Chapter 316: Seed, Mummy

By the time Richard entered through the west side hall, a queue had already formed before the drawing bucket.

The winners from all three age brackets stood gathered together—a dozen or so people, every one of them having fought their way out of their respective arenas.

Most of those standing in the side hall were postgraduates.

The senior who was drawing lots pulled a slip from the bucket, unfolded it, and read aloud.

"Richard Williams, Imperial Capital University Preparatory Course."

"Debate topic: Can the state conscript a person unwilling to die?"

"Opposition."

A second slip was drawn.

"Reginald Thorpe, School of Politics and Economics postgraduate, Proposition."

Richard turned his head and looked toward the far side of the hall.

Reginald Thorpe stood there, pale and plump.

According to the dossier Catherine had shown him, the Thorpe family ran a shipping business in the imperial capital.

The moment war broke out, maritime freight orders had flooded their docks.

The ether around the man was far thicker than his own.

The two stepped up to their respective podiums, and the moderator walked to the center of the stage.

"Third match of the finals: postgraduate Reginald Thorpe versus preparatory student Richard Williams."

Thorpe looked up.

"Judges, the crux of today's topic does not lie in the word 'conscript.'"

His voice was not loud, but the moment the words left his mouth, the air in the entire lecture hall grew heavy.

Richard's brow twitched.

This was the pressure created by sheer ether density.

Within this field established by a Major Adept Scholar, the moment those words unfurled, they made listeners involuntarily want to nod.

The reporters from the press houses would probably just write it off vaguely as an "overwhelming aura."

Thorpe held up a single finger.

"An individual's right to refuse to die is a right.

But all rights must first be recognized and fulfilled by a living collective."

"Therefore, at a moment of life and death, the continued existence of the whole logically precedes the will of any single person within it."

He raised his hand.

On the other side of the veil, along the silver line of the debate stage, a city wall rose out of thin air.

Unlike the forms that had floated on the surface of the veil during the group stages, Thorpe's construct was anchored solid.

"At the Battle of Cannae, Hannibal slaughtered seventy thousand Romans in a single day, turning the main legions to ash."

Thorpe spoke very slowly.

"The Senate did not sue for peace, nor did they ransom the captives.

They conscripted slaves and seventeen-year-old boys, armed them, and fed them into the legions."

He gestured toward the city wall.

"Salus populi suprema lex esto—the welfare of the people is the supreme law.

Conscription is the price, and that price buys the right for everyone to keep living."

"Opening statement concluded."

"Opposition opening statement."

Richard stepped up to the podium.

"The Proposition has assumed one thing as fact: that throwing an unwilling man onto the battlefield actually allows him to hold off the enemy for the city-state.

What my side questions today is precisely that assumption."

Richard raised his hand.

He erected a Roman commander in a toga, standing within the veil.

"Devotio—devotion."

"At the Battle of Veseris, the consul Decius veiled his head in front of the entire army.

He offered himself, along with the enemy, to the gods of the Underworld, then rode alone into the enemy ranks to die.

The Romans believed that it was this very death that bought them the victory."

"But consider this, everyone: why did this devotion work?"

He looked out at the audience.

"Because Decius walked up there himself.

He chanted the prayers himself, spurred the horse himself, and surrendered his own life. You cannot force a person to sacrifice themselves."

"Therefore, our criterion is this: whether a life can hold off the enemy for the city-state depends on whether it was signed away willingly."

"A signed death bears weight and secures peace; an unsigned death cannot be forced down."

That last sentence was spoken for the echoes behind the veil.

The ladies in the audience—those who had family at the front, or who had just received telegrams—only understood half of it.

Richard stepped back to the podium.

"Cross-examination. Opposition goes first."

Richard did not try to touch the city wall; it was too thick to chisel through.

"Mr. Thorpe, you used this group of conscripts to prove that 'conscription is useful.'

I will ask only one thing: what did Rome promise those slaves?"

Thorpe's half-closed eyes lifted slightly. "...Freedom."

"Correct," Richard nodded.

"As long as they survived the war, they would be stripped of their slave status and become free men.

The very people you cited were, in fact, willing."

On the other side of the veil, next to Richard's standing commander, the faint forms of several slave soldiers surfaced, their shackles broken, gripping short swords of their own accord.

Thorpe spoke leisurely.

"Mr. Williams has chosen well... slave soldiers promised freedom count as willing. I will concede that point to you."

His voice sank again, and the stifling air in the packed hall grew heavier still.

"But when a city-state is on the verge of destruction, there is no time to ask every single person, 'Are you willing?'"

"If you want to preserve one person's 'willingness,' you must hand over the hundreds of thousands of lives behind this wall along with it."

On the other side of the veil, the city wall crashed forward.

Richard's breathing grew heavy.

An exquisite form could not hold up against a heavy one.

Sure enough, no matter how precisely Richard had chiseled his conclusion, the opponent's hammering blow forcefully bent the entire argument right back.

"The Proposition maintains its opening argument. Concluded."

The hall fell silent.

On the other side of the veil, Thorpe's city wall stood tall and imposing.

Meanwhile, Richard's exquisite Roman figures flickered, terribly frail.

The judges' panel did not deliberate for long.

The moderator announced from the stage.

"Third match of the finals: Proposition wins."

Applause broke out.

Richard scored very high on rhetoric.

However, Thorpe's declaration score overtook his.

Richard had lost, and he knew exactly why.

In words, he had won; within the veil, he had lost.

No matter how accurate his strikes were, without enough ether, that wall simply could not be moved.

Richard stepped down from the debate stage, passing the Proposition's podium.

"Mr. Williams."

Richard stopped in his tracks. "Yes?"

"Your segment on devotion was truly beautiful. So beautiful that I almost felt bad beating you."

Thorpe glanced at the dissipating city wall within the veil.

"It's just a pity that pretty words can't save a city, nor can they..."

Richard looked at him. This rich young master was overtly and covertly trying to knock him down a peg.

A voice drifted over lazily from the side. "Oh? And who is this?"

Phillips had squeezed his way over from the audience at some point.

"Mr. Thorpe from the School of Politics and Economics," Richard introduced him.

"Ah, Mr. Thorpe." Phillips puckered his lips toward the dissipating city wall.

"That wall of yours was built real sturdy. I'm just curious, your family is in the shipping business, right?"

"Yes."

"Then was that wall built with ship planks, or with other people's sons' lives?"

Thorpe's expression shifted. "What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't mean anything by it." Phillips looked innocent.

"I was just asking on behalf of the men at the front line.

While they're gnawing on hardtack in the trenches, a single trip by your estate's military supply ship probably earns more than what they'd make in several lifetimes, right?"

Thorpe opened his mouth.

"...I have nothing to do with that," he finally managed to choke out.

"There are plenty of things you have nothing to do with." Phillips shrugged.

"You beat my friend, and I wasn't happy about it, so I came over to have a quick chat with you. That's also something you have nothing to do with."

He winked at Richard.

"Let's go. We've talked so much the tea's gone cold."

The two walked out of the lecture hall. Even from far away, they could still hear Thorpe muttering something to someone behind them.

Richard cast a glance at him. "You didn't have to do that."

Phillips let out a laugh.

"That bit you said about Decius was so good, it made my blood run hot just sitting there listening to it.

And then to see it just crushed by his damn wall... I felt suffocated just watching it happen to you."

Richard smiled as well.

"Words determine the direction; ether determines the strength.

No matter how accurate my direction is, if my strength falls short, I still won't be able to push it."

"Then what about your future..." Phillips frowned.

"In the future, I'll just honestly build up my foundation.

Once my ether is strong enough, I'll be able to kick his damn wall down with a single blow."

"Ho, ambitious." Phillips whistled.

"When you kick him over, remember to invite me."

"Definitely."

As the two were talking, Montagu walked over from the audience section. He had also lost.

Among the dozen or so people who advanced, postgraduates made up seventy to eighty percent.

"I ran into a postgraduate as well," Montagu said, coming to a halt next to Richard.

"Are you convinced by your loss?" Phillips interjected.

"I am." Montagu did not look very regretful.

"I couldn't find a single flaw in my opening argument.

But when the other side pressed down... it was like trying to hold up a millstone with a fine needle."

"Still, the two of us are at least the only ones from the preparatory course to make it into the finals."

As they spoke, someone from the postgraduate group walked over toward them.

Richard met her gaze; it was Clara.

She seemed to have overheard the exchange between Richard and Thorpe just now.

Richard nodded at her, and Clara returned the gesture.

Her gaze paused in Thorpe's direction for a moment before she pulled it back.

Richard did not think much of it.

He had lost this match, but there were still several rounds left in the finals.

The slaughter among the postgraduates was only just beginning to heat up.

Phillips tucked his precious teapot into his personal leather bag and looked at him.

"Are you free tonight?"

"For what?"

"There's a little tavern east of the academy district that specializes in rare liquors from all over."

Phillips rubbed his hands together.

"Constance went back to her family today, so the two of us can..."

"I'm not free tonight," Richard cut him off.

The smile on Phillips's face froze.

"Going back to gnaw on books again?"

"Pretty much," Richard vaguely brushed it off.

The countdown for the seed's germination would reach zero tonight.

Phillips curled his lip but did not pester him any further.

"All right." He waved at Richard.

"When you finally have some free time, we'll go grab a drink."

The two parted ways at the intersection.

Richard walked along the sycamore-lined avenue toward his dormitory.

After the term began, the department had assigned dormitories to the students.

The Ashford Residence was nice, but a round trip from the West District to the academy district took nearly two hours.

Dealing with that commute every day would waste half the day just on travel.

Therefore, he usually slept in the academy district on weekdays, only returning to Ashford House once every half-month.

His dorm was a sun-facing single room.

One bed, one desk, an old wardrobe, and a gas stove.

Compared to his room in the Ashford Residence, it was naturally much shabbier.

Richard, however, preferred it here.

It was quiet at night, and with no one to disturb him, he was free to do whatever he pleased.

By the time he returned to the dorm, the sky was completely dark.

Streetlamps lit up one after another, casting deep and shallow shadows over the ivy-covered old walls.

Richard first bolted the door from the inside, then drew the curtains tight.

He sat down at his desk and called up the Panel.

The countdown in the seed's column was ticking down, tick by tick.

The first seed of the Sphinx had granted him Shadow Inversion.

What would this second one be?

Richard had no idea.

According to his experience with the first seed, once the countdown hit zero, a riddle would pop up on the Panel waiting for him.

Time ticked by, bit by bit.

Outside the window, a clock tower whose exact location was indiscernible chimed ten times in the distance.

Richard stood up, dimmed the desk lamp, poured himself half a glass of hot water, and set it on the nightstand.

He lay down in bed, pulling the covers up to his chest.

At the bottom of the Panel, the countdown line had reached zero.

[The seed has germinated. Entrance opened.]

[Enter?]

He selected [Yes].

His consciousness plunged into darkness.

Perhaps three seconds, perhaps three minutes.

A deck appeared beneath him.

Under his feet was the heavy swaying of a ship rising and falling in the waves.

Richard looked down.

The bare feet that entered his vision were so thin only bones remained, the skin baked by the sea breeze and the sun into an indescribable color.

The toes were long, the nails blackened.

This was not his body at all.

He tried to raise his hand.

Linen wrapped his arm, stamped with faded priestly inscriptions.

Had he turned into a mummy?