Chapter Seventy-Eight: Justice Amid the Ruins

Because of the difference in longitude, when Taylor awoke, he was greeted by dusk, but at nearly the same moment, Mulan rose from his bed to find the sun not yet fully set.

As the saying goes, a nine-story terrace begins with a clod of earth, and a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Mulan understood that to change this world, he must harness any power available; if none existed, then he would cultivate it himself.

Of course, Mulan could not simply continue sleeping. He got up at once, straightened his clothes, took up his cane, and went downstairs. Draping on his coat, he used the cane to hook his hat from the top of the coat rack, caught it deftly, set it upon his head, adjusted the brim with his fingers, and then opened the front door.

Wearing a confident smile, Mulan stepped out again before dusk had fully fallen.

At that hour, the street market outside the Black Castle was at its liveliest. Many workers stopped by after their shifts, some simply to stroll about with no intention of buying, and in the market’s corners, a few prostitutes had already taken up their customary posts, seeking clients.

Mulan held a newspaper in both hands, his cane tucked under his left arm. As he browsed the articles that caught his interest, his peripheral vision was keenly alert to his surroundings.

Unlike when Mulan first arrived, the students of the Black Castle were now caught up in a tense period of study. With stricter management measures in place, they seldom ventured out, instead seeking opportunities within the castle to help wherever they could. In this way, they earned points from the professors or even the upper management of the labor division.

These points were hard-won, but once acquired, they could be exchanged for ingredients to concoct potions, as well as for a variety of useful—or useless—items, such as amulets.

As the professors put it, the students had begun to delve into ever more mysterious knowledge, inevitably broadening their perception and spirit, and even attempting to grasp the secret world to some extent.

For a fragile student, this was undoubtedly a time of danger. Not everyone was as tough as Mulan.

Amulets served as a form of protection, greatly reducing the risk of students being approached by evil spirits or creatures from the other side.

Senior students held an advantage when it came to earning points, especially the more outstanding among them, as the professors preferred clever assistants. The old wizard, for example, liked to have the best students by his side—not because they possessed great magic, but for their sharp understanding, their ability to recognize materials and discern their dangers and classifications. Such students were invaluable.

Thus, the Black Castle was evolving more and more into a true school.

Mulan now saw a few senior students, their new amulets visible, stepping out through the castle gates.

He was pleased by the students’ vigor, though he made no move to greet them. Soon, he left the market district, took a carriage to a restaurant, had a simple meal, and by the time he exited, darkness had already fallen.

Carrying a parcel of roast meat wrapped in oiled paper, Mulan slipped away in the twilight. After wandering for about half an hour, he stopped at Moore’s current residence.

Ding-dong, ding-dong. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump...

Twice he rang the bell, then knocked five times. Before long, Moore opened the door.

“Mr. X, please come in!”

Mulan entered, hung his hat on the rack, and handed Moore the still-warm, fragrant package.

“Mr. Moore, I suspect you’ve been so busy you forgot to eat. This is roast meat from the Time Restaurant; you can have it with bread.”

“Thank you so much, I was just starving!” Moore considered Mulan a true confidant, and in his presence, he was never reserved. He took the parcel without hesitation, unwrapped it, grabbed a piece of roast meat, and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing with audible satisfaction.

Without exchanging unnecessary words, the two went straight upstairs into Moore’s study, where two chairs now stood before the desk.

Eagerly, Moore showed Mulan his latest work, explaining his newly written passages and reflections.

Mulan sat quietly, watching Moore’s excitement with calm eyes. When Moore finished his explanation and saw Mulan’s reserved reaction, he frowned.

“Mr. X, do you not think it’s good?”

Mulan shook his head.

“Quite the contrary. It’s excellent—rich in content and deeply thought-provoking.”

“Then do you have anything to add? Did you spot a flaw in the writing?”

Again, Mulan shook his head. He glanced around at the study, the stacks of drafts, the wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper, then slowly rose and walked to the window. Moore, almost automatically, followed him to the bedside.

“Mr. Moore, the sun has set outside the window. Night is falling...”

As if sensing the deeper meaning in Mulan’s words, Moore replied, “But come morning, the sun will rise again.”

Mulan smiled. “True, the sun will rise in the end. But the cold night is often so long that many never live to see its return.”

“Mr. X, what are you trying to say?”

Mulan turned to face Moore.

“Mr. Moore, your writing is wonderful and powerful, but the strength of words alone is not enough!”

Moore frowned.

“But last time, the workers’ protest failed. Many friends disappeared, perhaps lost forever.”

“That’s why protests alone are insufficient—woefully insufficient!” Mulan looked intently at Moore. “Though most countries have long since abolished slavery, in the eyes of the nobility and capital, workers are still treated as slaves. If slaves protest, their masters will not care. At most, if the commotion is great enough, they might concede some improvements—but slaves remain slaves: their lives are harsh, their fate degraded...

“There is a powerful force in your writing, as yet untapped, but I see its potential. The workers need it, the poor need it, the suffering and oppressed of the world need it!”

Moore looked at Mulan and instinctively replied,

“My book will guide them to resist, to join with enlightened minds in society, to protest together and in an organized way, so that those in power will hear the cries from below!”

“Not enough!” Mulan cut Moore off.

“You have recognized the limits of ordinary protest, have seen the cruel reality of society, and try to awaken the spirit of resistance among the lower classes, to stir the consciences of the masses and even the nobility, hoping thereby to force capital to yield, to compel the rulers to reform, hoping for social change through the transformation of ideas. But this approach will not succeed—it would only be a larger but still impotent ‘workers’ protest’!”

“Then does my writing have no meaning?” Moore clenched his fists, his anger barely contained. Still, he knew Mr. X must have more to say—he waited for the turning point.

And indeed, Mulan’s tone shifted.

“This ‘protest’ is not meaningless. It is the soil in which seeds are planted—where ideas grow, blossom, and bear fruit, spawning countless new seeds! It is the hope of new thought. But, Mr. Moore, you must realize: there has never been a revolution without bloodshed! If the reformers must bleed, so too must the reactionaries...”

While Moore stood dumbfounded, Mulan produced a newspaper from within his coat and handed it to Moore.

These were not today’s papers—they were about a month old, and not even from Digo. One was from Doriel City, the other from Bacherwellian Province. The first contained several reports about a failed protest, in which the protesters had Moore’s book in hand—the outcome was even worse than at Digo. The second described how large-scale mechanization was freeing up productivity, but leaving more and more workers jobless, with no compensation, forcing countless people into misery and insecurity.

After a long while, Moore finally looked up, seeming to grasp the true meaning behind Mulan’s words. His expression grew grave.

“Mr. X, do you believe protest should escalate to uprising?”

Mulan turned again, his face just as solemn.

“You once said that when human civilization’s errors reach a certain stage, they will inevitably be corrected.”

“But correction need not come through destruction, through violent upheaval followed by forced social change. Can such a path really succeed? What meaning would there be if only ruins remain?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps it is possible. But, Mr. Moore, the conscience and pity of the powerful is cheap indeed! Besides, they possess far greater strength than they have yet revealed. The cries of the people are not unheard—they simply refuse to listen!”

Mulan went to the desk, picked up a pen, and wrote a title. Then he looked up at Moore, who stood by the window.

“Mr. Moore, you need not make a choice—for there are those who will choose for you. Those who must rise and rebel will do so, and your books and ideas, your experience and wisdom, will be their weapons! Even if justice stands atop ruins, it is still justice!”