Chapter 2211: Chapter 2211

"I know you have dreams, Williamette. Dreams of conquest, of change, all driven by your own power. We both stand at a corner of this great era, each with our own ambitions. But the path to godhood cannot fulfill all your dreams and desires. Once you become a god, you will be bound by even greater shackles. Have you ever considered that saving the world alone might not be enough to realize your ideals? I have witnessed more of history than you. There have been many successful saviors in the past, but few could truly revolutionize the world. All they could do was gaze down upon the earth from their lofty perch in the sky."

"You're not a god. How would you know I can't do it?"

Jenkins directed the question at the Gear Man, who simply looked back at him.

"Because it's self-evident. Godhood means ascension, an ascension of the self."

"That sounds perfectly fine to me. Ascending myself is exactly what I want."

"And what of your ideals and ambitions?"

"Those are secondary objectives."

Jenkins's reply was honest. His primary goal had always been to become a god; that much had never changed. If the Difference Engine thought a few simple words could make him abandon his path now that he was so close to the end, it was laughable.

"Alright, enough nonsense. Let's go. I want to see what story this textile worker has to tell."

Just as the two of them vanished, Papa Oliver, back in the frozen-in-time antique shop, suddenly lowered his newspaper.

The color instantly drained from his face. He let out a pained groan, clutching his heart, and struggled for a long moment before finally rising from his rocking chair.

"Bevanna never said this ritual would be so agonizing... But at least I'm finally in. What a mad idea, but to think it actually worked."

Papa Oliver staggered over to the counter, his right hand gripping the edge for support, revealing his thick, gnarled knuckles. He looked frail. In Jenkins's eyes, he had always been a gentleman who, despite his less-than-imposing frame, possessed an extraordinary vitality. Now, he seemed just like any other old man.

This was likely due to the loss of the evolution key.

He first checked the map, confirming that he couldn't enter the locations as Jenkins had. His gaze then fell upon the backpack Jenkins had left on the counter. After a moment's thought, he left the bag untouched, turned, and walked out of the antique shop, disappearing into the rain.

Since the final location was the clock tower, Papa Oliver decided to head there directly. He wasn't sure if this Mysterious Realm was a perfect replica of Nolan, or if one could travel between locations on foot, but he had to try. If he could reach the clock tower ahead of time, he could prepare for the final battle.

Although large factories were scattered throughout Nolan's districts, the eastern side, adjacent to the mining area, had the highest concentration of steam-powered plants. This was not only for convenient transportation of coal and other fuels but also because the land near the mines was the cheapest, making it easy to acquire property.

Cradling his cat, Jenkins landed on the street alongside the Gear Man. The area was dominated by massive factories. Since the time within this Mysterious Realm was only a year behind the outside world, the gravel-strewn streets were teeming with people under the twilight sky. Even if factory owners wished their workers could toil for twenty-five hours a day, the workers still had to eat.

While common folk were accustomed to only two meals a day, their evening meal had to be substantial to fuel them for the night's labor. It was now the dinner break, which explained the crowds.

The rain had tapered off, so almost no one on the street was carrying an umbrella. Every person was frozen in place, their movements captured in a single, static moment.

"Quite a lively scene," the Gear Man remarked, leading Jenkins toward the factory bearing a sign that read "Sikh & Rousseau Cotton Mill."

The two of them moved against the current of the unmoving crowd. Fortunately, with everyone standing still, their progress was relatively smooth.

"Savior Williamette, do you know the permanent population of Nolan?"

"I don't know the exact figure, but it's definitely over three million. The transient population in the slums is hard to track. Even City Hall can't provide a truly accurate number."

"Then do you know, out of those at least three million people, how many belong to the so-called lower class? And how many in the upper echelons are supported by this underclass?"

"Again, I can't give you a precise number or ratio, but it's roughly the shape of a pyramid." ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novelꞁire.net

He gestured with his hands to illustrate.

"Yes. And the peak of that pyramid is exceptionally sharp."

They turned a corner, following a path between the factory buildings. These cotton mills were enormous, and their target was in a section further back.

"You've been asking me questions this whole time. Now it's my turn. In your ideal Land of Steel, what would the social structure look like?"

Jenkins seized the opportunity to ask.

"It certainly wouldn't be as exaggerated as a pyramid. I hope for a completely flat plane, where everything exists in order. I would control everything, so there would be no need to establish different classes. Beneath me, all would be mortal. Every machine would be equal. A large gear and a small gear hold no difference in significance to the machine."

"While that might sound idealistic, in reality, it's just your desire to control the world. The actual social structure would be even more backward than what we have now," he sneered.

"So you also think the present is backward?"

"The point of my statement was that your framework is even more backward."

They didn't continue the debate, because they had finally spotted their target.

It was the dinner break, and the target, a female textile worker, was mixed in with the crowd heading out. If they hadn't seen her image beforehand, it would have been hard to distinguish this haggard, middle-aged woman from anyone else.

Her appearance perfectly fit the description of a "poor textile worker." She wore a coarse cloth dress with a patch at the waist. But the color of the patch was so similar to the dress's drab hue that it was hardly noticeable without a closer look.