Lord: My Shop Connects to Modern Times

Thomas felt like he was still dreaming.

The morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden planks, drawing thin streaks of light on the ground.

He lay on the hard bed in the Gray Rock Town reform camp, staring at the light bars for a long time.

There were no shackles.

The door was not locked.

There wasn't even anyone guarding it—at least not openly.

There was indeed a musketeer standing at the camp entrance, but he just nodded at them and said, "Breakfast is in the mess hall," and then ignored them.

Unlike the other serious offenders in the same batch, they were all imprisoned in the serious offender prison.

In comparison, Thomas even felt a sense of unreality, as if he hadn't actually been to jail.

Thomas slowly sat up and rubbed his face.

A few months ago, he was a clerk in the Viscount of Ironstone's guard, copying tax bills and registering grain depots for Lord Gavin every day, and occasionally helping the captain write a few strongly worded letters demanding payment.

At that time, he wore a clean linen shirt, had a small hut, and received eight silver coins each month.

Then his mother fell seriously ill, and just as war was breaking out, Thomas enlisted in the army to pay his mother's taxes.

But they lost the war.

With his hands bound, he walked with other prisoners to a place called Grayrock Town.

On the way, he thought he would be executed—the rumors about the new lord were varied, the most outrageous being that Lynn Cole was the devil incarnate and that all the prisoners had been sacrificed to hell.

As a result, he was put on a public trial.

On the day of the public trial, he knelt on the wooden platform and listened as the farm officer named Joel read out his crimes.

"Forced enlistment, participation in material transportation, no direct combat record, and no injuries."

Then the young lord looked down at him and asked, "What do you have to say in your defense?"

He spoke incoherently about his seriously ill mother, about Mr. Gavin's promise of tax exemption, and about how he was just pushing the cart from behind.

He thought he would be ridiculed or impatiently interrupted.

But after listening, Lynn turned and whispered a few words to the jurors next to him.

Then the verdict came down: one year of community service, working in Huiyan Town, receiving normal wages to support his mother.

Thomas burst into tears on the spot.

He was not only moved, but also frightened. He didn't believe that a free lunch would fall from the sky.

But looking back, he felt that meeting Lord Lynn was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

Now he sat on the edge of his bed in the prisoner-of-war camp, checking for the third time to make sure there were no shackle marks on his wrists.

Breakfast was a thick wheat porridge cooked in a large pot, so thick that a spoon could stand upright in it, and it also contained chopped salted meat.

Thomas squatted in the corner, eating slowly, one bite at a time, each chew feeling unreal.

He had seen the prison food eaten by prisoners in Ironstone Fortress before—it was spoiled.

He assumed all prisoners were the same.

But the reform camp here—if you can even call it a "camp"—has clean beds, hot water, and plenty of food at every meal. They can even get a bar of "soap" every week to take a bath at the public bathhouse.

Thomas was amazed by this little gadget when he used soap for the first time.

This small item has a refreshing scent. When you wet it and use it on your body, it can easily wash away dirt and leave the fragrance on your skin.

It's even better than those luxury perfumes made by alchemists!

There are also public bathhouses.

When Thomas first went in, he stood at the door for a full half minute, stunned.

The people of Huiyan Town built a large pool with cement and piped hot water from iron pipes, allowing dozens of people to bathe at the same time.

The water was warm and had a faint sulfur smell. His skin felt rough after washing, but it was so clean that he wasn't used to it.

He used to only take a bath once a month.

He began to believe that the lord might not actually be the devil.

He thought life would continue like this until one day he was summoned to the city hall.

Miss Martha asked him, "Can you read?"

He nodded and said that he used to work as a clerk in the guard.

Miss Martha jotted down a few notes in the booklet, then said, "The lord has arranged for a group of prisoners convicted of minor offenses to participate in the teacher selection process. Are you interested?"

teacher.

The word hit him on the temple, making a buzzing sound.

"I...I am a prisoner," Thomas said.

"Once you've served your sentence, you won't be the same anymore." Miss Martha said without looking up. "Besides, you've behaved well, and your sentence has already been reduced to ten months."

"But I..." He stammered, unsure of what to say.

Miss Martha finally looked up and glanced at him.

"Give it a try," she said. "What if I get selected?"

Miss Martha's words seemed like good news; he was chosen.

Thomas still doesn't know what the selection criteria are.

That day, more than twenty people came, including prisoners and civilians. Each person was given a piece of paper with dozens of words written on it, and they were asked to copy it once and then write it from memory.

He copied it neatly, but he misspelled three words from memory.

Then Mr. Eero—the naturalist—came over, looked at his paper, and said, "It's fine."

can.

That's "okay".

Thomas held the legendary textbook in his hands, his fingers gently stroking the cover.

The cover reads: "Compulsory Education Textbook: Chinese Language - First Grade, First Semester".

Below that is a line of smaller print: People's Education Press.

He didn't understand what "people's education" was, nor did he understand what "publishing house" meant.

But the paper of this book was white and smooth, finer than any parchment he had ever seen.

The handwriting is clear and neat, each stroke like an engraving, without any trembling or ink stains typical of handwritten copies.

Miss Martha said this is called "printed type".

What Thomas didn't know was that Lynn had spent a full 30% more of his popularity points for each of these textbooks that came with built-in "translation"!

Lynn wouldn't have spent the money if it weren't for the sheer volume of translations required.

Thomas held the textbook to his chest, as if it were some kind of sacred object.

He's going to become a teacher.

On his first day of class, Thomas arrived at school an hour early.

The school is located on the east side of the craftsmen's area, diagonally opposite the public warehouse.

Master Solin and his team renovated the abandoned shed—the roof was replaced with new tiles, the walls were painted light gray, and the windows were fitted with glass.

Glass.

When Thomas first saw the glass window, he almost pressed his face against it.

Even the wealthiest merchants in Ironstone Fortress only had a small display panel on their shopfronts to showcase their valuable goods. Meanwhile, a commoner's school in Grayrock Town had four panels.

Moreover, this was the most transparent glass he had ever seen, better than anything forged by any alchemist!

Enter the classroom.

There are six rows of long tables in the classroom, with two benches for each table.

The table was newly made by the carpentry team and still smelled of pine.

The blackboard was made of cement board painted black, and several boxes of white chalk were piled up in the corner.

Thomas stood behind the podium, his palms sweaty.

He didn't know if he was qualified to stand here.

He was a prisoner of war. He had copied for Lord Gavin the tax bills that forced farmers to sell their children.

He knew perfectly well how harsh those orders were, yet he still wrote them down neatly, word by word, without ever asking "why."

What right does someone like him have to teach these children?

The sound of the door being pushed open interrupted his thoughts.

The first student arrived.

She was a little girl, about seven or eight years old, thin and small, with dry, yellow hair tied into two braids.

She stood at the doorway, peering timidly inside.

"Please come in," Thomas said.

His voice sounded a little nervous; he could tell it himself.

The girl walked in with her head down and greeted Thomas in a soft, sweet voice.

Then she sat down in the corner of the last row. She placed her hands neatly on the table, her back ramrod straight, like a newly transplanted sapling.

Then came the second, the third...

More than twenty children arrived one after another.

The oldest is eleven or twelve years old, and the youngest is only five or six.

Most of them wore coarse cloth clothes with patches on the knees and cuffs, but they were very clean.

Several people were barefoot, their toes curled nervously beside the bench legs.

Thomas took a deep breath.

He opened the textbook to the first page.

"Today we're learning our first lesson," he said, his voice echoing in the empty classroom: "Please open your books and read after me—"

The first line of text was written on the blackboard:

Population and hands. Upper, middle, and lower. Size and quantity.

He led the children in reciting it over and over again.

"Human—human—"

"People!" Twenty-odd childish voices echoed.

"Kou-kou-"

"mouth!"

"Hand—hand—"

"hand!"

Thomas's chalk moved across the blackboard, each stroke precise and neat.

This was a habit he developed from his time as a clerk—his handwriting had to be clear and legible, without the slightest hint of sloppiness.

During recess, the children gathered in a circle to share the snacks they had brought.

A boy took out two hard candies from his pocket and gave one to his friend next to him.

A girl broke open half of a rye bread and handed it to her younger brother who hadn't brought any food.

Thomas stood by the podium, looking at them.

A little girl ran over, looked up at me, and asked, "Teacher, will you come again tomorrow?"

"...Come on," Thomas said.

"And the day after tomorrow?"

"Come on too."

"And the day after tomorrow?"

Children are innocent and seem to have endless questions.

"Come on, all of you," Thomas smiled, then paused, "until you've all learned it."

The little girl ran off satisfied.

The afternoon classes ended faster than I expected.

Thomas tidied up the teaching materials and put the chalk back in the box in the corner.

The children left one by one, and the classroom quieted down again, with only the slanting rays of the setting sun falling on the empty long table.

He stood at the doorway and glanced back.

His handwriting still remains on the blackboard, the childish strokes resembling a row of crooked footprints.

"Human, mouth, hand."

These are some of the characters the children learned today. Tomorrow they will learn "mountain, stone, field," and the day after tomorrow "earth, water, fire"...

One day, they will be able to read the notices in front of the public treasury, understand the blueprints in the workshops, and find their own names in the ledgers.

Thomas closed the door.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, light and steady.

This was the happiest day he had had since arriving here.

He thought he had to apply tonight to write a letter to his mother.

Tell her that you are here and doing well.