Chapter 20: Felix Sloan

Mr. Sloan’s night school was set up in an abandoned warehouse, three blocks west of the orphanage.

The main structure of the warehouse was brick and stone, with a roof covered in sheets of iron of unknown origin.

Some places had rusted through, patched haphazardly with asphalt and rags.

Felix Sloan had rented the place at a very low price from a merchant on the verge of bankruptcy.

Some maliciously speculated that he had used some unscrupulous means, but that didn’t matter.

Mr. Sloan hired a few cheap laborers to clear out the accumulated garbage, partitioned the space with wooden boards, and thus had a school.

Lein pushed open the heavy iron door, and a murky air fermented from kerosene, chalk dust, and human sweat rushed at him.

The inside of the warehouse was warmer than outside.

Mr. Sloan had lit an iron stove in the center of the classroom, the fire burning brightly, illuminating a small area around it with a red glow.

Two kerosene lamps provided light, one hanging from the ceiling and the other on the lectern.

A dozen long tables and matching wooden benches were neatly arranged.

At the moment, most of the seats were already taken.

Most of those who came were half-grown children, ranging in age from seven or eight to fourteen or fifteen.

They wore clothes much more decent than those children deep in Ash Lane, though patched, at least clean and tidy.

The parents of these children were mostly skilled workers in factories or foremen at the docks.

They lived at the bottom but had a little more income than those at the very bottom, and also a little more unrealistic fantasies.

They had seen the life of the middle class with their own eyes and longed for their offspring to escape the fate of Ash Lane.

Felix Sloan’s rhetoric about knowledge changing fate precisely struck the most vulnerable part of their hearts.

Seeing Lein enter, a few younger children waved at him.

He nodded in response and walked to his seat at the back of the classroom.

As a teaching assistant, his job was to maintain discipline during Mr. Sloan’s lectures and to help children who fell behind with their literacy after class.

Before long, Mr. Sloan walked out from the small office partitioned off at the back of the warehouse.

Today he was wearing a fairly decent dark coat.

Although the cuffs were a bit shiny from wear, at least there were no holes.

His hair was combed, his face clean-shaven, and he held a thick book in his hand, slowly walking behind the lectern at the front of the classroom.

He always liked to maintain an outward decency, just like he insisted others call him Mr. Sloan, as if that would make him a real gentleman.

“Good evening, future gentlemen and ladies,”

Mr. Sloan began in a theatrical tone, as if performing in a play.

“Today’s lesson, we will continue to explore the glorious and splendid history of the Kingdom of New Claire. Please turn to Chapter Twenty-Seven, ‘Glory and Dreams of the Great Expansion Era.'”

The students immediately fumbled to flip through their textbooks.

Those were crudely printed pamphlets, yellowed paper with blurry ink.

Lein was already familiar with that content.

The history Mr. Sloan taught was nothing more than a more exaggerated and sentimental retelling of the contents of “A General History of the Kingdom of New Claire,” filled with praise for the nobility and king, and an infinite elevation of the so-called pioneering spirit.

Lein didn’t listen.

His eyes swept across the students, confirming the count.

It seemed that one person was still missing today.

The boy named Tim, who sat in the third row by the window, hadn’t come.

Tim’s father was a maintenance worker on the railway, with a decent income in this area.

Tim had been absent from night school for several consecutive times.

After the class ended, the students packed up and left the warehouse in twos and threes.

Lein stayed behind to help rearrange the tables and chairs back in order and sweep the paper scraps into a corner.

Mr. Sloan sat behind the lectern, leisurely smoking his pipe, watching him work.

“Mr. Sloan,”

Lein straightened up, leaning the broom against the wall.

“Tim didn’t come again today.”

Mr. Sloan lifted his eyelids from behind the smoke, glanced at him, and said flatly:

“I know.”

“He’s already missed three classes.”

“So what?”

Mr. Sloan tapped his pipe against the table leg to knock out the ash.

“His father has already paid for the entire month in advance, not a single copper short. Whether he comes or not, what difference does it make to me? I still get the money, I still teach the class. He gave up the chance to change his fate himself. That’s his own choice, none of my business.”

‘The old bastard is even happy about it. After all, one less student means less effort on his part.’

Mr. Sloan stood up, walked over to Lein, and patted his shoulder with that thick history textbook, putting on an earnest posture:

“Lein, you must remember, life is always full of surprises. Especially in Ash Lane. You can’t stop for everyone who falls behind. The only thing you can do is make sure you keep walking on the right path.”

Lein looked at him silently.

For the residents of Ash Lane, accidents were part of life, and so was death.

Mr. Sloan’s words sounded reasonable enough, but coming from his mouth, they were nothing but coldness and sarcasm.

In Ash Lane, the word ‘life’ itself was already a luxury.

“I understand,”

Lein finally just nodded.

‘He knew arguing with this old bastard was a pointless endeavor.’

Seeing Lein’s reaction, Mr. Sloan hummed in satisfaction, turned around, and walked back into his small office.

Lein finished cleaning up the last few things and went to Mr. Sloan’s room as usual to borrow some books.

But he caught sight of Mr. Sloan taking a book from his desk drawer and reading it with great interest.

The cover of that book was unlike any he had seen before.

The cover was deep red, printed with strange golden patterns.

“Mr. Sloan, what new book are you reading?”

Lein stood at the office door and asked casually.

Mr. Sloan started as if stung, closed the book, and fumbled to stuff it back into the drawer.

He looked up, saw it was Lein, and a flash of panic crossed his face, but he quickly resumed his pretentious expression.

He cleared his throat and said with a righteous tone:

“This is some profound knowledge I’ve been studying recently. The knowledge system involved is too complex. At your current level, you are far from qualified to appreciate it.”

Lein looked at him expressionlessly:

“Is that so? If my eyes aren’t mistaken, the title on the cover should be ‘Carnival of Flesh’? Doesn’t sound like proper content.”

Upon hearing this, Mr. Sloan was unconcerned.

He stood up nonchalantly, put on the face of an educator, and said earnestly:

“Ah, my dear Mr. Collins, this is where you don’t understand. It is precisely such vulgar, lewd, crude, and direct words that can truly reveal the most honest side of humanity without reservation. That is the art of words.”

‘The art of sophistry, more like.’

Lein didn’t want to bother with him.

He casually took a book he hadn’t read yet from the man’s precious bookshelf and left.