must have already established an entryway. That means the skills they have learned must reach a level of independence within their profession."

"What does a level of independence mean?" Sophia asked.

"It means your skills are mature enough to stand alone. Even if your peers don't know you, they will be influenced by what you do."

Clara touched the scar on her ear.

"There's more. The ether circuit must form a singular deep resonance, accompanied by medical examination records from the past three years."

"The location must be designated by the Academy, ensuring that the veil's permeation is both sufficient and controllable."

"The applicant must draft a personal declaration, submitting both the preliminary and final drafts to the department council for the record."

"One guardian, who must be a Minor Adept or higher; two witnesses; and one recorder."

Having finished reading, Isabella pushed the paper a little closer.

"Hunters establish their oaths in blood. Secret practitioners establish theirs in formations."

"We Scholars establish ours in words."

She twisted the cap off her red pen, letting the tip hover over the applicant's column.

"Clara, come sign this."

Clara stepped forward and took the pen. She had held this very pen for half a year, using it to grade countless exam papers for her mentor.

But holding it now, it felt overwhelmingly heavy.

She signed her name:

"Applicant for Promotion: Clara Fairfield."

"Signature Item: One brass tuning fork."

Richard leaned closer. Clara did not try to hide it, letting him look as much as he wanted.

Thinking about it, he had sat at the same desk doing coursework with Clara countless times over the past year.

He knew her academic foundation and ether capabilities were second to none among their peers. He also knew she hated the cold and had a pink scar behind her left ear.

Yet, he had never known what her Signature item was.

Isabella reached out, took the pen back, and signed her own name in the guardian column.

"For the two witnesses, I'll go ask the professors tomorrow."

Then, his aunt moved the pen down to the recorder column and wrote: Richard Williams.

Richard was slightly surprised. "Aunt Isabella, shouldn't the recorder be a graduate student? The department's rules..."

"The rules only state it must be the Scholar peer the applicant trusts the most."

Isabella set the pen back into its groove.

"There is no specific requirement on who it must be. It's just that, in the past, the vast majority of recorders were the applicant's closest classmates. And to reach this step, their closest friends are almost always graduate students."

She glanced at Clara standing beside her.

"She came to me last Thursday, stood at the door, and only said one sentence."

Sophia lifted her head from her knees.

"What did she say?"

Richard turned his head. Clara stood at the side of the desk, her expression unchanged.

"I said... I want Richard to watch from within the circle."

Outside the window, someone blew a whistle on the field—one long blast, two short ones. The freshmen were practicing their formations.

Almost half as many male students enrolled this year compared to last year. The remaining ones formed a sparse line, though the whistle blew louder than in previous years.

"Because sooner or later, you will reach this step too."

Clara spoke in a deliberately rigid tone, much like she did when tutoring Richard.

"I don't know if you've read about the Minor Adept promotion in books, but reading about it is definitely not as good as experiencing it firsthand on the scene."

"By recording from the side, you'll at least know what to do next when it's your turn to stand up there."

Sophia raised her face from her knees by the window, feeling as though she had become the only outsider in the room.

"...What about me?"

"You'll stand next to Richard. You acted as recorder in Mons last year, so you're familiar with this."

Clara gave her an encouraging look. "Sophia, you'll reach this step sooner or later too."

Isabella twirled the red pen halfway and added another line at the very bottom of the list.

"Assistant: Sophia Hardy."

Clara said softly, "Richard, you'll also need to get a medical examination."

"That's right," his aunt nodded in agreement.

"The recorder has to stand in the circle until the last sentence is read, and the ether density inside the circle is several times higher than outside."

The application form had one last column.

It was printed at the very bottom of the page, the font one size smaller than the rest, followed by parentheses.

Pre-selected Tradition (Optional)

"You can leave this column blank." Isabella's tone suddenly softened.

"Once you fill it in, your path is locked. You're only twenty-four this year. In the future, you can still..."

Clara reached out, took the pen, and without a second thought, wrote down Classical Records Tradition.

Sitting behind the desk, Isabella let out a sigh.

"...You could have chosen Star Map. The Star Map is severely understaffed right now. The military especially needs them."

"The Classical Records Tradition is unpopular during wartime. The front lines don't need people who only know how to read books."

"I know," Clara said with firm certainty.

"You don't know." Isabella felt her student was being somewhat impulsive.

"You think being unpopular just means sitting on the bench for a few years and missing out on a professorship.

"It doesn't. It means you'll have to apply for funding on your own and explain what you're researching to laymen.

"You'll explain it countless times, and every time, people will start checking their watches before you're even halfway done..."

"But you're the one who led me onto this path. If I don't follow behind you, then..."

Clara interrupted her mentor's long speech, turning the pen around and offering it back with both hands.

Isabella reached out to take it but missed. The red pen slipped through their fingers and rolled onto the floor.

Clara moved to squat down and pick it up, but Isabella raised a hand to stop her.

"I'll do it myself."

That afternoon, the document was not altered again. It was placed into a kraft paper envelope and sealed.

After they adjourned, the group walked to the corner of the corridor. Isabella stopped and turned back.

"Clara, let Richard go to your place tomorrow to look at that tuning fork."

Before that, Richard needed to get his medical examination.

Seeing the doctor stare at the test report in silence for a long time, he took the initiative to ask.

"Doctor, is there a problem?"

The doctor scanned the columns on the form one by one.

"For the ether reserve category, you have more than most Practitioners."

Richard was just about to explain—the other party definitely couldn't measure Spiritual Capacity, but even without Spiritual Capacity, his ether circuit could hold more ether than others of the same rank.

But the doctor raised a hand to stop him. "In our line of work, having a few minor anomalies in the body is normal.

"Besides, yours are positive traits. You don't need to explain it to me."

"It's just the ether purity category on you... I'm having a hard time judging it."

The doctor pushed up his glasses, looking at him with utter astonishment.

"In the files I've handled, there are over seven hundred cases of Practitioners, more than fifty Minor Adepts, and four Major Adepts.

"Everyone's ether is singular. Our Solar Tradition has that warm scent of blankets dried in the sun.

"Moon-Hunting feels like a blade pressed right under your nose. Classical Records has the scent of ink and paper scrolls, and Hearthfire is a full-body smoky burn.

"Even blindfolded, I can tell which path a person walks purely by the smell."

"But yours... I can't distinguish it."

The doctor picked up the form.

"I need to send this to the department office and let the professors take a look at it."

While waiting for the final medical results, Richard arrived at Clara's house.

The Fairfield family lived in the affluent western district. He rang the doorbell, and Clara answered it herself.

She wore a cream-colored knit sweater that clearly wasn't her size; the sleeves covered her fingers completely.

"What are you looking at?"

"...Nothing."

"This sweater belonged to my mother. She was taller than me."

She turned sideways to clear the doorway. "Come in. You don't need to change your shoes."

Richard lowered his head and stepped inside. The house was more spacious than he had imagined, and the decor could certainly be considered exquisite.

A cello case stood against the living room wall, next to a music stand.

It seemed the Fairfield family was indeed quite wealthy.

Thinking about it, it made sense. Even excluding her late parents' pensions, Clara had a Minor Adept craftsman for a distant uncle, and craftsmen were excellent at making money.

The windowsills were wiped spotless, and the aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen.

"The maid usually comes several times a week. I told her not to come today."

Clara brought the coffee over.

Richard's gaze landed on the other side of the room, where seven or eight black-and-white photographs were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks.

In the topmost photo, a three- or four-year-old girl had been placed inside an open cello case, her eyes wide and round.

In the next photo below, the little girl was a bit older, holding a tuning fork up to her ear with both hands.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pursed—looking as if she were demanding the entire world go quiet.

Beside her, a married couple held their own instruments, their eyes brimming with joyous laughter.

This family must have been incredibly happy in the past. A family of three sharing the same hobbies, enjoying a comfortable life. It was a pity... Richard stared at it, a little lost in thought.

Clara walked over, unpinned the photo, and handed it to him, face down.

Written on the back in pencil was a single line: Seven-year-old little Clara.

"My father wrote that."

Further down was a group photo taken backstage at an orchestra. People were packed tightly together, and she was wedged at the very edge of the second row, showing only half of her face.

The last photo Richard saw was pinned slightly higher than the rest.

The girl in the picture was thirteen or fourteen, taking a group photo with her parents at the gates of Imperial Capital University.

The trunk at her feet was wider than she was, and she wore a serious expression, as if she were about to march to the front lines.

Richard chuckled.

Clara immediately reached out and flipped that one over too.

"I didn't say anything." Richard raised his hands in surrender.

"You laughed." Feigning anger, Clara took down all the remaining photos.

Richard felt a bit disappointed. Sitting down on the sofa, he noticed a neatly folded thin quilt nearby and an unopened jar of candies on the table.

Clara followed his gaze and explained.

"Sophia stayed over at my place for a few days last month."

Looking at the spot where the photos had been, Richard suddenly realized he had never heard Sophia mention anything about her own family.

Furthermore, when everyone else went home during the long holidays, only Sophia remained in the dorms, which was why his aunt always dragged her back to Ashford House for free meals.

Clara probably guessed what Richard was thinking, but she said nothing, merely waving a hand at him.

"The item is in my room. Come in with me."

Her bedroom was similar to his aunt's dormitory. The bookshelves were entirely filled with sheet music and rubbing scrolls.

The room smelled only of paper and ink, lacking any real sense of domestic life.

Clara took a box out of a drawer, and the two returned to the living room.

She placed the wooden box in the center of the tablecloth and lifted the lid. Inside lay the very same brass tuning fork from the photograph.

There was a ring of indentations on the handle, likely worn into the metal by the countless times it had been held in someone's palm.

"This is a tuning fork used by the choir at St. Albans Cathedral in 1763,"

Clara explained. "The orchestra's concertmaster gave this tuning fork to my father the year he retired."

"The concertmaster said, 'From now on, before we begin, you will be the one to give the pitch.'"

"Later, they transitioned into working for the mystical side. The orchestra only knew that they had resigned."

"This tuning fork was among the relics they left behind from their final field mission."

Richard opened his mouth, but his usual silver tongue completely failed him in this moment.

"Actually, I was just like you. I wanted to achieve Signature at seventeen,"

Clara said, her eyes flashing with nostalgia. "Mentor forbade it. She told me: 'If you take it now, you are merely holding onto a relic.'"

"She told me to wait."

"Wait for what?"

Clara looked up.

"Wait until I knew what I myself wanted to use it for."

Richard looked at her. "Clara, do you know now?"

Clara picked the tuning fork up off the tablecloth, holding it up between them.

"I do."

"A tuning fork provides a standard pitch, letting you know when everything else has gone out of tune."

"The front lines don't want Scholars right now, and the department is downsizing."

"But before things start, someone always has to give that pitch."

"Otherwise, if dozens of people march halfway only to realize they're entirely out of tune, it'll be too late."

Gripping the handle, she tapped it lightly against the edge of the dining table.

The tone rang out—neither high nor low, neither bright nor muffled.

It hung suspended in the room. Richard thought it had stopped, but when he leaned in closer, he realized it was still humming.

At that moment, the Still Water reflected the tuning fork, and the contents within made his eyes widen.

There was no ether stratification inside the tuning fork. It was so clean it was almost jarring.

This Signature item was just as pure as its master, identical inside and out.

......

The next morning, on the notice board outside the department office:

Notice Regarding This Year's Debate Week:

This year's Debate Week is scheduled to open on October 8th and will run for seven days. It will retain its three divisions: Preparatory, Undergraduate, and Graduate.

Considering the current situation, this year's debate topics will focus primarily on wartime issues, while also incorporating classical subjects.

Additionally: following a joint resolution by the Academic Committee and the Department Council, starting this year, the 'Declaration' score of any candidate applying for the Minor Adept promotion may serve as the probatio reference for the second requirement, the 'Entryway,' subject to the council's record.

Richard stood in front of the notice, paying particular attention to that final addendum.

"See that?"

Pendleton walked over from the other end of the corridor, carrying a stack of files.

"Was this rule added just this year?"

"Brand new. They argued over it for an hour and a half at the joint meeting last Thursday."

"Argued over what?"

"Over whether the words a student speaks on stage count as probatio."

He jammed his paste brush back into its bucket.

"In the end, Sir Muller—a Major Adept Scholar and the chief grand-master judge of the previous Debate Week—made the final call."

"What did he say?"

Pendleton cleared his throat, mimicking that stern tone.

"It is useless for students to remain locked in their studies. When they draft manuscripts in their own rooms, they only write what they themselves wish to believe.

"Only by standing before an audience and speaking to a room full of people who refuse to believe them can they forge true weight in their words."

That afternoon, Richard helped Pendleton transcribe the registration roster in the department office, taking the opportunity to glean some intel on the competitors.

When he reached the ninth line of the graduate group, he saw a familiar name: Reginald Thorpe.

This was the School of Politics and Economics graduate student who had eliminated him last year. Clara had even helped him avenge that slight.

"He's registering again this year?"

"He has no choice but to register this year," Pendleton said, closing the file.

"He graduates next year. This is his final chance."

Richard dipped his pen back into the ink.

"Sir, why is it that in recent years, all the new-generation Scholars looking to advance to Minor Adept are so interested in this Debate Week?"

Pendleton gave him a look and slapped his hand on the edge of the desk.

"Mr. Williams, enlighten me: what is buried beneath those two lecterns in Iliad Hall?"

"A ring of silver wire."

"And what is that ring of wire for?"

"To carry every sentence spoken on stage straight past the veil."

"Exactly."

Pendleton slid his chair back, making himself a bit more comfortable.

"Within the Empire, there are very few places where you can open your mouth to speak and have your words establish themselves on the other side of the veil."

"Churches can do it, but they only let you recite prefabricated texts. They would never give you the chance to improvise."

"Field missions work too, and are even freer, but field missions get people killed."

"Of what's left, this debate stage becomes absolutely crucial."

He held up a single finger.

"For seven days out of the year, you can go up there and speak for six minutes. If your arguments are demolished, you step down, revise them, and go back up the next day."

"Over those seven days, establishing a form, having it knocked down, and establishing it again is far better than locking yourself in a room for months. Academics only progress through exchange."

Richard committed that sentence to memory.

"So last year's champion, Lecturer Silas..."

Pendleton nodded. "Right, he is one of the success stories of this path."

"He was promoted last winter, filled an opening in the spring, and returned in the fall to teach your classes."

"Going back decades, many of the younger generation of Scholars who crossed that threshold first tempered themselves in Iliad Hall."

"By the way, there's also yours."

Richard looked down at that column.

"First-Year Undergraduate Division; Qualification Confirmed."

In the bottom right corner was an annotation, copied verbatim from last year's ranking sheet.

"A promising speaker worthy of long-term observation."

"You're registering this year too." Pendleton looked at him. "If you don't, Sir Muller will come asking."

Richard picked up the piece of paper.

In those matches last year, his rhetoric score in every single round had been above an eight.

Back then, he hadn't yet mastered how to use the Mask of Hermes painlessly, the Sphinx Lamp hadn't undergone its second metamorphosis, and his Spiritual Capacity column had been at twenty. Now, it was at fifty.

"Alright, I'll register."

Room 314. Today, all of his aunt's disciples were gathered.

Sophia was slouched over the desk by the window, Price sat in the chair by the door, and Thomson stood before the bookshelf, clutching a book.

Richard caught a glimpse of the cover. It was the fourth edition of On the Weight of Judicial Rulings.

Isabella spread out the registration list and twisted the cap off her red pen.

"Clara, Graduate Division."

The red pen had already struck the paper.

"Sophia."

By the window, that head of pale blonde hair jerked up.

"Mentor! I can't do it!"

Sophia practically bounced out of her seat.

"Last year, my palms were sweating just listening from the audience gallery! If I go up there, I wouldn't even be able to fill a six-minute argument!"

Isabella gave a cold harrumph. "If you can't fill it, then just stand there for six minutes and train your courage."

"But if I go up there, I'll be embarrassing you!"

"I've been embarrassed by you plenty of times."

Price let out a snort of laughter by the door, only to be called out halfway through.

"Price, you're going too."

"...Mentor, this time I really..."

"Thomson is registering too."

Upon hearing this, the young man by the bookshelf reacted as if a gun had been pointed at his head. His face went pale. "Mentor, the only thing I'm good at is memorizing page numbers."

"Then recite page numbers on stage. Telephone numbers will do, too."

This year, everyone in Room 314 was participating.

......

Practice sparring was scheduled for six o'clock every evening in an empty teaching staff room.

"Sophia is left to you."

Isabella handed out the assignments.

"Why me?" Richard couldn't understand his aunt's reasoning.

"Because the moment she stands in front of me to make an argument, she starts reciting conjugation tables by the third sentence."

His aunt pushed a stack of old debate topics toward him.

"I've been teaching her since her prep year. If I keep a straight face, she trembles, but she certainly won't be afraid of you."

With it put that way, Richard could only agree. He gathered the stack of topics and walked to the door, only to be stopped again.

"By the way."

"Yes?"

"Don't let her waste her time telling jokes."

Soon enough, Richard understood why his aunt had said that.

"Opening arguments, six minutes. The affirmative side goes first."

The debate topic Sophia drew was: "During wartime, should scholars suspend all useless research?"

"...I drew the affirmative?"

"You drew the affirmative."

"You want me to argue that my own past six years were spent in vain?"

"Correct."

Right from the start, Sophia prepared to stall for time. She wiped her hands on her skirt, then grabbed her twin braids and tossed them back.

She stood in place for about ten seconds before finally taking a deep breath to deliver her argument.

The first minute and a half went decently. After all, her graduate education wasn't for nothing; she was far better than most.

But by the second minute, she began to repeat herself.

Before long, she ground to a complete halt.

"...I'm done speaking."

"You have three minutes and twenty seconds left."

"I know."

"Then keep speaking."

Sophia stood there, her face slowly turning red.

Then, she threw her hands up, deciding to just give up entirely.

"Then I'll talk about something else."

"...About what?"

"Do you know Diogenes?"

Richard checked the time on his pocket watch and replied out of respect for his senior.

"The guy who lived in a barrel?"

"Exactly!"

Sophia instantly came alive, her eyes gleaming.

"Alexander the Great went to see him. Standing in front of his barrel, he said: 'Whatever you want, I can give it to you.'"

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'Please step aside, you're blocking my sunlight.'"

"I know that one."

"But the lecture halls won't teach what happened next."

Sophia gave a mischievous snicker and leaned in close to her junior's ear.

"This guy Diogenes, right in the marketplace, in front of everybody..."

"...did that kind of thing."

Richard nearly dropped his pocket watch.

He cursed Erudition and General Knowledge for letting him instantly understand what she meant.

Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers, Book VI, Diogenes Laërtius. This patriarch of the Cynics advocated that anything in accordance with nature need not be done in secret—eating was such, sleep was such, and other things were no exception.

So, right in the middle of the Athenian marketplace, in front of the grocers, fishmongers, and every passerby, he resolved that particular urge with his hand.

This passage was missing from all the textbooks; that section simply stated: "Content inappropriate, omitted."

"After doing it, he even complained: 'If only I could fill my belly just by rubbing it, how wonderful that would be.'"

"Sophia..."

"I am putting the Classical Records Tradition into practice!"

She threw both hands in the air. "Diogenes Laërtius wrote it himself, and I didn't change a single word!"

"I know, but you are making an argument. If you say this on a public stage, do you want the chief judge to throw you out?"

"But I couldn't come up with an argument," Sophia said, sticking her tongue out.

For the remainder of her time, she talked about how Diogenes carried a lit lantern in broad daylight looking for an honest man, and how, when he was being sold as a slave, he shouted at the buyers, "Here is a man looking to buy a master! Any takers?"

Just as she finished her final sentence, the time on his pocket watch ran out. Richard snapped the watch shut.

"You timed that rather perfectly."

"I'm incredibly motivated when I talk about these things."

When it was Richard's turn, he drew: "During wartime, do newspapers have an obligation to tell the truth?"

He finished his entire argument in four and a half minutes.

Once he finished, the two of them activated their Spirit Vision.

There were no silver wires in the staff room, so the forms surfacing on the other side of the veil were very faint.

Faint as it was, the shape was still there. What Richard had established was a tower.

At the base was Tacitus, the middle section was Milton's old treatise on freedom of the press, and sitting at the very top was a combat report from this July, half of which had been redacted.

Sophia walked halfway around it, raising a hand to press against the tower.

Her hand went right through.

"...Huh?"

She pulled her hand out and pressed it again. It went right through a second time.

"Richard, yours is hollow."

"...I know."

"You borrowed too many things," she said, wiping her hand on her skirt with a look of disdain.

"Tacitus is Tacitus's, and Milton is Milton's."

"Your own piece is just that incredibly thin sliver right at the top."

Standing there, Richard suddenly recalled the debate over whether war profiteers were parasites of the nation or pillars of the state.

He had won that match, but his heart had felt hollow.

The next day, Sophia drew: "Where lie the boundaries of civilization?"

She delivered her argument for two minutes and fifty seconds before getting stuck again, at which point she resorted to telling stories to fill the time, just as she always did.

This time, she talked about Pompeii.

"Do you know about the graffiti on the walls of Pompeii?"

"I've seen the rubbings."

"The student editions scrubbed them completely clean," Sophia said, gritting her teeth.

"The copy in our department's reference room is entirely blank from entry seventeen to entry forty-one. It just says the content was inappropriate."

"Then how do you know what they say?"

"I transcribed from the unredacted version!"

She cleared her throat.

"One entry was written like this: 'To anyone reading this sentence here, you have been fooled, for this sentence contains absolutely nothing.'"

Richard chuckled.

"Another one was written by a guy who said: 'I came here, I did the thing, and I went home.'"

"...Did what thing?"

"Nobody knows! He didn't write it down!" Sophia clapped her hands together.

"It's been two thousand years! Nobody knows what he did! But everyone who reads it thinks they know!"

"Then there's entry thirty-nine."

She lowered her voice further.

"That one was a man insulting another man. The insult was incredibly filthy—so filthy that when the gentlemen in the department translated it, they rendered it as 'This gentleman is of poor character.'"

"What was the original text?"

Sophia leaned close to his ear and recited half a sentence in Latin.

The tea Richard was holding went straight down his windpipe, causing him to choke.

The Roman concept was that in sexual intercourse, only the active, penetrating partner was considered a 'man,' while the passive, receiving partner was not.

That sentence was an insult targeting exactly that.

"...Where on earth did you learn that!"

"Catullus 16!" she said, looking entirely justified.

"That opening line is printed as an ellipsis in your undergraduate textbooks!"

"That's because they can't print it!"

"Why shouldn't they print it? Someone wrote it two thousand years ago, and after they wrote it, it was passed down."

Sophia planted both hands on her hips. "Tell me, what kind of thing can survive for two thousand years?"

"..."

"Manuscripts rot, temples collapse, and pillars are dragged off to pave roads."

She counted them off on her fingers.

"This sentence, however, has never been broken."

"Why?"

"Because it's funny."

She said it as if it were a matter of course, surprising even herself after the words left her mouth.

Right at that moment, the door was pushed open.

Clara stood in the doorway, holding a stack of rubbings.

She looked at Sophia, who was laughing so hard she couldn't stand straight, and then at Richard, who was still coughing.

Her dark brown eyes slowly narrowed.

"...What exactly are you practicing?"

"Practicing arguments!" Sophia quickly hid her hands behind her back.

"I heard you from the corridor."

"What did you hear?"

"Catullus 16."

Sophia froze completely.

"...You can recite it too?"

"All the graduate students in the department can recite it. We just don't recite it in the staff rooms."

She closed the door again and left. Two stifled coughs echoed from the hallway.

Sophia sprawled out over the desk, now slacking off openly and unashamedly.

Richard refilled her tea for her. Halfway through pouring, Perception made him sense that something was wrong.

He activated Spirit Vision and peered behind the veil.

At that single glance, Richard furrowed his brow.