Chapter 671: The Era of Abundance

Autumn’s footsteps had finally reached the Western Continent. The sweltering summer was over, and as if overnight, the air had turned crisp and cool.

Before dawn, when the great sun had yet to cast its rosy glow, the lingering chill of night still clung to the streets and alleys of Aldernan. A fresh breeze swept through the lanes, stirring a few fallen leaves and scraps of paper at the corner. The wind twisted between the buildings, circling back to jingle the small bells hanging in a window, sending a clear, tinkling chime through the quiet morning.

Sam glanced up at the ringing bell, then at the dim, barely lightening sky outside. He lowered his head and resumed gulping down his less-than-appetizing breakfast—a small bowl of thick, soupy vegetables with coarse, broken bread soaked inside.

Dunking the bread in the broth sped up eating, helped fill the stomach more effectively, and eased the discomfort that often came with hurried meals. It was a humble wisdom born of necessity, a small survival trick learned by common folk.

His daughter sat across from him, devouring her breakfast just as ravenously. His wife had left the house a quarter of an hour earlier—the textile factory owner had once again moved up the start time. Now, the female workers had to be inside the factory half an hour before sunrise.

Swallowing the last mouthful of soup, Sam smacked his lips and let out a deep yawn.

He was exhausted. His back and arms ached fiercely. He longed to lie down and sleep soundly for a day or two—but he knew that was impossible.

The docks were piled high every day with crates and barrels waiting to be moved. There were no days off for him.

His daughter finished eating as well. The flaxen-haired girl stood up and quickly cleared the table. Her wrists were so slender that when she lifted the largest plate, it almost seemed fragile enough to snap.

Sam couldn’t help but glance at her. “Next week, on the eighth… we should be able to have smoked meat.”

The girl looked up, startled for a moment, then her face lit up with delight. She brushed a curl from her forehead, eyes wide. “Really? Dad?”

“They’re building a new station south of town. Every day, a lot of supplies get shipped to the nearby docks, then loaded onto carts for the construction site. I should be able to earn a bit more.”

She smiled, faint yellowish veins visible beneath her eyes and on the inside of her lips.

Sam noticed the discoloration but said nothing. When those marks first appeared months ago, both he and his wife had been worried. But now, after all this time, she showed no signs of illness. It was probably nothing serious.

Time was tight. Father and daughter didn’t linger over breakfast talk. They quickly packed their things and left the rented little house.

Another gust of wind swept through the street, lifting Sam’s collar. He tightened his thin jacket, which would soon feel inadequate for the season, and nodded toward his daughter as she headed off in the opposite direction. “Be careful. When you finish work tonight, come straight home. Don’t hang around the streets.”

She nodded, pressed her soft cap to her head, and hurried down the street.

At the far end, a towering chimney loomed faintly through Aldernan’s signature morning mist. Thick smoke billowed upward, drifting into the sky.

She worked at the coal acid factory. Being underage, her job wasn’t stoking furnaces or pushing carts, but cleaning the cooled air ducts and salvaging reusable coal fragments from the waste. The ducts were narrow—too tight for adults—so children did this work. The pay was low, but it required neither strength nor skill.

Sam watched her disappear around the corner before turning toward the docks.

As the cool breeze brushed past, memories stirred.

He once owned a piece of land outside the city. It wasn’t large or fertile, but enough to feed his family. Breakfasts had milk watered down with a bit of sugar, and smoked meat was a weekly treat. When had life changed so drastically?

Walking through the autumn air, the farmer in him couldn’t help but recall harvest scenes. But “harvest” no longer meant anything to him. That land had become part of Lord Duller’s cotton plantation, worked by hundreds of serfs—who, naturally, were easier to command than free men.

Now, all Sam could do was remember his land, powerless to act. Lord Duller had bought it from him for thirty-seven silver coins—not seized by force. The contract was clear, witnessed by the city’s judge and two council members. Fair and proper.

He just hadn’t expected those thirty-seven silver coins to vanish so quickly. Houses in town were outrageously expensive. Clothes and food cost far more than he’d imagined. He tried to start a small business, only to find the money wasn’t enough even to pay for a license. He’d thought he’d traded his land for a fortune, but that “fortune” was nothing in the world beyond the town.

Many others dressed like him emerged from their homes, their figures moving through the dim dawn light and Aldernan’s mist, heading toward factories, docks, and construction sites.

Sam merged into the crowd, becoming one among many.

A discarded newspaper caught by the wind fluttered over his head and settled on a nearby fence. It unfolded, the bold black letters standing out clearly:

A Salute to the Era of Abundance.

…

“To the era of abundance, to our far-sighted Emperor, the diligent Parliament, and the wise scholars. The empire’s decade-long toil has finally borne fruit… A splendid phrase, don’t you agree, Master Daniel?”

Viscount Hemil sat in his favorite deep reddish-brown chair, waving the newspaper with a smile as he addressed the renowned mage scholar opposite him—the most celebrated academic in the imperial capital.

The room was filled with the soothing scent of incense. In one corner, a crystal device played soft, elegant court music. The window stood open, but a faint shimmering shield filtered out the unpleasant dust and smoke, letting only fresh, cool morning air inside.

Daniel reclined comfortably in the chair across from Viscount Hemil. Artificial neural tendrils peeked from beneath his robe, obediently still. “Mr. Habierreston is an excellent grammarian and a poet of great renown. Even during my years in seclusion, I occasionally heard his verses circulating. The Emperor’s choice to appoint him editor-in-chief of the Imperial Gazette was undoubtedly wise.”

“To the Emperor, then,” Hemil chuckled, raising his teacup in lieu of wine. Then his brow furrowed. “The newspaper is indeed a fine invention… I hear the Cecilians from the Kingdom of Ansu first conceived the idea. Unfortunately, when I first heard of it, I failed to grasp its potential, and that tasteless, uncultured merchant Polberg became the Gazette’s initial investor… Now many noble council members have to pay that merchant to advertise their products. What a fortune that must be!”

“Money knows no bounds, Viscount,” Daniel said calmly. “Exploring new things is far more valuable.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Hemil quickly suppressed his complaint, as if afraid his ‘worldly’ grumble might offend the wise elder. “I’ve always been keen on new ventures. For example, the magi-powered train under construction—I’m considering investing in it…”

“The train… technology from Ansu, but certainly a worthy investment,” Daniel frowned slightly, as if uneasy discussing some unfamiliar new tech, but nodded. “If you want to invest, you’d better act quickly.”

Hemil caught the implication. “Are others competing?”

Daniel nodded subtly. “I have some insider information, but keep it quiet. I’ve heard southern nobles are determined to secure participation in the two railways under construction. They’ve even pooled funds and borrowed heavily from Duke Severn—that’s a sum that could sway the Emperor himself.”

Hemil stiffened, then his face flushed with anger. “Those crude southerners! They want a hand in everything!”

“There’s no stopping them, my friend,” Daniel said serenely, like a true scholar calmly analyzing vast flows of interest, unmoved by greed. “The southern nobles have already suffered greatly over cotton. The north is dotted with new plantations, but last year’s cotton still hasn’t sold. Now the Cecilians are building railways. If the southerners miss this chance, they may never recover.”

“Railways… railways… we can’t let those southerners control the north-south lines!” Hemil was sharp and well-informed, especially about cutting-edge trends. He understood their value. “If they gain even preferential rights under the Emperor’s sanction, they’ll control transportation. The Emperor won’t favor the north in such matters!”

“Exactly. Solving or reducing transport costs was the main reason southern cotton lost out last year,” Daniel added. “Once that’s fixed… you know, Viscount, the south’s cotton is superior in quality and yield due to climate and soil. Northern plantations simply can’t compete.”

“In the name of the god of commerce! I just invested a large sum in Count Duller’s plantation! I even roped in several friends!” Hemil’s voice rose, nearly losing his noble composure. “Gods, how could Duke Severn lend money to those southerners?”

“Duke Severn runs a bank. Banks can’t refuse legitimate loans,” Daniel reminded him. “Besides, you know the Duke’s wife is from the south… He wouldn’t dare offend such a formidable lady.”

“That’s why I refuse to marry—it ruins a gentleman’s dignity!” Hemil stood, pacing anxiously, then suddenly stopped before Daniel. “Forgive me, Master, but I must cut this meeting short. This matter cannot wait. My personal loss is nothing, but I won’t bear the wrath of my partners.”

“I understand how you feel,” Daniel said as he stood up, the artificial nerve cords behind him twitching and contracting. “And I should be going now—my apprentice is still waiting outside. Before I leave, though, I suggest you consult with Count Duller. His connections in the council will be far more effective.”

“Thank you for the advice—you truly are a wise mentor and a trusted friend,” Viscount Hermil stepped forward, grasping Daniel’s hand and shaking it up and down. “Without you, I don’t know how many detours I would have taken!”

Daniel smiled faintly, accepting the gratitude of this reform-minded nobleman with quiet grace. Then he gestured toward the coat rack nearby, and his staff and robe floated into his hands, slipping onto him as he prepared to leave the viscount’s residence.

Outside, he climbed into a waiting carriage. His female apprentice, Mary, sat inside, seemingly never having left the vehicle.

After a while, a carriage bearing the viscount’s crest rolled out from the main gate, hastily making its way down the street.

—Although Typhon’s magi-tech vehicles had recently made breakthroughs and practical models had caught the attention of the upper nobility, priority was still given to military and industrial use. As a result, most middle and lower nobles had yet to adopt them, and horse-drawn carriages remained the preferred mode of transport.

Daniel peered through the crack in the carriage window, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Mary noticed the smile and couldn’t help but ask, “Master, you seem quite pleased.”

“Because I just did our Emperor Augustus a favor…”

“A favor for His Majesty?” Mary looked puzzled.

“Yes,” Daniel said softly, “I helped him avoid a few unnecessary detours…”

(End of chapter)