The academic conference lasted for seven days, and each day brought astonishing discoveries that were enough to shake the world's understanding.
For the first two days, the college's mathematics and physics teachers demonstrated Grylls' three laws of motion using sophisticated brass instruments.
(Paul: Well, I can't stop people from calling me that. Nobody would believe it if I said it was discovered by an ancient sage.)
The copper ball that rolls endlessly on the smooth inclined plane gave everyone a direct understanding of the concept of "inertia" for the first time; the speed difference exhibited by wooden carts of different weights under the same pulling force perfectly demonstrated the relationship between force and mass; and the sight of two assistants pushing each other on a skateboard and moving backward at the same time drew gasps from the audience—the symmetrical beauty of action and reaction forces was breathtaking.
The highlight of the third day was the theory of universal gravitation. This discovery, which should have been revealed by Lord Glaeman himself, was now being presented by the teachers.
A giant pendulum swung in the center of the venue, demonstrating the constant attraction of gravity on objects, while an exquisite planetarium showcased the invisible gravitational pull between celestial bodies—whether it was a falling apple or the orbiting moon, they all followed the same set of mathematical laws.
When Terry Cable, the contemporary narrator, read Glaeman's manuscript: "There exists an attraction between all things that is proportional to their mass and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them," the scholars present gasped in astonishment, and some even spilled their ink in excitement.
These laws should have been explained by the lord himself, but now they can only be presented by the teachers of the academy. The perceptive scholars in the audience have already noticed that every time Glaeman's name is mentioned, Cable's tone carries an unnatural pause.
Where did Marquis go?
It is strange that the discoverer himself did not appear at this important event, which was the initiator and organizer of the conference.
Not only did the audience have this question, but Cable was also quite puzzled. That day, Lords Manor's Captain of the Guards, Mr. Victor, personally approached him, saying that the Marquis Glaeman had important and urgent matters to attend to and had already left Lakeheart Town, with no set return date. The part of the meeting that the Marquis was originally supposed to deliver was to be given to Cable.
For the next three days, the young astrologer Terry Cable was in the spotlight.
The young man with black hair stood on the high platform, his fingertips tracing the star map covered with mysterious symbols, explaining to the crowd the wonders of calculus, which was still quite unfamiliar to the scholars outside the city.
In this timeline, this new branch of mathematics was derived and perfected by Paul Greiman and Terry Cable, but now only a young astrologer is left to face the skeptical gazes of the crowd.
He nervously demonstrated how to use this set of mathematical tools to calculate planetary orbits, predict tidal changes, and even accurately describe parabolic trajectories.
When he paused midway through his demonstration and subconsciously looked towards the door, the astute audience noticed this detail—he seemed to be expecting a certain absent figure.
The last two days were a celebration for Alchemists.
Wells and Hoffman erected a huge blackboard in the central hall, on which were arranged symbols of dozens of elements.
Hydrogen, as light as morning mist, copper compounds that turn emerald green when burned, and strong acids that can corrode steel—these substances are arranged and combined according to specific rules, exhibiting a perplexing yet incredibly harmonious periodicity.
Alchemists call it the "table of elements," claiming it may reveal the ultimate secrets of the composition of matter.
When the conference closed, the scholars were still in shock. They exchanged notes and debated the details, but no one could answer the question: why were the findings that Glaeman should have explained himself done by others?
Whenever the name of the Lord of Alda is mentioned, everyone's eyes involuntarily drift to the empty seat of honor, wondering where the young marquis is.
After the academic conference, dozens of scholars who were very interested in machinery accepted an invitation from Guy Burns, the head of Lakeheart Town Machinery Factory, to visit the so-called "steam locomotive".
They arrived in groups on the outskirts of Lakeheart Town, and after passing through an oak fence, a breathtaking view opened up before them—two gleaming railway tracks stretched straight into the distance, resembling two parallel silver streams in the sunlight.
Guy Burns stood beside the tracks, a colossal machine of black iron standing behind him. This monster, known as the "steam locomotive," spewed billowing white smoke, its brass boiler gleaming in the morning light.
With a gesture from Burns, the workers opened the furnace, and the crimson flames instantly illuminated the faces of the onlookers. As the pressure gauge needle crossed the red mark, the entire machine suddenly roared like a beast awakening, the cast iron pistons began to swing violently, and even the ground trembled slightly.
The Scholars held their breath, watching the steel contraption, nearly two stories high, slowly begin to move. Golden sparks flew as the iron wheels rubbed against the rails, and as the speed gradually increased, long trails of white smoke stretched behind it. When the locomotive reached full speed, it moved like a steel warhorse unleashed, its heavy body able to pull the six ore-laden carriages linked together behind it as it raced along the tracks.
The test ride generated even greater excitement, with twenty daring scholars boarding a specially designed sightseeing carriage and completing a three-kilometer round trip, pulled by a steam locomotive. The wind whipped at their hair and robes, and the smell of coal smoke filled the air, but everyone stared intently, unwilling to miss a single detail—the receding scenery outside the window, the rhythmic vibrations beneath their feet, and the ceaseless clattering of the machinery.
On the return trip, the locomotive demonstrated astonishing braking power under the watchful eyes of the crowd. As the stoker pulled the brass gate valve, a piercing metallic scraping sound echoed across the field, and the behemoth weighing several tons came to a steady stop in just a few dozen steps.
The academic conference at Lakeheart Town has ended, but in this ignorant age, it was nothing more than the murmurs of a small group of oddballs in a corner of the world.
While farmers toiled in the fields, their backs bent, and nobles indulged in banquets and intrigues, discussions about the laws of motion, the periodic table, and steam locomotives were like grains of sand thrown into a deep pool, barely causing a ripple.
In the streets where illiteracy is rampant, no one cares about the square law or the laws of heredity. In the magnificent palaces, the powerful and wealthy are more concerned with marriage alliances and fiefdoms than with the periodic table.
However, between those ink-stained fingers and on those sheets of paper filled with calculations, a silent revolution had already begun. The seeds sown by Paul Greiman were burning in the minds of scholars, and those seemingly obscure theories would eventually transform into a force that would change the world.
When future historians look back on this era, they will find that, without most people realizing it, the wheels of history had already turned, and this gathering in Lakeheart Town was the first sign of that great turning point.
Before long, these discoveries, which are still considered a pastime for the leisure class today, will completely reshape this world that has stagnated for thousands of years with overwhelming force.