The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1128 (Ch.1127) Fantasy
Lord Spencer spoke practically, sincerely, and without falsehood.

He didn't feign anger or offer tearful apologies to the suffering people on the wall, shouting that he had trusted the wrong person—he rationally told them that this was the necessary price to pay for moving forward… although no one wanted to be one of those price to pay.

But for him, it was only for him.

He couldn't stop the moving train.

He could only do his best to prevent such a disaster from happening again. At the same time, he would empty his own pockets and use what he had to compensate those who had suffered.

He said that these were at least the things he could do.

Roland spoke highly of him—not in terms of his words or actions.

Mr. Collins was analyzing a person without paying attention to their words or actions.

It's just a feeling.

feel.

He thought this person was 'reliable'.

Just like he used to 'feel' that Nina Collins was a 'good person'.

period.

They talked about many 'mistakes' that had happened in London. What upset Rose the most was that, without mentioning Roland, that fake-faced woman Sandel had 'gotten involved'—frankly, more than just 'got involved'.

Sandel could respond to almost every word and topic Lord Spencer uttered.

This is quite normal for someone from that background.

Some who took "catch-up lessons" midway through obviously couldn't keep up.

“…Daniel. It’s Mr. Daniel Heffer. I’ve wanted to visit him many times, but because of the ‘detector,’ it’s really inconvenient to go to the workshop at this juncture. Miss Kratoff, as you said, if ‘steam’ could advance further…”

“I am neither a craftsman nor a scholar, but I assure you from the perspective of a citizen: this is absolutely the path we should take in the future.”

When discussing steam-powered carriages, Spencer saw not only convenience, but also a new era behind that convenience: a new era for workers.

"Society should have long since abandoned the 'trend' of selling health, strength, and age. With the power of steam, I think many workers—men and women alike—could operate larger machines and accomplish more arduous and complex tasks at a lower cost..."

Can you imagine that era?

“The lives of the citizens will improve, and fewer and fewer people will have their legs broken or hands missing—” Spencer’s eyes were bloodshot with excitement, but for a moment, his expression turned incredibly grim: “But… the government must reduce the tax burden and truly pass the benefits to the workers, otherwise those hateful factory owners will just keep layering on the tax, like piecing together a thick veneer, to those who are the poorest and hardest to survive…”

half an hour.

Roland gradually understood why Kingsley respected this man.

He betrayed his 'family'—I mean, betrayed the power of his chair, his palace, his honey pot, and his hundred or so servants.

no doubt.

The many new regulations envisioned by the Lord himself and by the government undoubtedly harmed the interests of factory owners or certain social classes.

Coincidentally.

Ashley May Spencer is on this floor.

He was like someone who drew a double-edged sword, slashing at his enemy on one side and cutting himself on the other—that's what ideals are all about.

"I think I understand why Kingsley speaks of your name with such reverence."

Spencer paused, a rare hint of embarrassment appearing on his face: "Sir, Your Excellency, I am not worthy of any 'respect'—I only hope to do something insignificant for the true masters of the empire..."

"The true master of the empire?" Rose blinked.

"of course."

Spencer raises his eyebrows:
"Aren't they in the factory, in the shop, beside the steam engine, or in the endless, repetitive ticking of the gauge?"

As he spoke, that look of disgust crept back onto his cheeks.

“I don’t want to mention that sugar-obsessed woman,” the lord shook his head, “a puppet, a brain that thinks itself clever but is actually more worthless than the excrement in the Thames, a body that can only serve as a symbol…” This terrified the family members by the wall.

They looked at each other, then simultaneously turned to each other and to the burning fireplace.

Some are starting to appreciate the ceilings—the ceilings in the East End houses don't have much to offer in terms of decoration.

“I agree with that,” Roland nodded. “She cares more about the sugar cubes in her teacup than her weight.”

Spencer clapped and laughed.

“For your courage and humor,” he said. “Indeed. The Queen is just a badge, like the cross on the top of a church—it is crafted by devout workers, not by a hand from the heavens that ‘personally’ placed it.”

"Party factions, businessmen who are attached to party factions, the interests of members of parliament, bills passed for profit... Sir, I despise these. Indeed, all human activities are inevitably mixed up, but are the workers, the textile workers, the soldiers who fight in the most dangerous places—are they not citizens?"

Spencer became agitated again.

In this respect, he and Kingsley are indeed somewhat similar.

"Did our clothes come from heaven? Weren't they woven stitch by stitch by workers operating machines? How can those people have the audacity to add even heavier burdens to them?"

The flames burned intensely.

After the brilliance, the ashes are cold and piercing.

"...Unfortunately, I don't have that ability, Mr. Collins."

Spencer sighed sadly.

"I can only push this boulder forward step by step... First, give the workers holidays. Give them time off, reduce their working hours—the government should pass legislation to compensate those who are injured. At the same time, we should revise the age limit for prostitutes again... at least sixteen, sir. I hope to 'progress' from eleven to sixteen once more..."

Sender gazed quietly at the man before him, a man with lofty ideals.

suddenly.

Someone muttered something softly from the corner behind them.

"...Then we'll lose our jobs, sir."

They are the women's family members.

She is a husband.

He saw Spencer looking over—perhaps the conversation of the past half hour had made them think that this gentleman was 'easy to talk to,' which gave them some confidence.

He puffed out his chest and straightened his back: "I mean, sir, we're willing to work longer hours."

Spencer was speechless.

He certainly knew why these people thought that way.

But their vision is too short-sighted and too focused to see the hidden meaning behind 'reduced working hours'—the lower classes are always so open and honest, otherwise how could those in suits and ties so easily deceive them?

“I will consider… a better way.”

Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and took off his monocle.

He seems to have overlooked one thing: the thoughts of the citizens who benefited from it.

The workers' thoughts.

Maybe…

There should be one…

A political party that speaks specifically for workers?
The idea flashed through Lord Ashley's mind like a pack of wildcats rising again in the misty city of London.

He couldn't catch it.

(End of this chapter)