Chapter 2206: Chapter 2206

"What are you working on?"

Surveying the jumble of objects and mechanical parts on the table, Jenkins asked curiously.

"Assembling a music box."

The old man muttered in response, most of his attention fixed on the parts in his hands. The gear was clearly the wrong size; with so many parts scattered across the table, he had likely grabbed the incorrect one.

"A music box? You're making it by hand?"

"Is something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all. I was just admiring your fine craftsmanship. So, does this music box have any special features? Perhaps it plays different tunes at different speeds, or you've used a special fluorescent coating that makes it glow under certain light conditions. No, maybe it has a built-in gas device, so it can puff out smoke while the little decoration on top spins."

Jenkins speculated, his eyes scanning the parts on the table for any unusual components.

"No, it's just an ordinary music box."

"You don't believe me?"

The old man set down the parts and strode over to a cabinet against the wall. He crouched, pulled open the lower doors, and dragged out a suitcase.

He hauled the suitcase over to the table and flipped it open. Inside, it was crammed with metal music boxes. The mechanisms had a distinct handmade quality, but that did little to increase their value.

"I make a living with these. Is there something wrong with that?"

the old man asked, pulling one out and handing it to Jenkins. Jenkins lifted the lid, took the wind-up key from the tiny dancer's hand, and gave it a few gentle turns. Instantly, the little dancer began to twirl on the spot, and a tinkling melody filled the air.

It really was just an ordinary music box.

Jenkins placed the chiming box on the table. He hadn't realized the old man was in such dire straits.

"Selling these... can you really make money?"

"Of course. Whether I sell them to toy shops or set up my own stall on the street, these are in high demand. The earnings are quite substantial."

The old man didn't resume his search for the right gear. Instead, he picked up a spring, holding it up to the light and squinting as he tested its resilience after being compressed.

"Polishing parts and assembling music boxes every day... it's enough to support myself and even save a little. I have no idea why people are so fond of handmade crafts. Once I've saved up more, I plan to hire a literate apprentice or two. I'll teach them the repetitive, tedious work, and then I'll be able to earn more money. Sooner or later, I'll move into a better home."

He set the spring down, tossing it into a small box folded from newspaper.

"So, your work now... is just making these music boxes by hand?"

"I have to buy some of the metal parts. There's no way I could make a spring on my own, or produce such a standardized gear. My job is to handle the more complex and delicate work."

"No, what I mean is, are you no longer doing scientific research? No longer inventing things?"

The old man suddenly turned his head to look at Jenkins, his weary, bloodshot eyes filled with an indescribable emotion:

"Can inventing put food on the table?"

Of course not. Even a relatively useful invention wasn't guaranteed to put food on the table.

"If you can't eat, what's the point of anything else."

He pointed at himself:

"I'm this old. You think I haven't figured it out by now? Inventing and creating doesn't bring in money. But learning from what others have already invented, replicating their successful work... that allows me to survive."

"Is that what you believe now?"

"Yes, I finally understand. If I'd figured this out when I was young, I wouldn't be stuck living in a place in my old age."

He said, resuming his work. Though he was getting on in years, his hands were remarkably steady.

"I used to believe I could be an inventor, dreaming all day about creating some amazing machine and making a name for myself. Looking back, I was so naive. Not every investment yields a return. If I hadn't been so determined to be an inventor, if I'd chosen to be a merchant or used my money to open a factory, would I be in this place now?"

His words came out in a rush, less like a conversation with Jenkins and more like he was talking to himself:

"Inventors and scientists have the most useless professions. I've never heard of an inventor getting rich, only rich men becoming inventors. Even the greatest inventor is no match for the greatest merchant. Invention and science, they both have a ceiling, and the reward is never worth the effort. So, it's just better to be a merchant."

Though these were confused words, spoken from a place of grief and frustration, they held a kernel of truth. The professional ceiling for inventors and scientists truly couldn't compare to that of merchants, and in this age, the risks were far greater.

"So, instead of studying science and mechanics, it's better to learn business from a merchant. That's the best knowledge there is."

The old man concluded, speaking to himself.

"Isn't that a bit extreme?"

Jenkins asked, sensing this wasn't what the old man truly believed, but rather a way to vent his pent-up dissatisfaction.

"Extreme? Is it not the truth? More and more people will realize this. Aside from the unlucky fools who chose the wrong profession, future generations will likely flock to business. That's the knowledge that makes money." Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs novᴇlfire.net

"But that's not good for our civilization. Civilization needs to progress, which means we need people dedicated to science and creation."

Jenkins reminded him.

"But society hasn't provided better living conditions for those of us who dedicate ourselves to science and creation. That's not my fault."

The old man replied without looking up..

"You think it's society's fault?"

"You could say that. Apart from a handful of high nobles, who doesn't want their children to make more money? When the returns on your investment are so uncertain, isn't it foolish to pursue science and invention?"

The old man snorted, continuing to vent his frustrations.

"You see, his ideas align with mine."

The gear-man behind him spoke up. His tone was emotionless, but if he were truly human, he would have sounded utterly smug:

"Your civilization is fundamentally flawed. Science and invention cannot create wealth overnight. Some creative endeavors are inherently meaningless, yet someone must pursue them, if only to prove that point or to inspire others. Therefore, industries and individuals dedicated to creation should be strongly supported, not left to their own devices. What's even more unforgivable is that you allow fields with far less importance to civilization to generate more profit than science and invention. You are burying your own civilization."

The gear-man hadn't interjected during Jenkins's conversations with the first three targets. He likely spoke up now because the situation was perfectly suited to striking a blow against Jenkins's morale.

But Jenkins was not discouraged:

"It is, in fact, quite irrational."

He braced one hand on the table and half-turned to face the gear-man:

"That's why change is necessary. But not the change you're hoping for—the change I'm hoping for."

"Can stubbornness be considered a virtue?"

"Say what you will. For now, just be quiet and watch how I obtain the 'Heart of Whimsical Ideas'."

Though it seemed difficult, it was a far cry from the helplessness he'd felt in the mine. At least Jenkins knew that in his youth, the old man had certainly possessed such a thing as "whimsical ideas."

So all he needed to do was reawaken those lost and forgotten ideas, which sounded much simpler.

"This single music box, how much can you earn from it?"

Jenkins composed himself and asked the old man, but he didn't give a specific number:

"At least enough for a good meal at the restaurant on the corner."

"Then why don't you try to earn more?"

The old man looked at Jenkins:

"I'm already cutting costs on raw materials as much as I possibly can. Saving any more would drastically shorten the lifespan of the music box. I may be poor, but I won't stoop to such tactics. As for speeding up the process, I'm too old. My eyes and hands can no longer keep up with my mind. That's why I was thinking about hiring some apprentices soon."

"No, no, I'm not talking about cutting costs or time. I'm talking about finding a way to sell a single music box for a higher price."

"I must admit, I'm not cut out to be a merchant. It's too late for me to learn those tricks now."

"What if the buyer was willing to pay more? Perhaps, while keeping costs and production time down, you could make some alterations to your current music boxes to justify a higher price. Do you remember the ideas I mentioned when we first started talking?"

"You mean, I could add something different to the production process?"

"Of course. Even if you can't change the function, adding some beautiful patterns or hand-carving designs that young people like shouldn't be too difficult for you, right?"

"It's true, that wouldn't be difficult..."

the old man said softly, his gaze wandering as if lost in thought.

"If you're worried about risking too much and failing, you could always just make one or two special prototypes. Have a shop you're familiar with sell them on consignment. If people genuinely like them and are willing to pay, you can gradually increase production. If you get lucky and create an innovative music box using a technique only you've mastered, you could make a fortune. Start by setting up a small workshop, take on five or six apprentices, and handle the creation and assembly of the core components yourself. Once you've built up enough capital, you can scale up production and continue your research and development along the way.

"If everything goes smoothly, I believe it's entirely possible for you to become a factory owner in your lifetime."

Jenkins was, for the most part, just making it up as he went along. He knew perfectly well how difficult it would be to accomplish any of that. Still, it was "possible," not completely hopeless, so he wasn't technically encouraging the man with an outright lie.