Chapter 52: Teacher Junshu
Backlund, the massive metropolis known as the "City of Fog," welcomed Nairn with its unique air—a mixture of coal soot and dampness.
Unlike the simple and quiet Tingen, every corner here pulsed with the heartbeat of the industrial revolution—steam trains roared across overhead tracks, leaving billowing white smoke in their wake.
On the streets, carriages and pedestrians flowed incessantly; gentlemen's top hats and ladies' skirts formed a moving scenery.
The air was thick with the scent of wealth, but equally thick with the hardships of poverty.
A perfect stage.
Nairn thought to himself.
He was in no hurry to visit anyone, nor did he immediately dive into his grand plan.
The first thing he needed to do was find a suitable "backstage" for himself and for the upcoming "lead actor," Klein Moretti.
15 Minsk Street, Cherwood Borough.
Nairn stood before that familiar house, which possessed a certain sense of age, a playful smile playing on his lips.
This was the place—Klein Moretti's first future home in Backlund.
Occupying this spot in advance would allow him to observe the "lead actor's" performance up close and make it convenient to intervene and modify the script at any time.
More importantly, he really couldn't stand the cooking standards of this world, which could be called a "culinary desert."
Boiled vegetables with a bit of salt, or roasted meat sprinkled with some spices—could those even be called dishes?
Once Klein arrived, with his modern culinary knowledge, he could at least improve Nairn's meals.
Ordering a future deity around as his cook—the amusement in that would be immense.
The person responsible for renting out this house was Mrs. Sammer from the original story—a woman with a bit of a petty bourgeois mentality who liked to show off and was somewhat shrewd.
"You want to rent this place? And Number 14 next door?" Mrs. Sammer sized Nairn up with a critical gaze.
The young man before her was impossibly handsome, dressed exquisitely, and possessed an extraordinary temperament; he clearly wasn't an ordinary person.
But Cherwood Borough wasn't Empress Borough or Hillston Borough, after all. Who with real wealth and power would live here?
Her mind immediately began to race.
So young, so wealthy, yet not living in Empress Borough or the West Borough, but coming to Cherwood where the middle class gathered... Could it be... "Yes, both houses." Nairn acted as if he didn't see the inquiry in her eyes as he slowly pulled two items from his pocket.
One was a folded letter with Sir Derville's family crest on it. The other was an exquisitely made opera ticket.
"I've just arrived in Backlund, recommended by Sir Derville to handle some charitable affairs. Additionally, I personally prefer peace and quiet, so I'd like to rent the adjacent house as well." Nairn handed over the recommendation letter, "This is my letter of recommendation."
Mrs. Sammer's eyes immediately went wide.
Sir Derville! He was a famous philanthropist and banker in Backlund, a true member of high society! To have his recommendation letter, this young man's identity was absolutely not simple!
Looking at the ticket again, it was for the "Hyacinth Theater" in Empress Borough, and it was even for a second-floor box.
That wasn't a place you could enter just by having money, let alone a box with the best view.
In an instant, Mrs. Sammer's mind filled in a grand drama.
A young gentleman of noble birth and deep pockets, for the sake of some lover whose identity couldn't be made public, had specifically rented a residence in Cherwood Borough, far from the social center, to keep a mistress in a gilded cage!
Look at his face—heavens, what woman could resist? This was practically a plot that would only appear in a play!
Mrs. Sammer's attitude immediately did a 180-degree turn, her reserved expression instantly transforming into warm flattery.
"Oh, so you're a friend of Sir Derville! My apologies! Sir, please rest assured, I can make the decision for both of these houses! The rent is negotiable, you see..."
"Market price is fine; I don't like taking advantage of people," Nairn said calmly, keeping the initiative firmly in his hands. "However, I hope to move in as soon as possible. Can all the procedures be handled within today?"
"Of course! Of course!" Mrs. Sammer agreed without hesitation, looking at Nairn as if he were a walking gold pound.
Securing the residence went even more smoothly than imagined.
Nairn knew very well that when dealing with a petty bourgeois like Mrs. Sammer, who had a bit of vanity, the most effective way was to crush her with "strength" she could understand.
A recommendation letter and a ticket were more useful than any amount of talking.
He didn't even mind if she misunderstood that he was here to keep a mistress.
This kind of salacious gossip was, instead, a very good camouflage that could hide his true purpose.
Moreover, he really did plan to go "fishing" in Empress Borough.
The ability of a Magician wasn't just about creating simple Lies.
The essence lay in weaving one seemingly real yet interconnected scam after another through cross-referencing information, eventually pulling everyone into the script he had constructed.
Those self-righteous nobles and wealthy merchants in Empress Borough were his best "props."
Just like Sir Derville. Nairn had met with him before coming to Backlund.
The baronet was indeed a shrewd man, but he was still moved by the blueprint of the "Tingen Citizen Mutual Aid Foundation" that Nairn had painted.
Nairn had only given a few pointers, packaging the "Tingen Citizen Mutual Aid Foundation" as an "unprecedented charitable model," a "grand empty title" that could earn him massive prestige and even help him enter politics in the future. The baronet had joyfully become his supporter.
As for whether this foundation would actually make the citizens' lives better? Of course it would.
It would even make the citizens more "vibrant."
But this was all an Open Scheme.
Who could say this wasn't good?
Sir Derville got the reputation he wanted, and Nairn got a perfect entry point into Backlund's upper society, as well as a leverage point for the future situation.
By binding everyone's interests to his chariot, he made them willingly contribute to his goals.
Throughout the entire process, Nairn did not hide his face.
He didn't deign to do so at all.
In this tiny world of mysteries, the true big shots had already placed their pieces with lightning speed, and their eyes and ears were everywhere.
As a "variable" that had suddenly popped up, he was already conspicuous enough; hiding his head and tail would instead seem petty.
It was better to stand openly on the stage and put everything out in the open.
Furthermore, his face, which was flawlessly handsome to a degree that would incense gods and men alike, was itself a pass that worked everywhere.
Appearance dividends—it would be a waste not to use them.
Having settled his residence, Nairn's next step was to pave the way for his identity as an "Author."
And facts proved that appearance was indeed the primary productive force.
The next morning, he took two manuscripts and walked into an influential newspaper office in Backlund.
Sure enough, when his face, which could be called a work of art, appeared in the editorial department, the air in the entire office seemed to freshen.
The usually busy and irritable editors became amiable and kind.
A young female editor even proactively came over to ask what help he needed, the blush on her face impossible to hide.
"Sigh, this damned charm," Nairn silently lamented in his heart.
His line of thinking was very clear.
Emperor Roselle had led the trend of steam and machinery, but in the field of culture, he was more of an "engineering student" and hadn't truly gone deep into creating brand-new literary schools.
Manga was an art form this world had never seen before.
And critical realist literature that deeply exposed social reality was also a blue ocean.
What he wanted to do was use these two things to drop two heavy bombs in Backlund's cultural circles.
This would allow him to quickly accumulate fame, shape an "anchor," and earn a large amount of "play value," while also quietly implanting his thoughts within the stories.
He wanted to use these two to make his pen name famous, while also bringing more traffic and attention when his pen name moved into the newspaper office he would start in the future.
Literary thought had always been the vanguard of an era.
He was determined to be this literary plagiarist!
As for the first work, Nairn had already chosen—Charles Dickens's "oliver twist."
No story was more suitable for the current Backlund than this one.
The story of an orphan born in a workhouse, struggling to survive, falling into a den of thieves, and eventually being redeemed.
It would be like a sharp scalpel, slicing open the glossy skin of this prosperous city to reveal the bloody reality of poverty, crime, and class stratification underneath.
"Sir, this novel of yours... is truly... too profound." The old editor in charge of reviewing manuscripts adjusted his glasses, his hands slightly trembling as he looked at the pages. "oliver twist... this child, his experiences are practically a microcosm of the shadows of the city beneath our feet."
Nairn just smiled and didn't speak.
Then, he took out the second manuscript.
"What is... this?" The old editor looked at the drawings with their eerie style and distorted lines, a look of confusion on his face.
"I call it 'manga'," Nairn explained. "An art form that uses a sequence of images to tell a story."
The work he handed over was a short story he had created by combining the background of this world with the styles of two horror manga masters from his previous life—Junji Ito and Tatsuki Fujimoto.
The story was titled "Mechanic's Work."
It told the story of a worker laboring at the bottom of a factory who, due to long-term contact with polluted steam and a mysterious substance called "Living Engine Oil," began to undergo a terrifying physical mutation.
His skin gradually metallized, his joints turned into creaking gears, and his flesh and blood irreversibly fused with brass and steel.
He gained no power, only endless suffering and the collapse of his self-identity, eventually turning into a half-human, half-machine Monster in despair, thrown into a furnace as scrap.
The style of the drawings was full of physiological horror; the sense of despair from the body being forcibly distorted and deformed by external forces rushed at the viewer.
The old editor had only read a few pages before his face turned pale and cold sweat began to pour.
"This... this is too... too shocking!" He almost threw the manuscript away. "How can something like this be published! It will terrify the readers!"
Nairn still maintained his smile; his handsome face looked exceptionally sincere and harmless in the bright light of the office.
"Mr. Editor," he spoke slowly, "don't you think this kind of'shock' is exactly what our era needs? People are used to plays of singing and dancing, used to poetry of romance, but on the land beneath their feet, things more terrifying than what's in these drawings are happening. Sometimes, we need something to sting our numb nerves."
The old editor opened his mouth to argue but couldn't say a word. He looked into Nairn's deep eyes, then at that face that made it impossible to refuse, and finally let out a long sigh.
"Fine... I'll give it a try. But if the response is poor, we'll stop it at any time."
"Of course." Nairn nodded, his goal already achieved.
In any case, the works under the pen name "Junshu" were meant to equally traumatize everyone!