Chapter 511: Lecturer Fairfield

Richard had always thought the three stanzas of an honorific name were merely rhetorical: an opening, an ode to merit, and a conclusion, much like a classical tercet.

Tonight, he learned that each of the three had its own distinct origin.

The first stanza described a position: where one stood, and what one walked alongside.

A Minor Adept wrote the first stanza, a Major Adept wrote the second, and the third waited until one became a Virtuoso to pen.

Only when all three were assembled could the honorific name be spoken in full.

Across the way, the witness Wyndham's voice was slightly hoarse. "The response has arrived. Advancer, please take your position."

A wisp of spirit suspended above the center of the circle began to descend slowly. At that moment, Clara closed her eyes.

A moment later, the ether and spirit completely submerged into the tuning fork. It let out a long chime against the ground.

Before the chime could fade, the darkness beneath the mudflat surged upward.

Richard jotted down a line in the record: "Roughly three seconds after the positioning chime, the ether concentration on the mudflat outside the circle surged. No fewer than a hundred sources of unknown origin detected."

The edges of the entire mudflat bulged simultaneously.

The tuning fork's long chime had drawn the surging evil creatures. A living person had declared who she was before the veil, and so the evil creatures crashed toward the white chalk mark from all directions.

At the same time, human figures surfaced on the mudflat.

The first wore a high-collared formal suit from two centuries ago. He stood on the western side of the circle, hand raised, lips moving.

A second and a third followed, lining up outward layer by layer.

Richard observed silently. Among the hundreds of figures, one of the more recent arrivals wore clothing from twenty or thirty years ago.

The figures lined up all the way inward. He had only ever seen the clothing styles of the innermost few in history textbook illustrations.

All the figures stood around the white mark, all chanting something.

Richard only caught a few scattered words. There was Latin, there was Ancient Greek, and the language chanted by the innermost few was likely an ancient tongue he had yet to master.

These were all the scholars who had stood at the center of the circle over the past four hundred years.

After they died, they had all left residual images on the mudflat. The long chime of the tuning fork had awakened them all at once.

"Do not look at them," Wyndham reminded her, taking a step forward.

The Major Adept professor raised his hand slightly and made a page-turning motion in the air, much like he did when flipping through dossiers during department meetings.

The instant his hand fell, the hundreds of residual images around the mudflat ceased speaking. They stood frozen in place, their outlines gradually fading away.

This professor's method of taking action was entirely different from that of Mortimer and MacFie. He had no idea what tradition it belonged to.

Outside the white mark, the evil creatures crashed into the four layers of boundaries.

Greer's voice carried through the boundaries. "Here they come, here they come! Reaction at position three!"

"Don't panic. Follow the procedure."

The evil creatures bounced off the boundary lines upon impact. Soon, only a little residue remained, entirely scooped up into brass canisters by two graduate students.

"Position three cleared!"

"Two more at position four, both small."

"Any more materials?"

"Yes! This one is of good quality. Don't shatter it!"

Standing inside the circle, Richard listened to the two graduate students argue over the quality of an evil creature. The string that had been pulled taut in his mind for so long finally slackened.

If this same group of evil creatures had appeared in a place without a perimeter, it would have been enough to wipe out an entire squad.

Here on the grounds of Imperial Capital University, they were merely delivering materials.

This was the advantage of having a major faction at one's back:

The venue and the ritual were designated by the academy, and a Major Adept professor stood by as a witness.

Clara only needed to stand firmly at the center of the ritual, present a wisp of her spirit, and merge it into her signature artifact once the declaration was complete.

External interference had been completely eliminated. The only thing that could go wrong throughout the entire process was her.

Richard looked down at his feet. The shadow was lying very obediently tonight, not moving an inch.

When the day came for him to stand in a promotion ritual, who would be the ones to draw the outer circle, post guards, and sit in the witness seats for him?

"Cleanup complete," Greer shouted from the outer circle, sounding somewhat unsatisfied.

Wyndham lowered his hand. "Then let's call it a night, everyone."

Isabella dispersed the ether circle, feeling a bit dizzy.

Being the closest, Richard reached out to support her.

"I'm fine," she said, pushing Richard's hand away and turning around.

Clara was still standing at the center. She picked up the tuning fork from the ground and cradled it in her hands.

"How is it?" Isabella asked.

"It's... hot."

"It will always be hot from now on."

Wyndham nodded to the group. "According to the rules, I need to conduct a safety sweep of everyone inside the circle before we disperse."

The ether density inside the circle was several times higher than outside. Standing in it for so long, it was inevitable for impurities to cling to their circuits.

The sweep was a standard procedure. No one objected.

Wyndham scanned Clara first. "Circuit intact. Declaration unobstructed. Spirit fused well with the signature artifact. Do not take any fieldwork for the next two months."

"Understood."

He then scanned Isabella. "You've overdrawn nearly forty percent of your ether. It would be best to rest tomorrow."

"I have classes tomorrow."

"The department will adjust them to next week for you."

"...All right."

Next was Otto Fairfield. The old artisan held out both hands with a look of impatience.

Wyndham took one glance and withdrew his hand.

Finally, it was Richard's turn. He had already been measured twice recently: once by the school doctor's ether meter, and once by Greer's instrument.

Wyndham's hand hovered over his wrist. For the previous three people, it had taken no more than five seconds each; with Richard, he seemed somewhat uncertain.

One second, three seconds, five seconds passed. The sound of packing up equipment on the mudflat slowly ceased.

Greer turned his head from the outer circle, and Sophia squeezed in. Just as she was about to speak, Isabella clapped a hand over her mouth.

Half a minute passed. Wyndham's hand remained still.

"Williams, how long has it been since your Signature?"

"Less than two years."

Wyndham gave a noncommittal hum, offering no further evaluation.

He retracted his hand, clasped it behind his back, and turned to walk toward the narrow gate.

"All right, go back and rest. Everyone did very well tonight."

After the lone Major Adept left, the mudflat was quiet for several seconds.

Sophia finally broke free from her mentor's grasp and threw herself at Clara.

"Clara!!!"

"Stop shaking me."

"I don't care..."

"You're shaking my tuning fork."

"...Fine."

That night, the filed copy of the oath record was delivered to the department office. Pendleton paused when he checked the final page.

"Recorder, advised to take note."

This had been written down by Wyndham himself.

The next day, the roster of teaching assistants and lecturers on the department notice board was updated.

These internal academy adjustments were much faster than administrative bureaucracy.

If it had been a personnel adjustment in the government, it would have taken months of approval.

Here at the university, on the very next day following the promotion, a new line appeared at the very bottom:

New Lecturer — Clara Fairfield (formerly a graduate student of Imperial Capital University, affiliated with Associate Professor Ashford's teaching and research office).

Of course, the rapid speed was also due to the combined efforts of multiple parties.

For the first time, Clara checked out materials from the internal archive room under her own name, without needing a signed slip from her mentor.

The library was even more direct. There was a book she had only been allowed to read on the premises during her three years as a graduate student. She'd had to return it to the front desk every day after finishing her research.

That day, she walked over as usual, and the librarian simply took the book out from beneath the counter and placed it directly into her hands.

"Miss Fairfield, you may take it with you now."

Clara stood before the counter, hugging the book, her mouth slightly agape.

In the corridor, another minor incident occurred.

Half a year ago, whenever Clara mentioned Silas, she couldn't hide the envy in her eyes.

Today, when the two met in the hallway, Silas was the one who stopped first and proactively nodded at her.

On October 20th, Clara's original plan had been to grade first-year assignments for her mentor in Room 314 during the morning, head to the third floor of the archive room in the afternoon to inspect two rubbings, and return home at night. As it turned out, she accomplished none of these.

At 9:40, Pendleton walked in holding a kraft paper folder, straightening his tie first.

"Lecturer Fairfield, this is your official letter of appointment."

"Position: Lecturer in the Department of Classics.

Contract duration of three years, after which you may apply for associate professor."

Pendleton turned to the second page and suddenly coughed.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked.

"The salary grade column originally listed Level Five."

"Level Five is the starting point for new lecturers," Isabella interjected from behind the desk.

"...Associate Professor Ashford argued with people in the department office for half an hour last Friday over this salary grade."

Pendleton pushed the appointment letter forward. "In the end, you were set at Level Seven."

Level Seven was a salary grade reserved for lecturers who had been teaching for over two years.

Clara pursed her lips, not knowing what to say.

After thinking for a long time, all she could do was hug her mentor from behind.

For someone who usually expressed her emotions so reservedly, this was a rather intimate gesture.

Sophia covered her mouth and giggled as she watched her mentor's head get completely engulfed.

Being the tallest of the three, she tip-toed behind the desk and lunged forward, wrapping her arms around both of them.

"You two... are trying to crush me to death!"

Squished at the bottom, Isabella could no longer maintain her usual aloof demeanor.

Sophia even waved her hand, gesturing for Richard to join in.

Meeting his aunt's threatening glare, he could only laugh dumbly and wave it off.

Seeing the group roughhousing, Pendleton tactfully left the documents behind and departed.

A short while later, Kasalis, a clerk from the Department of Internal Affairs, arrived.

He was wearing a standard suit and carrying a briefcase today. Upon entering, he first stood still by the door.

"Lecturer Fairfield, following your promotion, we need to conduct a routine registration."

He spread out a form and asked item by item: name, Rank, direction, tradition, guide, signature artifact, time and location of the oath, presider, and witness.

Every sentence was immensely polite. Listening from the sidelines, Richard found it strange.

When Kasalis had questioned him in Room 103 last year, he hadn't had this attitude at all; it was only when Professor Mortimer entered that his demeanor had shifted.

Kasalis set down his pen. "Starting today, an extra cover is added to your file."

"What does adding a cover mean?" Sophia asked from the side.

"From now on, retrieving her file will require a signature from a higher level.

"In addition, on the wartime investigation assistance roster, we will place her in the priority consultation sequence.

"In the future, for any difficult issues regarding the seabed or seals, the Department of Internal Affairs will consult you first.

"Of course, these are only consultations, and we will pay consultation fees."

Kasalis latched his briefcase, took a business card from his pocket, and placed it on the edge of the desk.

"This is my office phone number. If anything comes up in the future, you can reach out to me directly."

After he left, Sophia picked up the business card and stared at it for a long time.

"He didn't leave a phone number when he came looking for Richard last year."

"He came to investigate me last year," Richard said.

Soon, Mrs. MacNeil arrived as well.

She wasn't wearing a scarf today, and her attire was very formal.

Upon entering, she scanned the room and first nodded at Clara.

"Congratulations."

"Madam."

She placed a very small wooden plaque on the desk. "I'm passing on a message for my teacher: if there's work in the future, we can cooperate."

Clara picked up the wooden plaque.

"Madam, this wooden plaque is..."

"A courtesy given by the Civilian Guild to Minor Adepts. Starting today, you are someone whose words hold weight in the Civilian Guild.

"From now on, if you need to use their channels, present the plaque; if they need to employ you, they will ask you first."

She left the moment she finished speaking, departing just as swiftly as she had arrived.

Just as the group was preparing to go eat lunch, the old man from the mailroom knocked on the door.

"Lecturer Fairfield, there's mail for you downstairs."

What was delivered was a booklet wrapped in dark chestnut calfskin. The bottom right corner of the cover bore a family crest: two swans with intertwined necks.

Sophia snatched it. "What's this?"

"Don't look at it," Isabella said, suddenly standing up.

"Why can't I look!"

"I know what it is."

While Clara was still confused, Richard also recognized the booklet's origin.

He had seen one with a similar cover at Phillips's house back then; it had contained twenty or so marriageable young ladies from count families.

Sophia had already flipped it open. "Wow! It's full of young talents from count families!"

"...Sophia."

"Clara, listen to me first!"

Sophia held the booklet high, cleared her throat, and began reading in the tone of a matchmaker.

"Page one: Anderson Blackburn. Twenty-nine years old. Minor Adept of the Moon Hunting Tradition. Head of the Branch Office in the Western District of the Imperial Capital. Holds the rank of major, and is proficient in two classical languages."

"Not bad. Other than being a little old, there's nothing wrong with him," Richard commented.

"Joel Blackburn. Twenty-four years old. Senior Practitioner of the Star Map tradition. Currently an assistant researcher at the Royal Observatory."

"This one is the same age as you, senior sister."

"The third one..." Sophia's voice changed. She turned the booklet around to show Richard.

"This one is actually quite handsome. Though, of course, not as handsome as you, Richard."

Richard gave Sophia a half-smile.

"He is quite handsome, but this gentleman put way too much pomade in his hair, so his hairstyle is a bit flat."

"Enough, you two!" Clara revealed a rare expression of embarrassed annoyance.

"Page four..."

"Sophia!"

Behind the desk, Isabella had remained completely silent.

Richard turned his head and saw his aunt covering her face with both hands.

"Auntie?"

"...It's nothing."

"What's wrong?"

Isabella lowered her hands, a very complicated expression on her face.

"When I was at the university, I received a small booklet just like this one too."

Sophia let out an "Ah," and set the booklet down.

"Mentor, what kind of people were in yours?"

"The people in my booklet..." Isabella thought for a moment.

"Overall, their qualifications weren't as good as Clara's."

She looked up at her student. Clara was standing in front of the desk, her head practically buried in her chest.

"You are much stronger than I was back then."

Blushing, Clara dashed forward, snatched the booklet back from Sophia's hands, and shoved it into the bottom drawer of the desk.

"I'm very busy and have no time to talk about these things. I'll have my uncle reject them for me later."

"Then when are you not busy?" Sophia teased.

"I don't know." Clara pushed the drawer shut and turned around.

"Mentor, there's still half of the first-year assignments left to grade. I'll grade them."

Clara sat down at her desk, picked up her red pen, and busied herself with her head down, just as she always had before her promotion.

Richard and Sophia, meanwhile, went to the cafeteria to buy food, thinking about the events they had witnessed that morning.

The moment one's Rank increased, one's standing in the outside world's evaluation system automatically adjusted upward, granting them bargaining power.

That evening, the celebratory banquet was held at the Red Elm Restaurant.

After Richard finished this meal, he would have to go on a business trip with Professor Mortimer the next day.

Everyone under Isabella had arrived: Sophia, Clara, Thomson, Price, plus Richard, who wasn't considered her student but mooched off her private lessons every day.

Thomson had shelled out the most money, Price was in charge of running errands and booking the table, and Sophia was in charge of telling everyone she met across the entire Department of Classics.

From the very first minute they sat down, Sophia had not been serious at all.

"Hello, Lecturer Fairfield!"

"..."

"Lecturer Fairfield, could you trouble yourself to pass me the salt?"

Clara pushed the salt shaker over, shooting her an annoyed glance.

"Many thanks, Lecturer Fairfield!"

Price couldn't hold back. "Sophia, we're all from the same class. Why do you keep calling her 'Lecturer, Lecturer'?"

"That's how it's written in the department's official documents," Sophia said with a serious face.

"Lecturer of the Department of Classics, Lecturer Fairfield."

When the third dish was served, Sophia raised her hand again.

"Lecturer Fairfield!"

Clara finally looked up.

"Lecturer, there is a matter this student does not understand."

Sophia folded her hands obediently on the table and sat up perfectly straight.

"I heard that Minor Adepts can intercept ether from the environment."

"They can."

"Then do you still need to eat?"

Clara snatched a piece of meat straight out of Sophia's bowl.

"I do, and my appetite is bigger than yours now."

"After a promotion, the circuits need some time to readjust. It's only natural to eat more."

Sophia let out an "Ah," and turned to look at Richard, her face a picture of great grievance.

"Did you see that? She's bullying me with her Rank. She even has to one-up me when it comes to eating."

Richard finished the last half of the roast goose and put down his fork with utmost sincerity.

"Senior sister, I'm actually the one eating the most at this table."

Sophia pulled her bowl into her chest, looked at Clara, then at Richard, and muttered sullenly, "...Then I won't eat today. I'll drink soup instead."

"Soup won't work either," Clara said.

"Why!"

"I've already drunk it all," Richard said bluntly.

Beside them, Price laughed so hard he dropped his fork.

After three rounds of drinks, Isabella's tongue started to slur.

"Here it comes, here it comes," Price lowered his voice. "Mentor is about to lecture on declensions."

Isabella slammed her cup onto the table. "I am not talking about declensions! Today, we talk about something else."

"Talk about what?"

She waved her hand, sweeping it across the entire table from left to right.

"Today, we talk about our Room 314."

Her gaze first landed on Clara. "One."

Then it shifted to Sophia. "Sophia, next year. The year after, at the latest."

Sophia's hand, holding her cup, froze, her smile a bit stiff. "...Mentor."

"With Sophia, that makes two."

Isabella then turned to Richard, narrowing her eyes until it made him feel fuzzy with dread.

"You brat, and you!"

"Auntie, I'm eighteen this year."

"So what if you're eighteen!" Isabella slammed the table.

She held up three fingers.

"Three Minor Adepts under one roof! In the past few decades, not a single teaching and research office in the entire Department of Classics has managed to achieve this.

"The best was Professor Mortimer's room. He produced two consecutively, and it took him over a decade."

Although there were people who promoted to Minor Adept every year, they were divided among all the higher learning institutions.

To have three capable of promoting successively within her own teaching and research office was indeed a feat.

Isabella retracted her fingers and grasped her cup again.

"When that time comes, if anyone in the department office dares to say, 'Ashford's room is full of nothing but little girls,' I'll slap the approved research funding sheet right on their face."

Thomson quietly added from the side, "Mentor, there's also the two of us."

Isabella turned her head. "You two don't count."

Thomson went "Oh," and Price also went "Oh."

The two looked at each other and actually clinked their glasses quite happily.

"Why are you guys so happy?" Richard couldn't help but ask.

"Our artifacts lost the ability to metamorphose a long time ago."

Price set down his cup without a shred of shame.

"That worn-out book of Thomson's metamorphosed once in 1912, and then it hasn't budged an inch in three years."

Thomson's face flushed red. "It's not a worn-out book, it's a manuscript from 1432."

"It hasn't changed in three years regardless."

"...That is my artifact thinking."

"Mine is even worse." Price rolled up his sleeve to reveal a very old copper ring on his wrist.

"From my Signature to today, it only has one ability: helping me remember where I put my keys and forms."

"That's quite useful, too," Richard said awkwardly.

"It really is useful." Price didn't seem to think anything of it.

"Mentor couldn't find the fieldwork form last week, and I was the one who found it."

"This is as far as I go in this life. I've accepted my fate. If I can't advance, I'll just grind for another dozen years, and I'll eventually scrape by to become a lecturer.

"Besides, if our teaching and research office has three Minor Adepts, I can ride those coattails for the rest of my life."

Thomson nodded with extra vigor. "When we're teaching in the department by then, we'll speak with much more clout!"

In the seat of honor, Isabella raised her cup.

"All right, from now on the two of you will watch over the room full of books for me. Someone has to keep an eye on them."

Upon her fifth cup, Isabella suddenly set her glass down.

"Once both of you are promoted... it will be time for me to make a move."

Clara looked up. "Mentor."

"I know I can't reach the level of a Virtuoso." Isabella waved her hand.

"I just want to see what the scenery looks like for a Major Adept.

"When a Scholar moves up, it's different from a Hunter.

"A Hunter focuses on themselves; a Scholar focuses on how far their students go, expanding their own influence."

She downed the wine in her cup in one gulp. "...I won't say any more. If I talk too much, I'll regret it when I sober up tomorrow."

Sitting diagonally across from her, Richard silently committed these words to memory.

Fighting alone could never compare to the backing of an entire team of Scholars.

Toward the end of the meal, Thomson and Price headed back first.

Isabella pushed her wine glass aside and had the waiter bring a pot of hot water.

"Richard."

"Here."

"You've been thinking about the same thing from the very beginning tonight."

Richard didn't deny it.

"I was thinking about the line of text that floated above the center of the circle. I could make out its skeleton: the first part was a location, the latter part was a companion object, and a word connected them in the middle, meaning 'together with...'"

Isabella poured the hot water into her cup.

"You figured that out yourself?"

"Deduced it on the spot."

"...Fine." She sighed.

"Then I'll explain it all thoroughly at once, to save you from making wild guesses. If you guess wrong, something bad will happen."

She pushed her cup to the middle of the table.

"An honorific name consists of a total of three stanzas. The ones you've heard people recite during fieldwork have all been complete three stanzas, so you assumed honorific names were exclusive to Virtuosos.

"You're wrong. Anyone who has touched the threshold of a Minor Adept and truly crossed it has written the first stanza.

"The skeleton of the first stanza is exactly what you deciphered today: a location plus a companion object. Where one stands, and what one is with."

She held up a second finger.

"The second stanza requires you to accomplish a feat: 'He who once achieved a certain deed with a certain object.'

"It describes a great undertaking. By the time you can write it, you will have already finished it.

"The third stanza is the shortest, and the most difficult: 'Has... has... leaving only... he who...'"

Her voice lowered. "The third stanza can only be written at the exact moment you surrender your physical body."

Richard recalled the lines he had heard with his own ears:

Blood has sealed the saddle, bone has become the bow, leaving only the sound of hooves eternally hunting in this world;

The lungs have departed, bone has become the flute, leaving only the breath existing in this world;

Feet have become the path, bone has become the bridge, leaving only the journey home suspended forever in this world.

"So those who have assembled all three stanzas are called Virtuosos."

"Correct."

Speaking of this, Isabella remembered something else and looked at Clara. "You have already passed this threshold. I still need to explain the concept of pre-selecting a tradition to them."

Richard sat up straight. He was no stranger to pre-selecting a tradition; Hecate had spoken about it all night at the round table last year.

"On the night you become a Minor Adept, you can pre-select a tradition for when you become a Major Adept later on, or you can choose not to."

"Pre-selecting makes you one tier stronger, but your path is locked."

Richard continued for her.

"Where did you hear that from?"

"I read it in a book."

Isabella stared at him for two seconds and didn't press the matter. "The book didn't explain it entirely."

She drew a line across the tablecloth with her fingertip.

"Pre-selecting is the equivalent of carving your first stanza onto the stone ridges of a tradition.

"The ridges are already there; predecessors have honed them for centuries for you.

"Once your sentence is carved onto them, your journey moving forward will be fast and stable."

"And the downside?"

"The downside is that if you want to change it later, it will be like slicing flesh from your own bones. You might never be able to advance again after that."

"And if you don't pre-select?"

"If you don't pre-select, the first stanza is written upon yourself."

She drew her fingertip back.

"There are no ridges, no predecessors, nothing.

"You have to construct the ritual yourself, find the medium yourself, and if something goes wrong, no one will be there to cover for you.

"But when you change your mind, you won't have to pay any price."

"The vast majority of people remain Minor Adepts for their entire lives, so they all pre-select a tradition."

"The archives of the Old Continent contain hundreds of thousands of fragmented stanzas—all incomplete sentences."

Richard wondered what his own first stanza would be.

As for the location segment, he already had a faint idea in his heart.

Messenger, ferryman, boundary crosser, the two sides of the mirror, the lord of the hunt's herald... All these titles pointed to the same position: between the boundaries.

He stood between the two realms, bringing words from this shore to the other, and delivering spirits from the other shore to this one.

As for the companion object...

After the party dispersed, Richard supported his aunt out the door. Clara had gone to the intersection to hail a carriage.

Sophia had come out first and was standing alone under the streetlamp at the restaurant entrance.

With her back to the street and both hands shoved in her coat pockets, she was looking up at the sky.

There was nothing in the sky. Though, after the blackout, there were more stars than in previous years.

Isabella patted Richard's arm.

"Go over there."

"...Auntie?"

"Didn't you see?"

Richard had certainly seen it.

All night long, Sophia had laughed the loudest and offered toasts the most diligently.

But every time her eyes landed on Clara, they lingered on the tuning fork tucked at Clara's waist.

Isabella pulled her arm out of his grasp and stood steady on her own.

"I'll head over first."

"You're still drunk."

"I'm not drunk." She took two steps forward, her footing swaying slightly.

"...I am completely sober."

"Ah, Mentor." Sophia turned her head, immediately pasting a smile on her face.

"Is the carriage here? Is Clara still haggling with the driver..."

"Sophia."

"I'm here."

"I know you saw Clara get promoted, and then with me saying those things in front of everyone today, you've started feeling anxious."

The smile on Sophia's face stiffened for half a second. "...No, I haven't."

"I have been your mentor since prep school. Back when you needed to buy those feminine things, I was the one who went with you."

Hearing this, Richard turned his face away, pretending he hadn't heard a thing.

At this moment, not a hint of drunkenness could be seen on Isabella's face. "Sophia, you can't hide what you're thinking from me."

A carriage sped past the end of the street, its lamps casting the three people's shadows long and short.

Sensing the off-kilter atmosphere from a distance, Clara stopped in her tracks and didn't come over.

Sophia pulled her hands out of her pockets.

"...I'm not upset."

Isabella didn't speak, waiting for her to continue.

"I'm really not upset." Sophia turned her face, no longer able to maintain her smile.

"I saw Clara when she got promoted. At the time, I only had one thought: she looked so beautiful."

She chuckled to herself.

"...And then I thought about how I'm a year older than her, and achieved my Signature more than a year before her."

She raised her head, looking very seriously at the two of them.

"I just feel... like I can't keep up anymore."