Chapter 634: Shiler

Brudhaven, a small coastal city not far from Gotham, has a climate utterly different from Gotham's—nearly opposite—its skies perpetually sunny, with daylight hours and intensity ranking among the highest on the East Coast.

Originally, it could have become an excellent tourist destination, but its small land area, surrounding hills and mountains, insufficient coastline, and inadequate urban infrastructure made it unable to accommodate large numbers of tourists.

Had it been closer to Metropolis, it might have developed long ago, since a thirty-minute drive to Metropolis would allow tourists to fulfill accommodation and dining needs there.

But no tourist would dare venture into Gotham for lodging, and visitors to seaside cities come to sunbathe on beaches—Gotham's rainy, gloomy weather would ruin their mood entirely—so Brudhaven remained neither prosperous nor declining.

But since Mayor Luo Yin of Gotham made that phone speech, public prejudice against Gotham has slightly improved—people now recognize that its high crime and chaos stem partly from government inaction—and many curious backpackers have come to observe, choosing Brudhaven as their base.

Added to this, Gotham's logistics industry has surged, driving a sharp rise in labor demand; many seeking jobs here choose Brudhaven as a forward outpost, since it's only a twenty-minute drive to Gotham, and if life there disappoints them, they can simply leave.

After all, Gotham's prices and rents are no joke; though its residents are rotten, they're not poor—or rather, within Gotham's internal system they're poor, but by outside standards, they're at least middle-class.

Consider this comparison: a typical low-level gang enforcer who guards nightclubs in Gotham ranks among the lowest earners there, but if he moves to Brudhaven, he becomes a symbol of middle-class comfort.

Someone might ask: why not just live in Brudhaven and avoid the gang violence?

But they aren't just gang enforcers—their fathers, mothers, grandparents all belong to the gangs; their entire social network exists within this system, making change nearly impossible. Without the boss's approval, they can't leave—or else, they become shark bait.

Moreover, Gotham gang income isn't due to useful skills or good education; gang enforcers have little schooling, no marketable skills, and after leaving Gotham's system, they could never find another job paying this well.

This is a problem faced by residents of high-income, high-cost regions when moving to low-income, low-cost ones: they want high wages and low prices, but low-cost areas rarely offer high wages, and their infrastructure is inadequate—so they'd rather endure high prices than relocate.

This is also why Brudhaven, despite being adjacent to Gotham, enjoys such good public order.

Plainly put, Gotham residents look down on this place; a month's hard labor here might earn less than a week's work for a gang in Gotham. Even if Brudhaven's prices are lower, goods are scarce, and some items still require trips to Gotham—so why not just live in Gotham? Locals know the terrain better and are safer.

Many backpackers who visit Brudhaven call it "hell's nearest paradise"—its climate, scenery, and culture are no less impressive than those of any East Coast tourist city.

Unlike bustling metropolises like Gotham, Brudhaven is a small town with a slow pace of life, where everyone is relaxed—thanks largely to the East Coast's abundant fishery.

Its economic structure remains centered on fishing piers, seafood processing and export, and logistics; the town has three piers, one of which, built later, is relatively large, while the other two date back to the colonial era and are now quite old.

"Sir, you probably haven't heard of this pier—it was broken about three or four years ago. The mayor said it wasn't worth repairing, so he turned it into a fishing pier." A boy in overalls and a fisherman's cap ran "tap-tap-tap" onto the wooden pier platform, pointing ahead at Sir Shiler.

"See those small boats? They're tourist experience boats—visitors can go out and try shallow-water fishing; the fishermen teach them basic techniques using either rods or nets."

"For five dollars, you take home the fattest fish. If you give me another fifty cents, I'll take you to the nearby restaurant—its owner makes the best fish soup and fish porridge you'll ever taste."

"Five dollars is too expensive. I don't much like fish—but if it were cheaper, I'd be willing to try." Shiler stepped onto the wooden pier, gazing at the row of fishing boats, forced to admit it was uniquely charming.

Generally, sea fishing is costly; most vacationing families can't afford to rent a fishing boat—that's a luxury only the wealthy indulge in.

Brudhaven's tourism project is like a shabby, beggar's version: the boats are ordinary wooden hulls with electric motors, the fishermen are locals who've fished their whole lives, their nets aren't high-end, some even torn.

Yet every boat carries tourists, all visibly delighted—even though these boats are far too slow for trawling, netting is pure luck, and catches are meager, most tourists, especially families, have a wonderful time.

Shiler began to admire Brudhaven's mayor's wisdom: in this era, most tourism caters to the rich, and many seaside cities haven't realized they need more accessible offerings.

In most coastal tourist cities, only the beach is free; every other sea activity—fishing, diving—is priced exorbitantly.

"Alright, sir, three dollars—how's that?"

"I'll pay two dollars fifty—and I'll give you another fifty cents as a tip, just for dinner." Shiler smiled, patted the boy's shoulder, and said: "Go find me a boat."

The boy cheered, dashed down the pier to the shore, and soon returned with a boat. He boasted beside Shiler: "Sir, I bet no one else could find a boat so perfect for you!"

"You said you're a university professor, so you'd get along better with young people—but most of these fishermen are old, and their stubborn tempers give me headaches. I feared you two wouldn't click, so I found the only slightly younger fisherman here…"

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"Come here, Viking—this is Professor Rodriguez, my new client, a generous university professor who wants to try your boat. Catch him a good fish, and I'll buy you dinner."

Shiler turned and saw the boy's man: bare-chested, wearing shorts, his body sculpted like marble, golden hair, long sideburns merging into his jawline beard, but clean-shaven chin—wild, arrogant.

He sized up Shiler with hawk-like eyes, then shifted aside to make room, pointing at his boat: "Get on."

Shiler looked down—still standing on the sand, the boat floating at least three meters out. He opened his mouth: "How?"

The boy slapped his forehead: "You forgot again?! The boarding ladder? Old Veland told you the rules for treating tourists—did you forget?"

The man on the boat remembered, pulled a wooden plank from the boat, anchored it, lowered the plank, and Shiler stepped aboard.

Shiler waved to the boy, feeling the boat sway beneath him. The golden-haired man remained silent. Curious, Shiler walked to the rail—then the man grunted: "Don't stare at the sea too long—you'll get seasick."

Shiler slowly turned his gaze away and asked: "My guide says your name is Viking? That's a nickname, right?"

"Yes. But I don't like it—I'm no pirate." Viking walked to the cabin to organize tools. "Rod or net?"

"Let's try rod fishing first. Can you find me a decent spot?" Shiler said. Viking crouched, arranging lines and rods. "You came at a bad time—lots of people, all the good spots taken. I know a few better ones…"

"Oh, I see. If I catch well today, I'll give you half again as much tip." Shiler knelt beside him, studying the assorted rods.

"No, I'm not after tips. I mean those spots are tricky—you'll need decent fishing skill."

Viking began organizing lines. Shiler stood, gazing at the sea. As Viking said, nearly every patch of water was occupied—except the direction they were heading, where no boat floated.

"My skill isn't great, but it's not terrible. Let's try. If we catch nothing, fine—I don't care for fish anyway." Shiler shrugged, easygoing. Viking glanced up, surprised. He asked:

"You're a university professor? Where do you teach?"

"Gotham University."

Viking's fishing line tangled into a hopeless knot.