Chapter 603: The Demon King

In the council hall of the City Hall of Lei Ming, sparse sunlight struggled to climb over the high window sills and fell upon rows of conference tables.

Neither the space nor the environment here matched the brightness of the Colin Theater, nor the opulence of His Majesty Xiedeng's Summer Palace.

Yet Horace quite liked it here.

Because there was no admission fee, and tea was free.

Free black tea—perfect!

He took a restrained sip, lest he run to the latrine before the meeting even began.

"Ladies and gentlemen, silence."

The chairman's wooden gavel struck the oak table, producing a dull thud.

Watching the chamber gradually fall quiet, he spoke in a slow, tepid voice.

"The first item today… let me see, it's Councilor Dibike's proposal—let him speak."

Lei Ming's council meetings differed from those of Xiedeng: the chairman merely presided, held no supreme authority, and was not appointed by His Majesty as a baron or minister.

From this perspective, Lei Ming's city council was far cruder than the centuries-old Three-Level Assembly of Luo Lan City.

The chairman seated here was indeed a seasoned veteran of meetings, while many new councilors hadn't even warmed their chairs.

Councilor Dibike, owner of the paint factory, stood up.

This gentleman, who had amassed his fortune by painting the hulls of the duchy's navy ships, had donned a brand-new dark tailcoat today, his pocket watch chain polished to a gleam.

He cleared his throat, shaking the letter in his hand—barely creased—so it rustled loudly.

Though the letter cost him not a single silver pound, he had spent a full hundred silver pounds on a theater ticket to draft this proposal, then spent the entire night afterward in deep contemplation.

All citizens of the city were concerned about the bell that had stirred their Gongming, and he would be the first gentleman to voice their sentiments!

"Before I begin my remarks, I wish to read a letter."

Dibike's voice boomed, like an actor on stage, delivered in a practiced, impassioned tone, brimming with Qishi.

"This is a letter slipped under my door this morning by a fifty-year-old mother living in my constituency—she didn't even notice the mailbox was right beside the door… but that's unimportant; what matters is what she wrote, which brought tears to my wife and me."

"In her letter, she asked me, 'Respected Councilor Dibike, my daughter will marry next month—do I need to prepare a dowry tax like Eloise did? Who should I approach?'"

A light ripple of laughter spread through the council hall.

Well, you even rhymed.

Lei Ming is a free commercial city, under the enlightened rule of His Grace the Duke—how could it possibly harbor the filthy habits of country nobles?

Yet some did not laugh; instead, they cursed inwardly: how lucky for this shameless bastard Dibike to have snatched this advantage.

We could've written this damn proposal too!

Dibike paid no mind to the laughter; his expression turned solemn, and he glared sharply at the loudest laugher.

"…I know what you'll say: enlightened Lei Ming has no such problem, so there's no need to worry about something that doesn't exist—I should write back to comfort that mother, not waste everyone's time here."

The chairman coughed once and tapped his gavel.

"Councilor Dibike, no one said that—"

"I know! But everyone thinks it," Dibike interrupted the chairman with a look of pity, his voice resolute, "yet I must say: though Lei Ming's dowry tax is fictitious, this mother's suffering is real!"

The scribe in the corner of the table scribbled furiously; the reporters beside him wrote just as fast.

Horace stole a glance at what they were writing.

Lei Ming… mother… suffering?

Huh?

He couldn't help sitting up straight.

Is this even allowed??

Fortunately, the reporters from the Lei Ming Daily were professionals—the clever young man had already used a recording crystal to capture it.

Horace couldn't help but sigh inwardly: magic truly is a wonderful thing.

If only it could be used to make money… that would be perfect.

While Mr. Horace was using the meeting time to think about his own affairs, Councilor Dibike continued to passionately champion the mother's suffering.

"…Loopholes in rules are like cracks in a ship's hull—if not patched today, they'll leak tomorrow! To respond to citizens' fears, to prevent Eloise's tragedy from replaying in Lei Ming… I propose!"

He paused, scanning the room.

"Legislate to abolish all forms of chastity tax and dowry tax! We shall smash those shackles—perhaps arriving tomorrow—with the iron hammer of law!"

A scattered round of applause broke out.

Most came from his allies and the fence-sitters who had been invited here for free tea by some poor fool who'd wasted money.

Swinging fists at the air was always safe—it earned goodwill without ever touching any powerful person's cheese.

After all, who would oppose abolishing a tax that never existed?

Even Horace, seated in the back row, couldn't help smiling.

But he held it in.

"Now, free speaking time—anyone who wishes to speak may ring the bell—"

"I'd like to say a few words," Horace interrupted the chairman by pressing the bell—ding! —cutting him off.

The miser who had once been blocked in his office by workers rose slowly from his seat, his movements sluggish, as if his aged formal attire bound him.

He adjusted his faded, shabby necktie, clutching a small slip of paper covered in dense handwriting.

It had been written for him overnight by his factory manager, Elsie.

Frankly, Elsie's writing was too flowery, and since he'd been at work yesterday, he clearly hadn't seen the play.

This was obviously a summary cribbed from the newspaper.

Horace had seen the play.

He wouldn't read it verbatim—he'd translate its complex logic into plain language even dockworkers could understand.

"Councilor Dibike spoke well."

Horace's voice floated lightly, carrying the shrewdness of a merchant, prompting a smile on Dibike's face.

It seemed Mr. Horace hadn't taken yesterday's casual insult to heart—or perhaps he hadn't understood the innuendo at all.

That had been after the play ended.

He had stepped out of his VIP box to greet Horace's wife, feigning surprise: "What a coincidence—you were in the next box? Forgive me for not greeting you; the performance was so moving, my wife wept for hours—I've only just calmed her down."

The only flaw: Horace's wife merely smiled and greeted him, then exchanged pleasantries with his wife.

Just as Dibike regretted not seeing Horace's humiliation, his forced gentlemanly smile froze on his face.

"…But I must say, this is merely handing out a 'good person' card—useless except for self-congratulation."

Laughter erupted in the chamber, louder than before.

Especially from the man Dibike had glared at earlier—he laughed loudly and rudely jostled his chair.

This provoked the chairman's second strike of the gavel and left Dibike flustered, teeth clenched.

Humorous Horace didn't look at him; instead, he surveyed the council hall and continued in a tone like a shakedown artist.

"No chastity tax? There'll be wear-and-tear fees. No dowry tax? There'll be oil for the clock's gears, money for polishing the bell clapper, or painting the ancient bell… oh, I'm not implying anything about our Councilor Dibike—I recall he's in the paint business."

"Mr. Horace, first warning," the chairman struck his gavel a third time, eyes narrowed in warning, cutting off the jester's joke.

Horace coughed, steering the topic back on track, then declared with solemn righteousness:

"What I mean is, the issue isn't paint, nor the crown, nor even the church bell—those who want these things may pay for them freely; that's their right. Horace Textile Mill could even design ribbons for them—oh, Mr. Chairman, don't strike your gavel yet, let me finish my advertisement—no, let me finish my point!"

"As long as the bell rope remains in the hands of a few, greedier men will always invent a hundred excuses to reach into the pockets of the poor—after all, even I can think of fifty… and this must be stopped!"

The chairman's gavel hung suspended midair, his cloudy little eyes wide open, the hammer trembling up and down, unsure whether to strike or not.

Whispering spread through the chamber; those who had been laughing moments ago now froze, unable to smile.

Including Councilor Dibike.

His eyes bulged wider than the chairman's, fixed on Horace as if staring at a corpse exhumed and vomited forth by a demon.

Saint Xisheng above—

He had never seen such an audacious man!

Was there anyone in all of Lei Ming more greedy than this fellow?

It was like the Demon King calling for holy light!

Yet Horace still didn't look at the man glaring at him; instead, he braced both hands on the table, producing a loud, oppressive creak.

"As long as the bell tower belongs to the castle, to the church, the tragedies of 'Eloise' and 'Ma Xiu' will never end! We shall grieve again and again, in the name of the sacred and unquestionable!"

"The love of two souls is the will of the gods—only those who truly love each other may decide when the bell shall ring! The sanctity of marriage needs no lord's seal, no priest's nod!"

"We must reclaim the power to ring the bell from castle and church, and restore the authority of civil law to our nation!"

His resounding words echoed through the hall, followed by a long, deathly silence.

Dibike stared at the shabby miser before him as if seeing him for the first time.

This man… has he gone mad?

Shock spread silently.

Not only Dibike, but even the reporters beside him were stunned, straightening their spines from their bored slouches.

Especially the reporter who had earlier scribbled "Mother is in pain."

After much thought, he finally crossed out the lifeless story and wrote down Horace's words—

【The love of two souls is the will of the gods—only those who truly love each other may decide when the bell shall ring!】

No special reason.

He simply felt this sentence was perfect for tomorrow's headline—no word needed changing; he could paste it directly.

Because he was a Canbeller, and he had seen yesterday's play—and these words had been his own silent cry.

Senator Horace, known for his outbursts, accidentally dropped another golden line.

Although The Thunder City Daily was too dignified to publish his golden lines or outbursts on the front page, there were always people as sloppy as he was who loved him.

After a brief silence in the council chamber, a rough cheer shattered the dead air.

"Well said!!!"

A man with a bulbous nose couldn't help but clap. The fellow was the beer baron of the New Industrial District, accidentally carried in by a group of drunkards.

Horace usually looked down on him, yet now this man had become his supporter—Horace didn't know how to respond but forced out a polite smile in his direction.

Thunder City's council had not yet formed factions, but factions seemed to have already appeared right under the Speaker's nose, sharply divided.

The sparse clapping gradually turned into a downpour, and soon it wasn't just applause that rose—it was the cheers of those "unrefined souls."

No matter how hard the Speaker banged his table and shouted for silence, the people who stood up involuntarily kept talking over each other; the meeting's order vanished completely.

"That's right!"

"Why should I need a priest's approval just to get married? Doesn't the city hall's stamp suffice?"

"But what if your village doesn't have a city hall?"

"Then build one!"

Bathed in a storm of applause, Horace was momentarily stunned—he hadn't expected these people to be so worked up.

Clearly, the Duke had let in far too many riffraff.

But—

When he saw Dibico's face, twisted as if he'd swallowed a fly, Horace couldn't help but curl his lips into a smug smile.

Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Too bad his son wasn't here—if he were, Horace would proudly ruffle his child's hair and show him Dibico's defeated expression.

Then he'd say—

Look.

Little Horace.

Even if someone holds the cheapest ticket and stands at the very back of the theater, they still understand what a bell sounds like better than that lofty Mr. Dibico!

And that perceptive soul? That's your father.

When you grow up, you can stand tall and tell everyone you're the heir of Mr. Horace! You don't need to hide your name like a stray dog and flee to some distant land.

Because we've always stood with our own people—never stolen, never cheated!

Perhaps the Iris Troupe should write a play for Horace—his rags-to-riches story, he felt, was far more thrilling than a bell!

Meanwhile, Mr. Dibico finally let out a suppressed roar.

But that roar, like his ignored proposal, was drowned in the ocean of noise.

"Enough! Gentlemen, where is your order? Doesn't anyone listen to what the Speaker says? He told you to be quiet!"

"And—"

"That proposal was my idea!"

…

The afternoon sun shone perfectly into Thunder City's council chamber, but it never reached Thunder City's docks—especially the cargo-unloading zone.

This area was Changnian shrouded by massive ship hulls and smokestacks, and the black smoke spewing from those chimneys.

The air above the docks reeked of salt and fish—rotten shrimp mixed with coal dust and sweat, like pickled vegetables.

Right now, a group of shirtless dockworkers sat beside wooden crates piled with ropes, gnawing on bread and sausages, accompanied by that deeply pickled "salted vegetable" smell.

"... I told you, Mr. Horace is a good man!"

Joey, a man as broad as a smokestack, took a fierce bite of bread, his face flushed with an excitement even brighter than yesterday's.

"Last night, the theater was packed, yet he came up and shook my hand! Really—he looked right at me, asked my name! I told him I was Joey, and he wished me a pleasant day, never once showing disgust at my fishy stink!"

Though the gentleman had forgotten his name the next second—causing Joey to lose his bet—this was still an electrifying trial for Joey, who'd never met a big shot before.

The other workers were deep in discussion about the Three-Tier Council of the Leyne Kingdom; when they heard this brother suddenly bring up the recently famous Mr. Horace, they burst into laughter.

"Joey, are you stupid? Even I buy a seat ticket to watch a show. Only someone like you buys a standing ticket. Why not just say Miss Eloise shook your hand? I'll begrudgingly envy you for one second."

The foreman shoved his rolled cigarette into his mouth, struck a damp match, and flicked it several times before it caught fire; his mouth, harsher than the sun, showed no mercy.

Joey's face turned red.

The other workers laughed harder, pulling his shoulders.

"That's right, Joey—maybe Mr. Horace was crushed so badly he couldn't stand, and mistook your arm for a railing!"

"Thousands of sweating men packed together—smell? No better than salted fish. Everywhere was sweat, foot odor, cheap tobacco—he couldn't even afford to be disgusted."

"Mr. Horace was just squeezed so tight he had nowhere to put his hand!"

The air was thick with mirth.

Joey grew desperate.

The brother who'd gone to the theater with him yesterday wasn't here, so Joey could only argue, his neck flushed.

"You're all lying! I'll get Luke to testify for me—he saw it yesterday!"

A fellow worker who'd helped carry crates smiled.

"Ha, everyone knows you two are buddies—what's his testimony worth?"

"To prove I'm not lying!"

Joey's voice rose loud enough to drown out the distant, melodious whistle of a steamship, as if what they were arguing about mattered deeply.

"I'm an uneducated brute, but I know what's real. Who treats me well? Who sees me as a person? I can see it with my own eyes!"

The laughter faded.

Some stopped because Joey's seriousness suggested he wasn't joking anymore; others fell silent, their expressions complicated.

To be seen as a person…

For those scraping by on the docks, that was rare—sometimes they even compared themselves to seagulls.

This time, the foreman didn't continue his sarcastic, self-deprecating remarks.

"Fine."

He flicked ash from his cigarette and said casually.

"Sure, the guy's a notorious miser—I know you've all forgotten, but I never did… Still, I have to admit, he did this right."

Mr. Horace isn't a good man, but he's at least still a man.