"Then, Mr. Wells, please wait here for a moment. The president and Hanslow Jin will be here shortly."
"Ah, understood."
At the familiar voice of his editor, Maria, Herbert George Wells nodded. Her gaze, however... How should he describe it? Was it contempt, or perhaps pity? In any case, it was far from friendly. With her usual flat, indifferent tone, Maria awkwardly spoke.
"Just to remind you, Mr. Wells."
"Ah, yes?"
"Under no circumstances should you say anything disrespectful to Hanslow Jin."
"... That goes without saying, doesn't it?"
George Wells responded, puzzled. How could anyone possibly be rude to his god, his savior, his prophet? But even so, Maria cast him another inscrutable glance before sighing and shaking her head as she left the room. Wells couldn't quite understand why she was behaving this way.
'Well, anyway.'
Now alone, Herbert George Wells looked around Bentley Publishing's president's office with a newfound sense of awareness.
'It's been about three years, hasn't it?'
A time that could be considered either long or short. So much had changed during that period. Wells found himself reflecting on this.
After all, he had gone from being a mere teacher to becoming a reasonably popular author and a bona fide citizen of London. Though young, it was safe to say that he had achieved considerable success.
And the reason for this success was none other than... Hanslow Jin's benevolence.
It wasn't just that Jin had recognized him.
— So, you're saying the latter half is weak?
It was a part Wells himself had been grappling with, but he hadn't given it much thought since it was a short story. After all, what he truly wanted to discuss were the stories of the Molochs and Eloi.
But then.
— Right. But it shouldn't be that way.
Richard Bentley Jr. had said that.
— That romantic angle of yours sells well. It's a good idea. But that whole thing about 300,000 or 30 million years in the future? It loses steam. You might as well cut it.
— You're not wrong. My purpose was to criticize the horrors of the class divide, but if I cut that, the title The Time Machine loses its meaning.
And at that moment, Bentley offered him an irresistible suggestion. To be precise, it was passed along to him.
— This suggestion comes from Hanslow Jin.
— Hanslow Jin!?
The most popular children's book author in London had read his work? And even offered advice? Wells couldn't help but feel moved.
And the suggestion itself was brilliant.
— How about splitting it into a short story for publication and a serialized novel? For the short story, trim the second half down as much as possible for a standalone release. Then, in the serialized novel, make it a sequel where an observer inherits the time machine and embarks on a journey exploring time... encountering monsters from both the past and future, causing all sorts of chaos.
— Monsters from the past? Like the creatures Richard Owen talked about—dinosaurs?
— Exactly. And as Hanslow Jin suggested...
'Monsters, was it?'
Herbert George Wells muttered the now-familiar genre name to himself.
The first time he heard it, he thought it was a ridiculous notion. But how could he refuse a suggestion from Hanslow Jin, the very person who had picked him?
In the end, Wells accepted it, and he now believed it was the best decision he could have made.
His current Time Machine was now a masterpiece of speculative fiction in Temple Bar, full of fantastic creatures and teeming with imagination.
For someone like Wells, who had always prided himself on his boundless creativity, it was the perfect material.
And now, he was even working on a new science fiction war novel, The War of the Worlds, about alien creatures battling across the universe, thanks to that very advice. It was truly invaluable.
'And now Hanslow Jin...'
Had summoned him.
His heart pounded with excitement.
What could it be about this time? Perhaps more advice like last time with those rookies, or maybe guidance akin to when Jin had first discovered him?
Countless scenes, rendered in every possible scenario, flashed through his mind.
As he sipped the tea on the table, trying to calm his restless heart, he heard the door open.
"My apologies for the delay. Am I too late?"
"No, not at all. It's just that…"
The door to the office swung open.
At the sound of the familiar voice, Herbert George Wells instinctively shot to his feet.
And the moment he turned his head—
"What... Why is that Chink here...!?"
He froze in place.
It was because a "Chink" had followed Richard Bentley Jr. inside, someone who had been glimpsed behind him earlier.
And they moved so naturally.
What in the world was happening? The unexpected turn of events left Wells momentarily speechless, his mouth hanging open. At that moment, Richard Bentley Jr. shouted in shock.
"A Chink?! What kind of disrespect is that toward the author!"
"... Excuse me? The author?"
"Yes! The very Hanslow Jin you've been so eager to meet!"
Wait, what? Herbert George Wells thought he had lost his mind for a second. Or maybe Bentley had lost his.
"Hold on. This Ch... no, this person...!"
"Haha, it's fine, Mr. Bentley."
But neither of them had lost their minds.
Wells could only stare in astonishment at this Asian man, who was nothing like what he had expected. His behavior was dignified and graceful, qualities Wells had never associated with Asians before. This was a far cry from the laborers he'd seen at ports or general stores.
The Asian man gently raised a hand, stopping Bentley, and then, with larger eyes than Wells had anticipated, looked at him with dark, melancholic eyes. Slowly, the man extended his hand and began to speak in flawless English.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Herbert George Wells."
"A-ah...!"
And then.
"My name is Jin Hansol. Hanslow Jin, Hans Jin—please, feel free to call me as you like."
"Wh-what? Wha... what!?"
Could it really be... true?
With a thud, Herbert George Wells's world momentarily collapsed.
***
When did the mere difference in skin color make people view others as untouchable contaminants?
As a child, such thoughts had been distant from him. Back then, he'd rather spend his time reading another book than focus on those things.
It was the only way to forget his hunger.
Born to a father who was a second-string cricket player and a mother who ran a sporting goods store under his father's name, Wells ironically found himself unable to pursue athletics because of their unstable income. In reality, he had no chance to engage in sports.
It was the first time his dreams were crushed.
Still, it didn't matter too much at the time. Although life was tough, they could manage to scrape by.
But around the age of 12, his father broke his leg.
The fragile stability of the household finally collapsed.
As the youngest, he had no choice but to apprentice at a textile workshop in the south to earn food.
And... there's no need to explain how terrible that was in 19th-century England.
Thirteen-hour workdays, with the word "apprentice" being a euphemism for what was essentially slavery.
He slept in a cramped room with dozens of other apprentices, and each day was a struggle just to survive. The mere fact that he could eat and had a roof over his head when it rained was something he had to be grateful for.
And... wasn't it said that people become more hostile toward others when their circumstances grow dire?
It all started simply enough.
The piece of bread that he might be able to eat was taken by that black or yellow-skinned person.
—I'm hungry.
—If I take that, maybe I can eat.
—Damn it, it's not even mine? So what?
No one was truly bad.
No one made the first mistake.
But deprivation itself breeds malice. Even the smallest hint of malice grows and festers, eventually blooming into something monstrous.
While he was suffering, what on earth was his father doing, lying down all day? What was his mother praying for at church?
Did God even exist? If He did, why didn't He help them?
And so, Wells began to accumulate hatred for other races, Christians, and the disabled.
Yet he was one of the lucky ones. Most would have spent their entire lives in that pit, but he fought desperately to escape through education.
At around 18, thanks to his excellent grades, he received a scholarship to attend a scientific teacher's college in London.
It was there, under the guidance of his mentor, Thomas Henry Huxley, that he encountered evolution theory and socialism. He came to believe that it was the bourgeoisie, oppressing the proletariat, who were to blame.
However, his old trauma remained deeply rooted.
And so, a contradictory atheist was born—one who criticized capitalism, classism, war, and imperialism, yet still harbored prejudice against other races and the disabled.
But then.
'God did exist.'
That realization cracked the foundation of his contradictions.
Hanslow Jin.
He was his god, his savior, his prophet.
Of course, even he thought that was an exaggerated expression.
If he had to clarify, perhaps somewhere between a mentor and a savior?
In terms of reverence, nothing had changed at all… but nevertheless, that was how he felt.
Yet now, the truth has finally been revealed… The person he had regarded as more than a mentor, as his savior—was not some despicable, cowardly scourge, stealing the place of white men and corrupting their hearts as he once thought. Not a "Chink"... but an Asian?
'Does this make any sense?'
When logic collides with reality, people often deny the reality. They form defense mechanisms, fearing and hating that reality.
But he was a socialist, a materialist.
In other words, he was a realist.
Thus, to uphold his beliefs, he had to acknowledge the reality that existed.
That served as the balance between the conflicting ideologies constantly at war in his mind.
And then.
'If that's the case, it was my belief that was wrong.'
An excellent syllogism.
With that, the shattered beliefs within Herbert George Wells began to reassemble.
'I thought other races made white men harbor wicked thoughts and evil intentions.'
'That belief was based on the malice I harbored when I, as a proletarian, was oppressed.'
'But, had I only been surrounded by white colleagues at the time, would I have thought the same way?'
No. If there had only been white people around, he might have despised them just as much.
Under normal circumstances, this would lead to a belief in the equality of all people.
But at that moment, Herbert George Wells, with his unique imagination as a writer, began to leap to a different conclusion.
'But if that had happened, I would have resigned myself to fate. I wouldn't have studied so desperately, nor would I have made it to the London Normal School.'
'And I wouldn't have written The Time Machine under the influence of Professor Huxley.'
'If that were the case, I wouldn't have met Hanslow Jin.'
'In other words, the fact that there were various races in that workshop was some higher being's plan to push me to my limits and make me study hard…!'
It was a leap. Under normal circumstances, even as a materialist, he wouldn't have lost sight of his reasoning.
But Herbert George Wells was in the midst of reconstructing himself from scratch, and so he didn't even realize that he had misassembled his puzzle.
And so.
'Then, who is this higher being?'
'Is it the Christian God? But that God never gave me any answers.'
'But if there is a God who provides answers, then… the one who has given me answers. The one who has come to provide me with answers now…!'
And at that moment, Jin Hansol extended his hand to him.
"Mr. Wells, are you alright?"
"I'll open the window, sir."
"… Oh, Lord."
At that moment, Herbert George Wells saw the sunlight pouring through the window that Richard Bentley Jr. had flung open, illuminating Jin Hansol in a radiant glow.
It was an absurdly dramatic moment.
Completely overwhelmed by that moment, Herbert George Wells slowly fell to his knees.
"I repent."
"… Pardon?"
"I shall repent. I was wrong! Oh, Lord! What Peter-like betrayal have I committed against you?!"
"No, hold on a minute."
It was the moment when Herbert George Wells resolved to become a fisher of men under Hanslow Jin.
"… Mr. Bentley, did you perhaps hide some opium in the editorial department?"