Beware The Mentor

The second morning after Sunday.

The streets of Trino City were shrouded in a thick layer of fog.

Outside a Textile Factory in the East District, the foreman Rick wrapped his coat tighter around himself and stomped his feet impatiently.

"These damn bastards, how dare anyone be late?" He checked the battered pocket watch in his hand; the engravings on its brass casing had been worn smooth by the passage of time.

Usually at this hour, the workers of the Textile Factory would be lined up waiting to enter, the men carrying toolboxes and the women clutching lunch baskets.

But today, only a scattering of female workers waited before the factory gates.

As the hands of the watch ticked forward a little further, Rick's expression grew increasingly gloomy, as if it were about to drip water.

He paced back and forth in front of the gate, each step landing heavily on the stone steps, laden with fury.

The street remained empty, and the dense fog obscured his vision, preventing him from seeing anything in the distance.

"Tsk, these animals with a death wish—they don't even stop to think about who gave them this job opportunity. Daring to be this late? I'll make sure they regret it later!"

He lit a cigarette and took a vicious drag, the burning tobacco slightly soothing his temper.

Rick recalled a young female worker who had been five minutes late previously; he had not only docked a week of her wages but also forced her to stand in punishment in front of all the other workers for an entire morning.

Ever since then, everyone at the Textile Factory knew the rules of Rick.

The hands on the pocket watch moved another two ticks, and he began to feel that something was slightly off.

Even if they were late, it was impossible for so many people to be late all at once, and for so long.

The thick fog on the street still hadn't dissipated, and sweat began to drip from his forehead; with no workers to produce goods, he wouldn't have an easy time with the factory owner.

"Where did everyone go?" He became even more agitated, the smoke he exhaled mixing with the dense fog.

Suddenly, he saw a figure vaguely approaching him quickly through the mist.

"Son of a bitch..." He muttered foul words, preparing to grab the person and give them a harsh lesson.

But when he saw the person's attire clearly, the cigarette dangling from his mouth fell to the ground.

The person approaching had a stern and grave expression, wearing the uniform of a City Hall constable.

The constable saw Rick standing at the entrance of the Textile Factory, his brows knitting tightly together. He suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Rick by the collar:

"Who are you, and what is your relationship to this Textile Factory?" He squeezed these words out through gritted teeth, his tone icy, as if suppressing rage.

"Constable sir, I... I am the foreman in charge here, Rick." Rick stammered; seeing the furious constable, he had an extremely ominous premonition.

"Foreman?" The constable's mouth curled. "You're exactly who I'm looking for!"

"Do you have any idea that the workers from your factory are causing a riot in front of City Hall!"

The constable's voice was even colder, each word landing on Rick's heart like a heavy hammer.

"Riot?" Rick's face turned ghastly. "They... they dare?"

He hurriedly put on a fawning smile, trying to break free from the constable's grip, and said cautiously:

"Constable sir, please, please don't be agitated.

I will go report to the factory owner right now, and I will rush to the front of City Hall immediately to bring them back."

His voice was filled with fear and obsequiousness, a complete change from the vicious foreman he had been moments ago.

The constable snorted again and released his grip, causing Rick to stumble back a few steps before regaining his balance.

"I don't care what you do; within one minute, come with me back to City Hall and take all your workers away!"

Rick trembled but ran quickly into the factory; he felt a sense of despair, sensing that this matter had likely blown up into something huge.

"Damn it!" He cursed as he rushed into the factory, kicking aside a worker at the entrance who tried to ask him something.

Deep down, he understood that this might be the last time he could act arrogantly in this factory.

If he couldn't handle this matter properly, he wouldn't just lose his job—he might even be driven out of Trino City by the boss.

The same scene was playing out at several other textile factories in the East and South Districts.

West District, at a street corner near City Hall.

Little George rubbed his hands excitedly, taking out hot loaves of bread and boiled eggs from a box covered with a quilt in front of him.

"Come, don't rush, there's enough for every brother; the Holy Spirit Society supports every brother and sister at the bottom!"

He whispered as he handed food to each worker who came to protest, adding a touch of warmth to the cold morning.

He turned his head and said to Gais beside him: "The morning fog is truly a godsend; I was worried we would be easily driven away around City Hall."

Gais looked somewhat distracted and nodded perfunctorily.

He then realized he was being impolite and pulled himself together to answer:

"Don't worry, even without the fog, City Hall wouldn't have the time to deal with us.

The workers' protest is simply too intense; the order at the scene is impossible to maintain."

He yawned and pointed toward the brightly lit gates of City Hall.

Through the fog, one could vaguely see a dense crowd surging in front of the entrance, while the municipal bailiffs pushed them back with iron shields.

Cries of protest drifted over incessantly:

"...We work over a dozen hours a day, yet we can barely fill our stomachs!"

"...Those rich folks live in luxurious villas, leading lives of extravagance! Is this fair?"

"...It is not fair!"

"...We want bread!"

Little George nodded and muttered under his breath, "I never expected so many people to join the strike!

It's strange; these textile factory workers earn more than I did when I was begging, so how could they struggle to even fill their stomachs?"

He felt a bit puzzled, his gaze lingering on Gais beside him.

"Mr. Gais, what's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

He noticed Gais standing motionless, his face as pale as a sheet of paper.

Gais did not answer; his eyes stared hollowly into the distance, as if his soul had already departed his body.

His lips trembled slightly, as if he wanted to say something but could not produce a sound.

"Mr. Gais?" Little George gently patted Gais on the shoulder.

Gais shuddered violently, as if waking from a nightmare.

His eyes gradually focused, yet they remained filled with exhaustion and unease.

"Hmm... last night, I inexplicably triggered the ability of a Dream Awakener.

So, my mind is a bit fatigued now; it must be a side effect of depleted spirituality."

Little George could understand the feeling of having one's spirituality drained, but could a mere dream consume all of it?

He looked at Gais with some curiosity.

"Mr. Gais, I remember you saying your ability allows you to clearly recall the details of a dream and receive revelations.

Did you dream of the strike scene last night?"

Gais smiled, shook his head, then nodded, looking into Little George's eyes as he spoke:

"Yes, and no. I dreamed of Trino City, the same location, the same thick fog, but I was the only one in the mist.

I asked the version of myself in the dream whether tomorrow's strike would go smoothly and if the Holy Spirit Society could use this opportunity to recruit more believers.

But he didn't answer; he only gave me an ambiguous warning:

'Beware of The Mentor.'"