I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

The changes after unlocking the Eating Skill were palpable from the very first meal.

Not only could he eat more, but the same plate of food also kept him feeling full for much longer.

Before, he would start feeling weak just two hours after eating. Now, he still had energy to spare by noon.

A more subtle change appeared on the third day: he noticed his fingernails were growing faster.

Faster-growing nails meant his keratin synthesis was more efficient, a sure sign that his protein absorption was on the rise.

More than half the nutrients from his food had previously gone to waste. Now, his body was beginning to convert as much of what he ate as possible into its own energy.

The improvements from the Sleep Skill were even more direct.

The first night, he fell asleep in less than three minutes after lying down.

Before, it took him at least ten to fifteen minutes to fall asleep. All sorts of thoughts would tumble through his mind, and he’d have to shift into seven or eight different positions under the covers before he could finally drift off.

Now, the process of falling asleep was almost absurdly smooth. The moment his head hit the pillow, his breathing rhythm automatically switched to a slow-wave pattern, and his consciousness was gently cradled.

The depth of his sleep had improved as well; for three consecutive nights, he slept soundly until dawn.

When he got up on the morning of the fourth day, he saw a face in the mirror that was almost unfamiliar to him.

His eyes were brighter.

While not so exaggerated as to be practically glowing, the whites of his eyes were whiter, and his pupils were clearer.

The three "Body" Skills, working in tandem, were indeed having a synergistic, almost exponential effect.

Breathing optimized his oxygen supply, Eating optimized nutrient absorption, and Sleep optimized nightly recovery.

The food he ate during the day was absorbed with high efficiency, then utilized with high efficiency as he slept at night, all supported by the foundation of continuously optimized breathing.

The broken jar was being mended, piece by piece.

He sat back down at his desk and once again opened his book on Cicero.

He had an almost luxurious amount of energy, and his mind was racing.

The progress bars on his panel were also advancing steadily.

[Breathing Lv.2] Progress: 46%

[Scholarship Lv.2] Progress: 26%

[Sleep Level 1] Progress: 3%

[Eating Level 1] Progress: 2%

All four bars were filling up simultaneously, each advancing toward its goal at a steady pace.

...

On the day of the Cicero Cup, the Imperial Capital was blessed with a rare, sunny day.

The Ashford Family sent a carriage to take him there. The driver stopped at the carriage park on the west side of the chapel.

"Young Master, I will wait for you at Saint Augustine Square after the competition."

"Alright." Richard grabbed his book bag and hopped out of the carriage.

He quickly found the Greenwood contingent in the crowd.

Mr. Holland was standing under a stone pillar next to the chapel’s side door, clutching a folded piece of paper—probably a program or a schedule.

Seeing Richard approach, the bald, middle-aged man looked him up and down.

"Put on some weight recently?"

"Maybe the food in the Imperial Capital is better."

Mr. Holland clapped him on the shoulder, then gave it a squeeze.

"No, you really do seem a bit sturdier. What have they been feeding you at the Ashford Family’s place?"

"Fried eggs, bacon, milk... plenty of everything, anyway."

"See? Told you. A full stomach makes for a sharp mind."

Mr. Holland shook the paper in his hand open. It was the competition schedule for the day.

"Have you been staying up late to study? Got enough energy?"

"More than enough."

"Good." He folded the paper back up, but his jacket pocket wasn’t deep enough, and a corner of the paper stuck out.

Mr. West was standing beside him, hands in his overcoat pockets, a Greenwood school crest pinned to his chest.

A complete departure from his scrutinizing expression at the small showcase last time, today he gave Richard a deliberate nod.

"Ready?"

"I’m ready, sir."

Mr. West grunted in acknowledgment and turned his gaze back to the crowd in the square.

A female teacher stood next to the two men.

She had dark, curly hair and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.

She had also been in the lecture hall during the small showcase. Richard recognized her face but hadn’t had a chance to meet her then.

"This is Lady Gran," Mr. Holland introduced. "She’s from the Rhetoric department."

Lady Gran gave him a slight nod. "I heard your trial lecture last time. I’m looking forward to your official performance today."

"Thank you."

"Nervous?"

"A little."

"’A little’ means you’re a little nervous."

Lady Gran pushed up her glasses. "A healthy amount of nerves is a good thing. It shows you’re taking this seriously."

Richard looked to the other side, where two upperclassmen were crouching by a stone pillar.

One was holding his bag and rummaging through it for something; the other had his hands in his pockets, head tilted back to look at the chapel’s dome.

When he saw Richard arrive, the one rummaging through his bag looked up.

"Williams."

"Hello."

"I’m Palmer, and this is Hutchinson." He gestured to the side.

Hutchinson brought his gaze down from the dome and nodded at Richard.

"So you’re the public speaking prodigy Mr. Holland was talking about?"

"Not a prodigy, just a contestant."

"We’re just here to go through the motions," Palmer said frankly, patting the textbook in his hands.

"I’ve gone through this thing three times and still haven’t memorized it. I still can’t tell if the perfect tense of first-conjugation verbs ends in -i or -isti."

Hutchinson chimed in, "Stop making excuses for yourself. I didn’t even open it."

Palmer looked at him. "Then what are you doing here?"

"Mr. West said we could get social practice credit for it."

"...You came all the way to the Imperial Capital for one credit?"

"The train tickets are reimbursed." Hutchinson said, then added after a thought:

"Plus, I can look around the Imperial Capital. You know that pie shop next to King’s Cross Station? My cousin says they have the best steak and kidney pie in the whole Imperial Empire."

"Do they serve it with mustard?" Palmer’s interest was piqued.

"Of course. It’s homemade, I hear. They put a whole horseradish root in it."

Mr. West couldn’t help but interrupt their idle chatter.

"You two, when you get on stage, don’t you dare misread your lines..."

Palmer waved his hand dismissively. "Don’t worry. I’m planning to get to the third paragraph and then pretend my throat hurts and get off stage."

Hutchinson glanced at him. "Have you no shame?"

"As long as I get the credit, who needs shame?"

The two looked at each other and laughed at the same time.

Richard laughed, too.

He had been worried that the upperclassmen might have some objections to a junior student representing the school in the competition.

’But it seems I was worrying for nothing.’

’These two have their own agendas: one’s here for the credit, the other for the pie. Greenwood’s only task for them was to show up, and they’ve done that. As for the results... that’s my responsibility.’

Mr. Holland’s gaze was scanning the crowd in the square.

"Eton’s team is here."

He pointed to a group of people on the east side of the square.

Several sharply dressed young men were alighting from two four-wheeled carriages.

The youth at the very front had blond hair and a tall, slender build. Every crease in his uniform was as sharp as if it had been measured with a ruler.

He was saying something to the teacher beside him, occasionally turning his head to smile at his companions. It was a relaxed smile.

’That relaxation wasn’t put on; it came from the kind of certainty that one is born with, the kind that knows it will always win.’

’You wouldn’t find any hostility in a person like that, because hostility is something only needed by those with insufficient resources.’