The boy lifted his head and looked at him.
There was no awe or guardedness in his eyes, only pure confusion.
"Of course I know, sir." He pointed to the door plate and read: "Baker Street, Number 22, Fisher Bakery."
The boy thought for a mont, then added matter-of-factly, "This is a second-grade compulsory lesson. If I couldn’t read, how could I deliver newspapers and earn money?"
Varius stood there without responding imdiately.
In the Imperial Capital, literacy was a privilege of the priests and nobility.
Knowledge was tightly guarded within high walls; the common people were not only ignorant but were deliberately kept from accessing writing.
As a result, the lower class was driven like beasts by instinct and fear.
Yet here, a child delivering newspapers could read, write, and earn a reward from it.
This is what truly shocked Varius.
Not far away, a few people gathered outside a bakery.
A custor was quietly questioning the weight of the bread. The shopkeeper did not raise his voice, simply placing the bread on a scale at the entrance.
Beside the scale stood a wooden sign—Fair Scale.
The shopkeeper pointed to a notice on the wall, "Red Tide Comrcial Code."
"Tenfold penalty for shortweight." He said calmly, "Lord Louis set these rules; Red Tide people don’t cheat each other."
The custor nodded, took the bread, and the matter ended there.
Varius sat down by the roadside.
It was an inconspicuous bench, its wood polished smooth, yet not cold to sit on.
Heat slowly emanated from beneath the bench, climbing up the spine from the geothermal pipes buried below.
Not long after he settled, another person joined him.
A young worker just finished his shift, his cotton coat unbuttoned, with sweat still on his forehead.
He placed his tool bag by his feet, exhaled deeply, but wore a smile on his face.
Varius turned his head, deliberately keeping his tone relaxed, "Is it tiring working here?"
The young man was montarily stunned, then burst into laughter, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
"Tiring!" he replied straightforwardly, "The Lord is strict about deadlines; if you run late, points get deducted."
Then he changed his tone to one of light-heartedness, "But it’s worth the exhaustion. Last month I earned the full attendance award, so tonight we can stew lamb at ho."
He turned his head and gave Varius a glance, "Sir, you’re from out of town, right? In Red Tide, as long as you’re willing to work, the Lord won’t let you go hungry."
The young man patted his knee as if affirming the substantial reward he received, "Two years ago, I was a miner slave; how can I not be content now?"
After saying this, he stood up, picked up his tool bag, and naturally rged into the crowd.
Varius remained seated, the administrative center square not far away.
In the center of the square, a massive Red Tide flag was raised high.
The yellow sun emblem flapped in the cold wind, seemingly casting both light and heat into the night sky.
A row of bulletin boards stood beneath the flag.
Technological innovation awards, sanitary evaluation results, new legislation announcents, each notice was neatly posted; so stopped to check them, so whispered discussions, before quickly dispersing.
Varius stood up and walked to the flag.
He observed the bustling yet focused Red Tide people around him and finally understood.
This order wasn’t built on plunder; it grew from the ruins, bit by bit.
At this mont, a slight commotion ca from the street corner.
The crowd spontaneously opened a path.
Bradley walked over, accompanied by several attendants, his eyes sweeping the square before stopping montarily on Varius.
The old man revealed an almost imperceptible smile, "Lord Varius, how has your stroll been these past days?"
Varius turned around, his gaze intense to the point of being impolite, "Please, you must tell , when will Lord Louis return?"
He paused as if restraining sothing, "I have so many questions; I must see him, right now!"
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