The tour robot glided ahead, the glowing panel on its chest constantly switching between information displays. Its pace was not fast, but steady—like a path calibrated by precision. Miguel and Arran followed behind, and behind them was Ilo—the young man who walked while constantly glancing left and right, like a bird forever curious about the city, ready to translate any scene into a concept at any moment.
Not long after leaving the port, the streets noticeably grew more "luminous." Copper pipes crisscrossed the exteriors of buildings, steam valves puffed rhythmically from suspended arches, and gears adorned window frames and the bases of lampposts—an aesthetic obsession that had seemingly been collectively accepted and institutionalized. And yet, the city was not dirty or chaotic. On the contrary, it was clean and orderly, the stone-paved roads flat, the pedestrians well-dressed, and the shop windows gleaming.
The robot led them into a wide commercial avenue.
It suddenly stopped and spoke in its usual mechanical monotone:
"Arrival: Commercial District. Today's duty-free recommendations include: Seasonal spice gift boxes, port-exclusive dry-cured meat, steam-loom blended fabric coats, standardized copper cutlery, portable fingerprint locks…"
Miguel listened for a couple seconds before his expression changed. "Why does it sound like it's trying to sell us something?"
Arran whispered, "Maybe that's part of its function module… a combined guide-and-promotion unit."
Ilo immediately raised his hand, smiling naturally. "Well, this is a commercial city after all. Please excuse the behavior~"
The robot slid half a meter forward, as if waiting for them to catch up.
But Ilo seemed to have been triggered by something. He suddenly turned and walked backwards two steps, facing Miguel and Arran as he seriously threw out a question:
"Speaking of which—do you know the difference in aesthetic modes between food, clothing, and buildings?"
Miguel's eyelid twitched. "Do all you scholars have issues? Before getting to the point, you always throw out a rhetorical question just to satisfy your own curiosity."
Ilo wasn't offended at all. In fact, he looked even more amused. "See? You've already grasped half of it. Rhetorical questions are, indeed, a form of self-entertainment."
Miguel snorted. "And the other half?"
Ilo raised a finger, as if to announce a profoundly deep answer—and then he said:
"Shelf life."
Miguel was clearly stunned. "...What?"
Ilo blinked, as if unsurprised by the confusion. "A bit unexpected, isn't it? But the answer's quite simple."
He pointed at a nearby hot food stall—meat rolls fresh off the griddle, sizzling with fat, steam rising, a queue of people forming.
"Food has the shortest shelf life. It typically doesn't store well, and most of it needs to be eaten immediately after being made, or else the flavor and nutrition degrade rapidly."
Then he pointed at a tailor shop—long coats with meticulous cuts hanging in the display, the fabric glowing softly under the lights.
"Clothing has a moderate shelf life. It lasts longer than food, and there are even items like wedding dresses that can be passed down for generations."
Lastly, he gestured toward the district's distant skyline of towers and archways—stone, metal, glass, and piping woven into a structure both ornate and stable, like a fact that would not easily change.
"Buildings have the longest shelf life. Each construction might last centuries."
Miguel frowned, half-understanding. "So what?"
Ilo didn't rush. He unfolded the idea with patience, like laying out a map.
"Seen from another angle: we can eat different food every meal, wear different clothes every day—but we're often forced to tolerate living in buildings whose exterior designs are outdated. Unlike cuisine or fashion, architectural aesthetics don't change frequently; trends can't recycle or evolve as quickly."
Arran's eyes lit up. "So architecture… slows down aesthetic evolution?"
"Not slows—records." Ilo corrected. "Buildings record the evolution of aesthetics through time. Any radical change requires revolutionary upheaval first."
He slowed his steps, letting the robot pull ahead a bit, as if giving space for his monologue.
"And once you realize this, anyone who cherishes history will try to preserve representative architecture—through renovation or reconstruction—so long as the building retains historical value."
Miguel was just about to quip, "There you go again," when Ilo suddenly changed tone and pointed toward a wide plaza up ahead.
It was crowded with people and rows of vendor stalls, flying flags labeled "Duty-Free." Copper scales, beautifully packaged spices, barrels of oil, shiny glassware, even finely crafted mechanical toys—this whole plaza felt like a regulated festival.
Ilo's tone remained casual, but the words he threw out chilled the air instantly:
"For example, this plaza. A hundred years ago, it wasn't a duty-free market, but a slave market—where living people were openly bought and sold."
Miguel's steps halted. "What?"
Arran's face also paled. He stammered, turning to Miguel as if to confirm he hadn't misheard: "That… that's real?"
Ilo nodded, presenting it like a grim but objective historical note. "And in a certain sense, this city still maintains the institution of slavery—legally speaking."
Miguel's first reaction was disbelief. "What century are we even in?"
Arran reluctantly explained, like a witness unwilling to testify: "Any citizen in this city who goes bankrupt and owes money… will be registered as a slave by the City Hall. Either through garnished wages or by finding a sponsor to repay it—until the full principal and interest are paid back."
Ilo added, breezily: "The eight percent annual interest rate isn't exactly low, either."
Miguel gave a cold laugh, the sarcasm involuntary: "I thought this place was advanced—with robots, systems, all this tech. Turns out it's just as barbaric."
Ilo didn't get offended. He even nodded, acknowledging Miguel's instinct:
"Although this city has no death penalty—the worst punishment being exile—I believe anyone from a more advanced era wouldn't condone such a system."
When he said "a more advanced era," his eyes momentarily landed on Miguel, as if it wasn't just a general phrase but a classification.
Ilo continued, his tone like a grim deduction:
"As I said, any radical change requires revolutionary upheaval. It was the same for the revolutionaries a century ago."
He gestured to the city's geography, overlaying politics and terrain on a single map:
"This city sits by the sea, bordered by forests to the south, with hills behind as a buffer. The Erichir River flows in from the woods. Easy to defend, hard to conquer—naturally, it became a contested zone for many warlords."
Arran asked, puzzled: "Then why develop it into a commercial city? Shouldn't it have been a military stronghold?"
Ilo smiled, like he'd been waiting for that question: "Because its strategic location made it an ideal trading post."
He looked toward the distant towers and arches, which now resembled a pre-laid net.
"Merchants don't fear pirates," Ilo added lightly. "As long as pirates are willing to pay protection fees."
The robot then guided them away from the plaza, toward a more solemn building. It was made of white stone and black steel, with brass decorative bands and a giant mechanical clock atop its domed roof—as if displaying "order" for all to see. Pillars with glowing seams stood out front—not monstrous like those of Angolamanyu's Wall, but more like symbols of urban legitimacy.
The robot stopped and began broadcasting:
"Arrival: City Hall. Established after the city's governmental reform 103 years ago. Main functions: administrative, legislative, and judicial coordination. Architectural style: Neoclassical steam framework—emphasizing transparency, efficiency, and maintainability…"
Miguel listened halfway and turned to Ilo. "What exactly is City Hall?"
Ilo, now clearly back in his element, sped up his speech, and proper nouns began to roll out:
"It's the governing body of this city—composed of executive, legislative, and judicial branches. Officials are elected directly from the citizenry, with terms limited to one year."
Arran was surprised: "One year? Wouldn't that be chaotic?"
Ilo shrugged. "Short terms prevent power from becoming entrenched—at least in theory."
He pointed to a row of offices on the side: "As for the judiciary, anyone can technically serve."
Miguel frowned. "Anyone?"
"Because the robot systems are self-maintaining," Ilo explained, "the real role of the judiciary is more like a jury—to confirm facts, confirm procedure, and ensure rulings comply with published regulations."
He went on: "The legislative branch enacts or amends laws through referendums."
Here, Ilo raised a hand like offering a warning sign in advance:
"But let me give you a heads-up—slaves and outsiders have no voting or election rights."
Miguel replied coldly: "So the oppressed don't get to shape the rules?"
Ilo nodded. "Correct. That's often how systems work."
At this moment, the robot's broadcast reached another keyword:
"Historical note: During the tyrannical rule over a century ago—"
Miguel immediately latched on: "Tyrant? Who was it?"
Ilo explained crisply: "At the time, the city was ruled by a coalition of pirate warlords."
Arran's eyes widened: "Pirates became the government?"
"More accurately—pirates became nobles," Ilo added. "And the rebels? Also pirates. It was a conflict between pirate commoners and pirate aristocrats."
Miguel and Arran exchanged looks. One word showed on both their faces: Absurd.
Ilo, however, seemed to merely be laying out facts—and smoothly transitioned into his own analysis, which carried a scholar's tone and even a hint of classroom delight:
"In the end, whether government or nation—it's just a machine for one class to oppress another, isn't it?"
Arran reflexively recoiled: "You-you talk so dangerously…"
Ilo blinked. "Dangerous? It's just a model of explanation. Overall, the self-domestication of barbaric societies is undoubtedly a good thing for civilization. But because of that barbaric ancestry, society retains feudal remnants."
Miguel interjected: "Like slavery."
"Exactly," Ilo said without hesitation.
His tone shifted, taking on a lightly ironic air:
"And what's more ironic—the city's high level of development means that even slaves enjoy a quality of life far above that of most outsiders."
Miguel frowned. "Are you praising it?"
"I'm describing it," Ilo corrected. "Public baths, flush toilets, basic medical insurance, compulsory primary education, low crime rates—you won't find these things easily elsewhere in the world."
Miguel's tone grew heavier. "So it wraps injustice in comfort?"
Ilo looked at him and smiled, as if to acknowledge that this line had struck the core: "That was beautifully put. Yes."
He suddenly changed topics again, pointing diagonally across the street from City Hall.
"Ah—speaking of which, over there is where I work."
He stepped aside to reveal a more ancient and stately building. Its outer walls lacked City Hall's modern design but carried a deeper historical weight, like knowledge and authority were embedded in the stone.
Ilo's eyes sparkled, his voice growing excited again:
"Wanna take a look?"
He looked at the two of them like a child eager to show off his secret base—and like a scholar ready to turn a casual visit into a metaphysics primer.
"I promise—the robots won't tell you what really matters in there."