Chapter 60: We Are Not Born for Ourselves Alone

"But there are always those who are different."

His voice began to rise.

"There are always those who press their ears to the wall. They cannot bear not knowing."

"They hear the noises, and they want to know what is on the other side."

"They break open the wall and find the pipes."

He paused, letting the image of the pipes settle into the minds of the five hundred people in the audience.

"They follow the pipes deeper and discover they connect to a larger network. The network connects to a water tower, and beneath that tower is an underground river."

"Where does the underground river lead? They don't know, but they keep walking."

His hand lifted from the edge of the podium, pointing gently toward the audience.

His index finger pointed at the ground, as if indicating the stone slabs beneath their feet, or perhaps somewhere even deeper.

Someone in the audience followed his finger with a glance before quickly looking back up.

"Cicero once said,"

"Non nobis solum nati sumus. We are not born for ourselves alone."

"He wasn't speaking of political duty, much less civic responsibility."

"He was saying that... some things are larger than your room, and longer than your lifetime."

"You can choose to stay in your room, close the doors and windows, and treat the sound of the pipes as a hallucination. Most people spend their entire lives this way—safe, warm, and oblivious."

"Or you can choose to press your ear to the wall."

"To choose to break through and step into the world behind the pipes."

"That world might be colder, darker, and more dangerous than your room. The pipes will have fractures, and the underground river will hold things you have never seen."

"But at the very least, you are questioning."

"The act of questioning is civilization itself."

He slowed his pace at the end, leaving ample breathing room between every word.

"And the boundary of civilization..."

He paused. The entire chapel waited for his next word.

"...is the moment you stop questioning."

When those words fell from the podium, the people in the chapel were left speechless for a long time.

In the corner, Palmer was mid-bite into a pie.

He froze halfway, his mouth hanging open with a piece of kidney suspended in midair.

Applause started in the front row and rippled toward the back.

The sound of clapping hands compounded between the stone walls, rolling like thunder.

Palmer finally swallowed his mouthful of pie. He clapped his greasy hands twice, wiped them on his trousers, and went back to clapping.

Hutchinson rested his paper bag on his lap and clapped earnestly for a long time.

At the judging panel, the white-haired old professor set his pen down and applauded.

The Bald Professor didn't clap, but he had filled out every blank column on his scoring sheet.

The two headmasters were also taking notes. One finished writing, turned to say something to the other, and both men nodded in unison.

Richard bowed slightly on the podium and stepped down.

On the way back to his seat, he passed Montagu.

The blond youth turned his head to glance at him.

"Bene dixisti. Well spoken."

Offering a greeting in Latin on such an occasion was the equivalent of two swordsmen tapping their blades together after a match.

"Gratias tibi. Thank you," Richard replied.

Catherine sat two seats away, her red hair draping over her shoulders.

She didn't look over, but she spoke up as Richard walked past.

"Pipes," the red-haired girl said, a faint smile touching her lips. "My ancestors called them spirits."

Richard replied, "Everyone has their own name for them."

Catherine's smile widened slightly.

Simon remained silent for a long time after Richard sat back down.

After a while, he muttered, "I was trying to find logical flaws in your speech just now."

"Did you find any?"

"No." He pushed up his round-framed glasses. "Instead, I just confused myself. Now my head is full of pipes."

On the far right of the judging panel, Isabella Ashford looked down at her scoring sheet.

Her pen finally moved, jotting a number in both the 'Rhetorical Comprehension' and 'Depth of Expression' columns.

Originally, to avoid the appearance of nepotism, she had only planned to give him an average score.

But Richard's speech was so brilliant she couldn't help but give him two perfect scores.

Rooms, walls, pipes, pipelines, and underground rivers.

In front of an audience of over five hundred, this youth had used a public speech of less than four minutes to sketch a vague picture of the veil.

Not a single piece of professional jargon. Not a single word that would arouse suspicion.

Ordinary people heard a magnificent argument about the boundaries of knowledge and human curiosity.

Those in the know heard another layer entirely.

Finding someone with such genuine interest in what lay behind the veil was the very purpose of their selection.

Isabella screwed the cap back onto her pen and leaned back in her chair.

This child knew exactly what he was talking about.

And he knew exactly how much he should reveal on an occasion like this.

...

The final rankings were announced at four in the afternoon.

This time, there was no need to crowd around the notice board; the host read them out from the podium.

The white-haired old man cleared his throat, and the crowd of over five hundred quieted down.

"Ahem... The final rankings for this year's Cicero Cup are as follows."

"First place: Alexander Montagu, Eton College."

The applause from the audience was enthusiastic, but no one was surprised.

Montagu stood up from his seat and bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

Crushing the competition with his combined score from both rounds, he was the undisputed champion.

"Second place..."

The host paused.

He paused longer than he had before announcing first place, likely because the name caught him completely off guard.

"Richard Williams, Greenwood School."

The audience fell quiet for a moment. It was a school name no one had ever heard of.

But applause soon rang out, lasting even longer than when first place was announced.

The contestant who ranked fourth in the first round had vaulted straight to second based on his free speech in the second round.

The clapping carried a passionate warmth, reflecting an instinctive fondness for the underdog.

Richard stood up, bowed toward the judging panel, and sat back down.

Amid the applause drifting over from the audience, one pair of hands clapped exceptionally hard.

Mr. Holland stood up and sat back down, his bald head bobbing in the crowd.

Beside him, Mr. West was also clapping—with slightly less force, though a similar smile tugged at his lips.

Ms. Grant took off her gold-rimmed glasses once more and wiped them.

She rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand, pretending nothing was amiss.

"Third place: Catherine Blackwood, Cheltenham Ladies' College."

The red-haired girl stood up, gave a crisp nod, and sat back down.

After taking her seat, she glanced in Richard's direction, her lips moving.

Richard read her lips: "Next time."

The award ceremony proceeded immediately after the announcements, with the winners stepping up to the podium in turn.

Montagu went up first. He accepted an envelope and certificate from the host, then bowed to both the judging panel and the audience.

His posture was impeccable, with even the angle of his bow a perfect thirty degrees.

Richard took the stage after him.

The host—the white-haired old man—hesitated slightly as he handed the envelope over.

"Greenwood School... is it in the North?"

"It's in Briston, sir."

"Oh, Briston."

The old man nodded, likely having drawn a blank when searching his memory for the name a moment ago. "Very good, young man."

The envelope contained a bank draft for thirty pounds and a recommendation letter stamped with the crest of the Classical Society.

Thirty pounds. He weighed the envelope in his hand on the stage.

It was enough for his mother to budget carefully for over half a year, enough to buy dozens of pairs of properly fitting leather shoes for Evelyn, and enough to buy back Old Man Clement's Sphinx Oil Lamp with more than half the money to spare.

Then there was the recommendation list. Wealthy families in the Imperial Capital relied on this very list when hiring tutors.

The recommendation list was a channel for consistent income; its long-term value was far greater than the thirty pounds itself.

He put the envelope into his satchel and zipped it shut.