Chapter III begins with the protagonist regaining consciousness under Martian skies, greeted by An’s gentle teasing. Blaming his dizziness on a lack of local wine, An urges him to rise and explore the strange new world. The two begin their journey across the landscape, which gleams with canals and is dotted by radiant gardens filled with carefree Martians. The environment feels peaceful, even too serene, like a dream in motion. People engage in leisure rather than labor, their laughter echoing between the tall, delicate towers. There’s no urgency in their steps, only an elegant drift from one pleasure to the next. An’s way of teaching is by doing, not by lecturing.

As they walk, An offers little explanation and simply urges Gulliver to observe. There are no signs of hardship here. The people wear intricate clothes and seem to live without stress or schedules. An, though dressed differently in plain yellow, blends in quietly with others like him. Gulliver notices this contrast. Half the city appears vibrant and adorned, while others—like An—are less adorned, seemingly overlooked. His questions are met with silence or laughter. The Martians, it seems, avoid deep conversation. They simply live, and expect others to do the same. But the silence hides something more complex.

The canal system that threads through the land is more than decorative; it supports life, beauty, and travel. As the pair board a long, slender craft, the city grows closer with every gentle stroke. Crowds gather, not to labor or protest, but to simply exist and observe. Gulliver draws eyes as they pass, his unfamiliar appearance sparking curiosity among the Martians. To them, he is a walking novelty. But as they look, he realizes these glances aren’t hostile—they’re fascinated, even quietly delighted. His presence is like a ripple in their still waters.

An begins to explain his own place in Martian society, his words careful yet open. The yellow robe marks him as part of a group once revered, now relegated to service. These individuals, once spiritual guides, had imitated aspects of the opposite sex in their rituals. Over time, misunderstanding turned reverence into disdain. Now they serve but are denied affection, family, or standing. Gulliver listens with growing discomfort. Martian society, for all its grace, is marked by division and subtle cruelty. There’s beauty here, but also deep inequality.

As the canal widens, a royal procession appears—barges draped in silks, golden pennants fluttering. At the center is Hath, the ruler of Mars, carried in elegance. Gulliver, enthralled, steps closer. But it is not Hath who draws his focus—it is Princess Heru, radiant and still, seated like a figure from myth. The boat glides past, but a sudden jolt causes a tree limb to strike. Heru tumbles into the water. Without pause, Gulliver dives in, pulling her from the depths with steady arms.

The crowd’s gasp turns to cheers. His action, spontaneous and brave, has pierced through a world used to quiet observation. Heru, drenched and silent, clutches his arm with an expression that says more than thanks. Martians may not speak of affection, but this moment speaks loudly. Gulliver is not just a visitor now. He has acted. He has changed something. And the people, despite their detachment, recognize it.

The rescue alters the mood. Gulliver is invited aboard the royal barge, and suddenly finds himself among silk-draped seats and curious nobles. The warmth from Heru’s hand still lingers. But their interaction isn’t prolonged. Martian customs quickly reassert themselves. Hath speaks not of gratitude but of fate. A lottery system, he explains, determines all marital unions. It’s simple, efficient, and leaves no room for choice. Gulliver recoils inwardly at the thought. The very idea erases love and individuality.

As the city unfolds in greater detail, Gulliver senses a contradiction. The Martians worship ease, yet maintain rigid customs. They avoid suffering, yet quietly inflict it through tradition. Beneath the calm, a quiet struggle continues—a culture too proud to admit its flaws. Gulliver is caught between admiration and discomfort. He sees beauty but also feels the weight of absence. Their world is peaceful, but not free.

Later that day, in a quiet garden, Heru walks near him again. Their conversation is light but charged. She speaks carefully, as if watching every word. Gulliver tries to find meaning in her expressions. He begins to sense that Heru, too, may be quietly questioning the system that governs her life. Though Martians speak little of rebellion, perhaps not all have forgotten the power of choice.

This chapter does more than push the narrative forward. It exposes readers to the complexities beneath Martian elegance. Gulliver’s presence acts as a catalyst, nudging against long-held beliefs. His instincts—to act, to question, to care—represent a contrast that quietly stirs those around him. Mars may be still on the surface, but its depths are beginning to shift. Through one bold act, Gulliver has stepped into a future no longer controlled by chance.