Chapter Sixty-Eight: Jiang Mochen Is No Ordinary Man

Time passed swiftly, and before anyone realized it, winter had arrived.

Su Wan’s Wanmei Cosmetics Factory was nearly complete. All that remained was to purchase a few machines, and then it could open for business.

Snow fell thickly outside. Gangzi, wrapped in a military coat, hid by the entrance, smoking a cigarette. He sucked the stub, idly kicking a stone by the wall. Damn, these past days felt like prison—so many restrictions, nothing allowed. Though his sister-in-law was generous...

“After Binding the Bootlicker System, I Snatched Away the Handsomest Rough Man,” Chapter Sixty-Eight: Jiang Mochen Is Not Simple.

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There were only a few days left until the school would isolate different zones. Once these days passed, the school would break for the holidays, vacating all study areas so senior students could adjust and prepare for their final exams. For the younger students, classes would continue as usual, though assignments and lectures were scheduled more densely.

Class Seven of Year One was still different: more homework, with teachers pushing students to understand as much as possible in a shorter time. Most of the students in this class came from Smolan, with all sorts of differences, and things would soon loosen up. The teachers didn’t dare relax their vigilance.

Today, though, there was a rare half-day respite. The teachers had rearranged the classes, freeing up the morning for students to write letters home.

This letter would take two months to reach its distant destination across the ocean, and another two months for a reply. The school had coordinated as much as possible; for humanitarian reasons, those in charge seemed to think it necessary to help students stay in touch with their hometowns.

Yet this might be the only chance for students to communicate with their families for the next few years. Whether there would be another opportunity... hope was slim.

Now, the classroom was filled only with students, no supervision, bustling and lively. They chatted, crowded around to read each other’s letters, asking if there was anything they could write about themselves.

They didn’t realize this might be their one and only letter home, but treasured the opportunity all the same. After a year away, everyone was homesick.

Albert sat quietly at his desk, staring at the blank paper before him, feeling a bit lost: Who should he write to?

It seemed he truly had no one to write to.

He glanced around. Everyone was writing, except his deskmate—a girl who could easily correspond with her family, so she didn’t care much about this chance. She was scribbling something unknown. Then there was Don Quixote, scribbling nonsense on his paper; he claimed to have transmigrated into a minor noble’s household, where a horse vanished at birth and five brothers vied for inheritance and status. He didn’t see any reason to write home and had no intention of returning. The exact reasons he wouldn’t say, and Albert didn’t press him.

...Well, he thought. It would be a waste not to use the opportunity.

He decided to write to an acquaintance. Though “acquaintance” might not be quite right; it was someone who had helped him, a good person, that was all. His feelings toward this person were complicated. After all, who wants to gain a father out of nowhere?

Albert recalled, memories conjuring a dark, scarred face of an older man.

———

“Hey, hey, Albert.”

“...?”

“Look, I don’t have children, you don’t have parents—why don’t we pair up? You be my son!”

“...Get lost.”

......

Uncle, it’s me, Albert.

When you read this letter, I’ll be in Avalanga. Everything here is fine, so don’t worry.

I remember you told me once that Avalanga was a terrible place, ruled by wizards, where people had no faith or morals, ate children, devoured raw ox organs, carved forbidden symbols, and had no ethics—madness everywhere. Now I tell you:

No, not at all.

Everything is fine here. I don’t know how to explain, but the people here are wonderful.

They aren’t crazy; quite the opposite, they’re all very kind.

We’re not here as test subjects or food; we really are attending school, reading many books.

Uncle, do you know what mathematics is? How to calculate, how to do it faster? Now I can do arithmetic easily, in ways you’d never imagine. I could work as an accountant in town.

There’s something called linguistics too—it teaches how to write, how to speak. Now not only can I write, I can compose poems, even stories. Besides these, there’s much I can’t explain, and there’s magic, courses teaching us how to use it. I must tell you: it’s absolutely not power borrowed from demons.

Everyone here can use magic, and they’re all normal. The power of magic, you may not understand, but it’s much like the priests and fathers on your side.

How it works depends on who uses it.

I can’t say too much, but I want you to know it’s good, so don’t worry. I won’t become insane because of it. I’m sensible, and I understand much more. I no longer fear so many things; everything has its logic, and the more you know, the farther you see.

...(ink stains)

(corrections)——

...Uncle, do you remember?

We once talked about what I could do when I grew up.

You said, nothing mattered more than farming, working in the city, or becoming a priest. Now I can tell you—there are many more important things, countless things waiting for me. I can become a scholar, one of those learned people who write books. I can be an engineer, those who command the construction of buildings grander than cathedrals. Or I can be a researcher, even more learned than scholars.

I can reveal to you: my goals are much greater, and I will achieve them, as long as I truly can. Perhaps years from now, I’ll appear in storybooks.

Many, many people will remember my name, and with it your surname.

Remington.

You helped me once, so I inherit your surname.

I still don’t want to call you father, but from the moment I arrived in Avalanga, Remington Sagrath Albert became my name.

And, uncle—

(corrections)———

......

I may never return to Smolan.

I’m sorry. Your house—let the villagers have it.

Please relay my message to Father Band.

He’s a good man, but I can’t change my mind because of his kindness. I can’t become a believer just because of his care and friendliness. Please tell him, by the standards of the Holy Church, I am a fallen child, a non-believer.

I believe this world is material, definite, supported by logic and the theorems we seek. Until I witness or see evidence myself, I cannot believe in the existence of some omniscient, omnipotent “god.” Even if I see one, I will only consider it a peculiar, far-reaching advanced being. I’m unwilling to devote faith.

I can only regard it as part of what I know, a mystery to be solved. When I come of age, I will stay in Avalanga as a researcher.

If what he says is true, then after my death...

......

I will step into hell with both feet.