Chapter 21: William the Octopus

Sheffield had been asking himself over and over again: What exactly did he want to do? First, he had to admit that he had absolutely no interest in shaping the "beacon of humanity." Moreover, it wasn't even necessary. Such a thing could easily be manufactured through propaganda and brainwashing. The history of the United States was proof enough of that.

Furthermore, by birthright, Sheffield belonged to the privileged class of the United States—and not just any privileged class. His family had been a prominent force in the Southern slaveholding states thirty years ago. His grandmother's family had even boasted influence on both sides of the Atlantic. Unless he went mad, there was no reason for him to betray his own class.

He respected those who could betray their class, but he would never do so himself. Sheffield was, after all, an ordinary man. Even regarding his grandfather, whom he had never met, Sheffield didn't necessarily believe that this ancestor harbored hostility toward the United States. It was simply a matter of a more fundamental question: Who truly held power in the United States?

In other words, who should rightfully stand at the top of the pyramid, watching the masses scurry about below? Industrial capitalists believed it was them, while plantation owners thought it should be us. That was the crux of the disagreement.

"Have you guys had any contact with the Yankees? What do they think of my family?" With graduation approaching, Sheffield had to face the pressing issue of determining his future path, though his thoughts were still somewhat hazy. He needed to hear others' opinions.

"We've spoken to a few of them," Carter said, chuckling as he mimicked the shape of an octopus with his hands. "They say the Sheffield family is like the DuPonts of the South—only worse. You're like an octopus, extending your tentacles into everything you can see."

Carter stopped when he noticed Sheffield staring at him, laughing awkwardly.

"What's so funny? Did something amusing come to mind?" Sheffield asked dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"An octopus?" Sheffield didn't seem fazed by the awkwardness. Instead, he smiled faintly and mused aloud, "It's actually quite an apt metaphor. My family does have achievements in both agriculture and industry, which is broader than what the DuPonts are involved in."

The idea of being an octopus clinging tightly to the Earth with its tentacles was strangely appealing. Sheffield found himself seriously considering it. Unbeknownst to him, this notion had already taken root in his mind.

As Sheffield's expression shifted between contemplation and resolve, the other twelve people exchanged glances, each seeing confusion in the others' eyes. Just as they were about to ask, Sheffield spoke first.

"While I've been away, you haven't been bullying anyone, have you?" His words echoed Anna Bell's admonishments, except now he was the one giving advice. After receiving unanimous assurances that they hadn't, he continued.

"Find some students from less privileged backgrounds who excel academically—potential assets. Help them out in their daily lives. It's a good way to build a reputation. Money isn't everything, but even Rockefeller understood this principle."

"This is also the mission of our club, William. Rest assured, we won't forget it," Carter responded immediately, followed by a chorus of agreement from the others.

"It's not just about helping yourselves find future assistants; it's also about earning a good reputation. Why wouldn't you want that?" Sheffield adopted an air of blunt honesty. "In ancient Rome, freemen stood alongside estate owners, didn't they? Otherwise, how would they suppress slave revolts?"

Sheffield had read Bush's autobiography in his previous life. The book didn't highlight any remarkable talents or virtues of Bush—it merely emphasized that he was honest and sincere. Whether or not this was true, sincerity alone didn't make someone president. And what did the infamous "laundry powder incident" have to do with sincerity?

Yet Bush had become president. His trajectory illustrated the importance of family and bloodline networks, much like the group gathered here today. But these individuals couldn't handle everything themselves—they needed assistants. This was the role of the freemen class.

In modern society, however, the distinction between slave owners and freemen was too blatant. They were better referred to as the middle class. A false illusion could be created for the middle class, making them believe they were the true masters of the nation. That was the immediate task at hand.

Stalin once said that voters decided nothing—it was the vote counters who determined everything. In his past life, many naive idealists equated democracy with voting, believing that one person, one vote, guaranteed democracy. But they failed to understand that in so-called democratic elections, pre-screening was far more important than the final citizen vote. By carefully designing a pre-election screening process, it could be ensured that no matter how the masses voted, the elected officials would never represent their interests. They would only represent the interests of people like Sheffield.

Even if someone tried to disrupt the system, there were ways to handle it—like ensuring Hillary's nomination. And if all else failed, there was always the conveniently timed appearance of a mentally unstable individual.

Thinking about it, Sheffield realized that his most carefree days were about to end. There was still much to accomplish. His short-term goal was to fulfill Old Master's expectations, reversing the imbalance of power after the Civil War and restoring the South to its dominant position in the founding of the United States.

As for long-term goals, Sheffield hoped the nickname "Sheffield the Octopus" would become a reality. Its tentacles would extend everywhere, reaching across the globe.

"For now, don't bother me. I'll be busy writing my thesis. You can come listen when it's done," Sheffield said as he stood up. Though the process was largely ceremonial, he still needed to ensure appearances were maintained.

"William, isn't your graduation a foregone conclusion? You're practically the only student in the Eastern History department. Say whatever you want—no one would dare stop you!"

"My thesis has nothing to do with history!" Sheffield's lazy voice drifted back as he reached the door. "That's just a personal hobby of mine. The subject exists purely because it's convenient."

The door closed slowly behind him, and the others relaxed once more. However, they silently agreed not to mention Sheffield's visit, as if he had never been there.

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"What do you think he'll write about? Social welfare? Civic duty? Or maybe his family's forte—economic theory?"

"Who knows with him? He's impossible to read. Maybe he wrote something about the environment. Who could predict that?"

Their chatter quickly dispelled the earlier tension. With Sheffield gone, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to vanish as well.

(End of Chapter)