Chapter 68: Man of the Hour

On his first night back in Briston, Richard locked himself in his bedroom.

The notebook he had brought back from the Imperial Capital University Library lay open on the left side of his desk, while the Gargoyle sat in the right corner serving as a paperweight.

The curtains were drawn tight, the desk lamp casting a warm circle of yellow light across the tabletop.

Downstairs in the living room, his father was flipping through the newspaper while Evelyn whispered something to their mother, their voices drifting up through the floorboards in muffled tones.

He had reviewed the raw materials from his notebook over and over in his mind on the train, right up until he fell asleep.

Now back in his room, his first task was to properly record everything he had crammed into his head.

No matter how tenacious a long-term memory might be, it was never as reliable as a physical record.

He worked until past one in the morning. The light in Evelyn's room had long since gone out by the time he finally set his pencil down, rubbed his eyes, and got ready for bed.

...

Arriving back at Greenwood on Thursday morning, Richard thought he had walked into the wrong school.

He had just stepped through the main doors of the teaching building when two boys walking toward him down the corridor stopped dead in their tracks.

"Williams!" one of them called out, waving with a wide smile.

Richard didn't know them, but he returned a polite nod.

He made it barely twenty steps down the hall before he was intercepted again.

This time it was a girl from the neighboring class. She stepped out of a side door clutching a textbook and nearly collided with him.

"Sorry—oh, are you Williams? From the Cicero Cup?"

"Yes."

"That's amazing!"

She hurried off before he could reply, leaving the faint scent of soap lingering in the air.

Richard frowned and quickened his pace toward his own classroom.

He had a rough idea of what had happened, but experiencing it firsthand was far noisier than he had anticipated.

When he pushed open the door, dozens of eyes snapped toward him.

After a brief silence, applause broke out from the back row and swept across the room.

Warren stood beside his desk, clapping louder than anyone else.

Mason cheered along, pumping a fist over his head.

Hugh shrank back in his corner, but he was clapping hard too, his hands flushed red from the effort.

Richard set his bag on his desk and offered the class a nod of acknowledgment.

Before the applause could fully die down, the front door opened again.

The principal himself stepped inside.

Principal Fletcher was a man in his early sixties, his hair parted down the middle and slicked with a thin layer of pomade.

He rarely visited classrooms in person, typically only showing his face at the opening ceremony each semester.

The noise in the room vanished the moment he appeared.

Fletcher stopped at the front of the room, swept his gaze across the students, and finally rested it on Richard.

"I am here today to make an announcement," he said.

He drew a letter from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and began to read in his auditorium speaking voice:

"In this year's Cicero Cup Latin speech competition held in the Imperial Capital, our own Richard Williams has secured second place in the Empire."

Applause erupted once more.

It was much louder this time because the principal was clapping too.

"This is one of the best results Greenwood has ever achieved." Fletcher folded the letter and put it back in his pocket.

"The last time a student secured a top-three finish in an Empire-wide competition was twenty years ago."

He spoke for another two minutes, delivering the usual platitudes about "studying hard," "winning glory for the school," and "the power of a good role model."

When he finished, he offered Richard a slight nod and walked out.

As the applause faded, the stares from classmates who hadn't even known his full name before took on a new, careful weight.

It was hard to say whether it was respect or curiosity; it was likely a bit of both.

Richard pulled his textbook from his bag, flipped to the day's chapter, and calmly waited for the bell.

When lunchtime rolled around, Richard carried his tray over to Warren's table. At least four people greeted him on the way, three of whom he couldn't name.

Warren was already seated, and his lunch spread was far more lavish than usual:

Two steaks, a bowl of cream soup, a large glass of fresh milk, and a dish of baked pudding.

"Extra portions today?" Richard asked, taking the seat next to him.

"It's for you." Warren pushed the second steak across the table. "To celebrate."

"Did your family buy the cafeteria?"

"My dad's orders," Warren mumbled around a mouthful of bread.

"His exact words were, 'You need to cement yourself in that Williams kid's social circle. I'll cover all expenses, and invite him over to the house if you get the chance.'"

He swallowed the bread and pointed his fork at the second steak.

"Strictly speaking, my dad bought you that steak. I'm just the delivery boy."

"Thank Mr. Crowley for me," Richard said.

Richard was starving. He had only eaten a few pieces of dry bread on the train back from the Imperial Capital yesterday, and he hadn't had much for breakfast, either.

He cut a piece of steak and put it in his mouth. Thanks to the optimization of his [eating] skill, the taste of the meat juices was distinctly sharper than before.

As he chewed, he glanced at his Panel.

The progress bar was climbing faster than he had anticipated, likely due to the quality of the meal.

High-protein, high-density food provided his body with better fuel per bite, so the Panel logged a larger gain.

Warren's sponsored steak was doing more than just saving him lunch money—it was directly driving his attribute growth.

Mason sat diagonally across from them, tearing into a chicken leg with a grease-slicked mouth.

"What exactly did you say in that speech? You actually beat all those rich boys from the Imperial Capital."

"Not all of them. I came in second. First place went to someone from the Montagu Family," Richard said.

"The Montagu Family? Well, there you go... Second place is still incredible! When has Greenwood ever taken second in the Empire?"

"Didn't the principal just say? Twenty years ago."

"Doesn't that make you a once-in-twenty-years genius?"

"I'm not a genius. The topic just happened to cover exactly what I prepared for."

It was a half-truth.

The impromptu debate topic had indeed landed squarely in a field he had pored over countless times, but snagging second place required far more than just luck.

During the lunch break, Richard borrowed the phone in the administration building and dialed the number Warren had given him.

It rang six times before someone picked up.

"Clement Antiquities," the old man's dry voice answered over the line.

"Mr. Clement, this is Richard Williams. I'm the student who looked at the Sphinx Oil Lamp last time."

The line went quiet for two seconds.

"Oh... it's you." The old man seemed to remember. "That lamp is still here. No one else has asked for it."

"Two pounds, right?"

"Two pounds. I told you I'd hold it for two months at most, and your time is just about up."

"I'll pick it up this weekend if I have the time."

"Alright. Bring cash."

The call disconnected.

...

That evening, the family finished dinner.

His father sat flipping through the newspaper in the living room while Evelyn hunched over her homework at the dining table.

His mother seemed in good spirits, humming a tune as she cleared the dishes in the kitchen.

"I'm heading upstairs," he said.

"Finished your homework?" Evelyn asked without looking up.

"Just about."

"Locking your door again?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Fine... get to sleep early," his sister sighed.