It was Friday. On the school bus, Evelyn sat in the row behind him, squeezed in with two other girls.
She poked Richard in the back. "Brother, did you really just walk all the way home yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"Were you tired?"
"It was alright."
"Liar." Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Mom said she could wring the sweat out of your shirt when you got back."
Richard didn't reply, though the girl beside her let out a soft giggle.
Evelyn glared at the girl, looking a bit annoyed.
..................
The morning classes were packed, with history and geography running back-to-back.Sitting in the classroom, Richard realized for the first time that attending class didn't have to be sheer agony.
In the past, listening to a lecture felt like hearing it through a layer of water; the teacher's words would echo in his ears, making it impossible to grasp the main points.
It was different now. The changes brought by unlocking Learning allowed his brain to categorize information automatically.
When the teacher mentioned a concept, he could instantly connect it to what he already knew.
When they discussed the distribution of colonies on the New Continent, the coastlines he had drawn in yesterday's geography class automatically surfaced in his mind;
when they covered the history of the steam engine's improvements, the dates and names were no longer just numbers crammed together—they automatically aligned into a clear timeline, making the causes and effects obvious at a glance.
His experience was steadily growing.
[Learning] Lv.1 Experience: 8/200
It had gone up by several points over the two classes. Classroom learning was definitely more efficient than flipping through books on his own.
If he maintained this pace every day and added self-study after school, reaching level two within a month was entirely foreseeable, perhaps even faster.
The third period was Latin, the watershed subject that separated a "gentleman's education" from a "craftsman's education."
Students with top marks in Latin had a chance to apply for further studies at Imperial Capital University after graduation;
those who didn't usually ended up at a local technical college.
Mr. Holland, the Latin teacher, was in his early forties. He had a broad, thickset build, with a triple chin resting on his collar.
His everyday speech was a mumbled blur, earning him the private nickname "the fat man with walnuts in his mouth" among the students.
But the moment he opened his mouth to recite Latin, he transformed into a crowing rooster—his voice booming, fully resonant, and perfectly cadenced.
"Today, we will review Cicero's First Oration against Catiline."
He opened his textbook and placed one hand behind his back. "Warren, recite the third paragraph."
Warren stood up. He stumbled through it, but managed to finish the recitation.
Children from wealthy families had private tutors from a young age, so they at least had a foundation.
"Passable. Sit down." Mr. Holland turned toward the back row. "Fenton, your turn."
Hugh turned pale the moment he stood up.
He opened his mouth and stuttered out the opening:
"Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra...
(When, O Catiline, do you mean to cease abusing our patience...)"
He froze there.
Mr. Holland prompted him, his face expressionless:
"Quam diu etiam furor iste tuus nos eludet?
(How long is that madness of yours still to mock us?)"
Red in the face, Hugh repeated the line, but immediately got stuck again.
"Enough, sit down."
Mr. Holland continued calling names in order. Sitting right behind Hugh was Richard:
"Williams, you try."
Several nosy students turned their heads.
Their eyes held a hint of gloating; this sickly boy was always dead last in Latin.
Richard quickly scanned the textbook, closed it, and stood up.
In his memory, this recitation had always been a nightmare.
Latin was already a mouthful, and Cicero's long sentences were incredibly convoluted, nesting clauses within clauses.
To a frail, sickly boy who suffered from frequent headaches, trying to parse it was no different from gnawing on an unchewable scrap of rawhide.
But now, the moment he opened his mouth, the Latin sentences surfaced automatically.
From the opening line to the fourth, the fifth, and straight on through.
There was no hesitation between sentences, nor was there any rushed, artificial speed.
By the time he finished the entire paragraph, Mr. Holland's expression had shifted from routine indifference to intense scrutiny:
"Williams, you..."
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"Your pronunciation has improved far too much since last week.
You nailed the distinction between long and short vowels in particular. You must have been studying very hard recently?"
"Yes, sir. I've been cramming the basics."
Mr. Holland gave a grunt of acknowledgment and didn't press the matter, moving on with the lesson.
When Richard sat back down, he caught Hugh's expression out of the corner of his eye.
Written all over his face was, "Since when did you become like this?"
..................
When the bell rang, the classroom erupted into noise.
Students packed away their textbooks, their chair legs scraping harshly against the floor.
"Williams, come here for a moment."
The bald, middle-aged man stood by the podium, one hand leaning on the desk while the other twirled a piece of chalk.
The rest of the students filed out. A few threw glances their way before leaving.
Once the classroom was empty, Mr. Holland set the chalk back in the tray and dusted off his hands.
"Are you aware that every autumn, the Imperial Capital hosts the Cicero Cup?"
"...Not really."
"It's a jointly organized Latin speech competition. Greenwood gets two spots every year, which usually go to the upperclassmen."
He shoved both hands into his pockets:
"But this year is a bit of a special case. Not enough upperclassmen signed up."
As he said this, he carried a kind of exasperation unique to teachers.
The students here at Greenwood were all terrified of participating in this sort of competition.
For Mr. Holland, leaving the spots empty meant throwing away his reputation with the Classical Society for nothing.
Originally, he had planned to have Lillian Hayward participate.
That girl had a solid foundation, and her written work was consistently near the top.
But during a small internal presentation last semester—a setting with barely over twenty people—Lillian's voice shook the entire time she was on stage, and she couldn't step away from her script at all.
A speech competition usually meant hundreds of people sitting in the audience; for her, it would be a disaster.
Today in class, Richard's performance had caught him entirely by surprise.
The boy must have put in serious effort outside of class, so he decided to give it a shot:
"I'm still short one student for the competition. Are you interested?"
Richard's first instinct was to decline. With his cheat ability, laying low and steadily accumulating strength was the right path.
"The top three get a cash prize." Mr. Holland glanced at the boy's clearly ill-fitting leather shoes:
"Fifty pounds for first place, thirty for second, and fifteen for third."
The refusal already on Richard's lips died in his throat.
"On top of that, students who place will be added to the Classical Society's recommendation list."
Mr. Holland added:
"When wealthy families in the Imperial Capital hire tutors, they strictly go by this list.
Once you're on it, an hour's tutoring fee can match a common laborer's daily wage."
Fifty pounds!
Even if he only took third place, fifteen pounds was a sum his mother, gripping her butter knife, would have to meticulously stretch over two entire months.
And the recommendation list had far greater long-term value; it was a reliable channel for steady income.
He swallowed his refusal right back down: "I'll participate."
Mr. Holland nodded, his face betraying no extra emotion:
"The competition is in a month and a half. I'm free on Tuesday afternoons and can tutor you one-on-one, free of charge."
"Thank you, sir."
The bald, middle-aged man merely waved his hand and turned to erase the chalkboard.
He had just picked up the eraser when Richard walked over: "Sir, let me handle that."
Mr. Holland paused in surprise, and the eraser was taken from his hand.
Working from left to right, top to bottom, Richard wiped the board clean, simply standing on his tiptoes for the spots he couldn't quite reach.
Chalk dust drifted down in a flurry; he turned his face away to avoid it and kept erasing.
Once he was finished, he knocked the dust off the eraser, set it back in the chalk tray, and turned around to grab his schoolbag.
From start to finish, he didn't say another word, acting as if the gesture wasn't worth making a fuss over.
Standing by the podium, Mr. Holland watched his retreating back with a touch of bewilderment.
In his twenty years of teaching, he had seen students volunteer to erase the board before.
But most of them would look back at him after finishing, eager to score some brownie points.
This kid, usually so tight-lipped, was utterly straightforward. He did the job, grabbed his bag, and left, as casually as if he had just turned off a light switch on his way out.
Richard grabbed his schoolbag and headed for the door.
Just as he reached the doorway, a voice sounded from behind him:
"Williams, your foundation is better than you think. Don't put it to waste."
Richard reined in the slight curve of his lips, schooling his expression back into its usual calm.
He had already verified the boost that Learning brought, and add to that the one-on-one tutoring.
A month and a half was enough time for him to reach Learning Lv.2 with another half-month to spare for solidifying his skills; he just might be able to stand on the same level as those who had grown up with private tutors.
As for whether he could actually place, there were too many variables—it was too early to tell.
But at the very least, he had a clear short-term goal, and all that was left was to put in the time, day by day.
On his way back, he ran into Hugh at the turn of the stairs.
The teenager was leaning against the wall waiting for him, his stubborn bangs drooping down once again.
"What did Holland want with you?"
"He wants me to participate in a competition."
"What kind of competition?"
"A Latin speech competition in the Imperial Capital."
Hugh's expression cycled through three phases.
First shock, then confusion, and finally, a wry smile tinged with admiration.
"You used to be dead last in the class."
"Which is why I'm going to start cramming."
Hugh wanted to say something encouraging, but after rolling the words around in his mouth, he could only squeeze out:
"If you need any help... never mind. My Latin is even worse than yours."
"You can be my audience," Richard said:
"When I practice, you can sit and listen. It doesn't matter if you don't understand it; just help me check my stage presence."
"I can certainly do that."
"Then that works."
The two walked shoulder to shoulder toward their next classroom, the numbers on his panel quietly ticking away at the edge of his consciousness.
[Breathing] Lv.1 Experience: 28/200
[Learning] Lv.1 Experience: 10/200
One leveled up just by living, the other by studying—both were moving.