"But some people are different."
His tone began to rise.
"There are always those who press their ears to the wall, unable to bear not knowing."
"They hear a sound, and they want to know what’s on the other side of the wall."
"They chisel through the wall and see the pipes."
He paused, letting the image of "pipes" land in the minds of the five hundred-plus people present.
"They follow the pipes deeper and discover they connect to a larger network. That network connects to a water tower, and beneath the water tower is an underground river."
"Where does the underground river lead? They don’t know, but they keep walking."
He lifted his hand from the edge of the lectern and pointed gently toward the audience below.
His index finger pointed to the floor, as if pointing to the stone slabs underfoot, or perhaps to something deeper still.
Someone in the audience followed his finger with their gaze, glancing down before quickly looking away.
"Cicero once said..."
"*Non nobis solum nati sumus.* (We are not born for ourselves alone.)"
"He wasn’t talking about political obligations, and certainly not civic duty."
"He was talking about... something larger than your room, longer than your life."
"You can choose to stay in your room, close the doors and windows, and dismiss the sound from the pipes as a hallucination.
Most people live their whole lives this way—safe, warm, and oblivious."
"Or you can choose to press your ear to the wall."
"Choose to chisel through it and walk into the world behind the pipes."
"That world might be colder than your room, darker, more dangerous.
The pipes will have cracks, and the underground river will hold things you’ve never seen before."
"But at least, you are questioning."
"The act of questioning is civilization itself."
He slowed his pace for the final words, leaving enough space between each one to breathe.
"And the boundary of civilization..."
He stopped. The entire chapel waited for his next word.
"...is the moment you stop questioning."
After those words fell from the lectern, the people in the chapel were speechless for a long time.
In a corner, Palmer was biting into a pie.
He stopped mid-bite, his mouth half-open, a piece of kidney suspended in mid-air.
Applause started from the front rows and spread to the back.
The sound of hand striking hand layered between the stone walls, creating an effect like rolling thunder.
Palmer finally swallowed the pie in his mouth, clapped his greasy hands twice, wiped them on his trousers, and continued clapping.
Hutchinson placed the paper-wrapped package in his hands on his lap and clapped earnestly for a long time.
On the judges’ panel, the white-haired old professor put down his pen and applauded.
Professor Sirdon didn’t clap, but he filled every blank on his scoring sheet.
The two headmasters were also taking notes. After one finished writing, he turned and said something to the other, and they both nodded.
Richard gave a slight bow on the stage and walked off.
On the way back to his seat, he passed Montague.
The blond boy turned his head and glanced at him.
"*Bene dixisti.* (You spoke well.)"
Using Latin to greet each other on such an occasion was like two swordsmen touching the tips of their blades after a duel.
"*Gratias tibi.* (Thank you)," Richard replied.
Catherine was sitting two seats away, her red hair draped over her shoulders.
She didn’t look over, but she spoke as Richard passed.
"Pipes," the red-haired girl said, a curve on her lips. "My ancestors called them Elves."
Richard replied, "Everyone has their own name for them."
Catherine’s smile widened slightly.
After he sat back down, Simon was silent for a long time.
After a moment, he said quietly, "I was trying to find a logical flaw in your speech."
"Did you find one?"
"No." He pushed up his round-rimmed glasses. "Instead, I got myself all twisted up. Now my head is full of pipes."
At the far right of the judges’ panel, Isabella Ashford lowered her head to look at the scoring sheet.
The pen in her hand finally moved, writing a number in each of the columns for "Rhetorical Comprehension" and "Depth of Expression."
Originally, to avoid any appearance of favoritism toward a relative, she had only planned to give an average score.
But Richard’s speech was so good that she couldn’t resist giving two perfect scores.
Room, wall, pipes, network, underground river.
Before an audience of over five hundred, this boy had used a public speech of less than four minutes to sketch a vague picture of the Curtain.
Not a single technical term, not one word that would arouse suspicion.
An ordinary person would hear a brilliant discourse on the boundaries of knowledge and human curiosity.
Those in the know would hear something else entirely.
Finding people like this—people truly interested in what’s behind the Curtain—was the very purpose of their selection process.
Isabella screwed the cap back on her pen and leaned back in her chair.
’This kid knows what he’s talking about.’
’And he knows just how much to say on an occasion like this.’
The final rankings were announced at four in the afternoon.
This time, there was no need to crowd around a notice board; the host announced them from the lectern.
The white-haired old man cleared his throat, and the five hundred-plus people fell silent.
"AHEM... The final rankings for this year’s Cicero Cup are as follows."
"First place: Alexander Montague, Eton College."
The applause from the audience was enthusiastic, but no one was surprised.
Montague stood up from his seat and gave a slight bow of acknowledgment.
His combined score from both rounds was a landslide victory. The undisputed champion.
"Second place..."
The host paused.
The pause was longer than the one before announcing first place, probably because the name was unexpected.
"Richard Williams, Greenwood Middle School."
The audience was quiet for a moment. It was the name of a school no one had ever heard of.
But applause soon broke out, more sustained than it had been for first place.
The contestant who had ranked fourth in the first round had jumped straight to second place on the strength of his free speech.
The applause was fervent, driven by the instinctive fondness for an underdog’s comeback.
Richard stood up, bowed slightly toward the judges’ panel, and sat back down.
Among the applause from the audience, one pair of hands clapped with exceptional force.
Mr. Holland stood up and sat down again, his bald head bobbing up and down in the crowd.
Mr. West, next to him, was also clapping, though with a little less force.
Lady Gran took off her gold-rimmed glasses and wiped them again.
She brushed 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, gave a crisp nod, and sat back down.
After sitting down, she turned her head to look in Richard’s direction, and her lips moved.
Richard read her lips: "Next time."
The award ceremony began immediately after the announcements, with the winners walking onto the stage one by one.
Montague went up first. He accepted an envelope and a certificate from the host and bowed once to the judges’ panel and once to the audience.
His posture was impeccable; even the angle of his bow was a perfect thirty degrees.
Richard went on stage after him.
The host was a white-haired old man. He hesitated slightly as he handed the envelope to Richard.
"Greenwood Middle School... in the North?"
"It’s in Brighton, sir."
"Oh, Brighton."
The old man nodded. He had probably just searched for the name in his memory and come up empty. "Very good, young man."
Inside the envelope was a thirty-pound bank draft and a letter of recommendation bearing the emblem of the Classical Society.
Thirty pounds. On the stage, he weighed the envelope in his hand.
Enough for his Mother’s meticulous budgeting for half a year, enough to buy dozens of pairs of comfortable little leather shoes for Evelyn, and enough to buy back old Clement’s Sphinx Oil Lamp with plenty to spare.
And then there was the recommendation list. Wealthy families in the Imperial Capital hired tutors from this very list.
The recommendation list was a channel for continuous income, its long-term value far greater than the thirty pounds itself.
He put the envelope in his schoolbag and zipped it shut.

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