The Man of the Low Stone Heap: Chapter 1
The Man in the High Castle ultimately crushed capitalism-imperialism masquerading as liberal democracy, ushering in the triumph of totalitarianism—but at the cost of nearly all its once-glorious civilization, leaving only a handful of cities barely clinging to life. On this Earth, where all that remains in sight are lowly heaps of stone, the options for a single man seem few indeed.
That is, unless the right ideology seeps into his soul. The dire straits of the Atlantis Empire today were fertile ground for despair, defeatism, pessimism, and nihilism to take root. Yet they were equally perfect for the spread of extremisms like communism or fascism.
Wages barely scraping a cent a day. Taxes exceeding 90 percent. Universal conscription for all males from 16 to 64—except, of course, for the lofty nobles granted their "exceptions." No benefits for soldiers whatsoever. Skeleton conscription, yellow-turbaned torture overseers. Worker welfare like the four insurances or holidays? A pipe dream. Corruption rampant among the elite.
Such conditions were a communist's paradise. And so, even though the Cates Empire—the greatest backer of today's anti-Lucidity resistance in Atlantis—was a capitalist state, the resistance's heaviest hitters were communists.
Atlaine I, the Secretary-General, had forsaken the cushy life of a crown prince to throw himself into the fight, leading the "Atlantis People's Party" and the "Atlantis People's Government" it represented. Alongside them were the "Atlantis Communist Party," followers of overseas communism-Stalinism and Comintern lines.
But as the saying goes, "fine words butter no parsnips." As communism's threat grew within their ranks, others began raising different voices: Crush the reds! Protect free Atlantis from anti-communism! One for all, all for one! Slip into the masses wearing blue clothes!
Unlike the communists, who had successfully dragged the Lucid Empire into a Vietnam-like quagmire, these fascist groups were still insignificant. But attach a spark, and they could erupt into an inferno.
And right here. A man who could embrace communism or fascism alike. A blank slate, pure as white paper, untainted by any ideology. Implant the proper one, and he'd hurl himself into the anti-Lucid resistance, life be damned.
This man, Kim Beomhyeok. Born in Seoul—a fringe outpost of the Atlantis Empire—to the ethnic identity of the Korean people, a minority here.
It's hard to imagine a man like him possessing Heinrich Himmler's capacity for mass slaughter over mere "differences," Paul Joseph Goebbels' propaganda genius, Erwin Rommel or Walter Model's strategic brilliance, Werner Heisenberg's intellect, Albert Speer's administrative prowess—and, on top of it all, superpowers of immense strength.
But the universe is vast beyond imagining, even in our cosmos alone, and humanity has spread like a web across it. So isn't it possible one among billions was born with it all?
This man, gifted with everything yet cursed by fate to be born in Atlantis—now a mere Lucid colony—might yet etch his name large in world history. Kim Beomhyeok sighed as he secretly wrote his name in hanja on a scrap of paper.
Breaking it down, his name meant: "Even living among the ordinary folk (Ordinary), never lose sight of revolution (Leather)." In today's Atlantis, that "revolution" meant independence struggle—a call to bury yourself among the masses, hold fast to your purpose, fight on, and become a hero.
Revolution, independence... all well and good. But I'm no mainstream white man here. I'm "colored." Who'd listen to the likes of me? Sure, times being what they are, they might grasp the hand I offer out of necessity...
How to put the share of "non-mainstream races"—Koreans, yellows, blacks—in the puppet Atlantis Empire?
Atlantis had never treated "people of color" kindly. Its elite were "pure humans" untouched by alien blood—pure whites at that, specifically the Atlénos ethnicity native to the Atlantis continent. Koreans were just one of many yellow minorities, treated like China's Joseonjok en masse.
And he was postwar-born, after the nation fell to colonial rule. Treatment, already poor, worsened. Ethnic minority commoners like him? No university shot, no matter how brilliant.
"What a bunch of assholes. In the end, we're all human, but they've kept racial and ethnic segregation for thousands of years. Imagine pouring that administrative effort into reform—we wouldn't be in this mess."
No money, lowborn, university-denied—but schooled enough to ink his thoughts. Beomhyeok muttered to himself, mocking his homeland. He had a point.
No, surrounded by aliens, what's wrong with humans getting along? In a universe crawling with extraterrestrials, must we splinter by race and ethnicity too? He'd long resented it. Born into a colony, people bickering instead of uniting...
To escape this, every "individual" must become the "whole," fighting Lucid tooth and nail—yet they waste energy on pointless separatism, gnawing their own flesh. Funnier than that? Nothing.
"Even if I throw myself into independence, who's hearing a 'colored' like me? Passing whites would just laugh."
Beomhyeok crumpled the paper with his name and tossed it in the trash. Folks like me might listen, but on battlefields of billions, a handful of minorities changes zilch.
Beyond assuming no one would follow, another reason he couldn't live up to his father's name: "revolution" reeked too left-wing. Politics' true answer eluded him, but red stench triggered instinctual revulsion. No alternatives, though.
Revolution... Is Dad telling me to go red? Follow Stalinism that massacred Poles in the Katyn system, buried them, engineered famines killing billions of Ukrainians? No way. Communism's out.
Rack his brains as he might, no answers. School exams with clear solutions suited him better. His genius failed here.
He'd solved Fermat's Last Theorem at high-school level in a 50-page proof, crunched supercomputer-month calculations in a minute, unlocked cosmic secrets geniuses couldn't touch. Yet politics? No clue.
Too many thoughts, lost in the maze. In a nation 90% illiterate, a 15-year-old high-school grad pondering this was rare enough...
"Hey, Beomhyeok again? You graduated ages ago—why're you always haunting the school library?"
"Eh... nothing else to do, really."
The librarian played friendly; he brushed it off dully. On this carpet-nuked Earth of stone heaps, what jobs? No work, no food—youths despaired without tomorrow's dreams.
"Others without work don't come here for 'noble' hobbies like reading."
"Plundering's not my style."
True feelings. Jobless "righteous thieves" stealing scraps? Pathetic. He craved higher purpose, ignored their taunts.
As always, wandering in search of "truth," he revisited his old high-school library—books read a dozen times over. Check new arrivals. Hmm... nothing. Wait... this book?
"My... Struggle...? Author... Adolf... Hitler...? What's this?"
Turning to leave, My Struggle seized his gaze. Fate's pivot, reshaping his life.
Enchanted, he borrowed it, devoured it repeatedly, returned it—then hustled to buy collector's and reading copies, latest editions, and pored again. Thus, a devout National Socialist—Nazi—was born.
Soon reading the Korean My Struggle over 100 times, analyzing it in writing. Same with the two-volume autobiography of the world-famous fascist.
Skipping meals, he amassed fascist texts, learned originals when translations fell short, collected editions in every tongue, even translated My Struggle himself into ancient proto-human script and alien runes.
A genius obsessed with fascism burned bright. He chose it to end chaos, birth a new era—nurturing infinite hatred for "Judeo-Bolshevism."
Vague communist distaste before; now he knew why it must be exterminated universe-wide. Hating with reasons beat baseless bile.
"Fuck, Jews buried a stone here too. Proof of 'stab in the back'—right here!"
Tripping on the street? Jewish-communist plot—curses flew. His homeland a colony, his life on stone heaps? All Jewish schemes.
Truth be damned—he believed it. His superior genius forbade self-doubt. In his mind, the Führer stood infallible; he, National Socialism's vanguard.
"Oh, Beomhyeok! Long time... what's with the uniform?"
"Nothing much. Made it myself."
"Don't soldiers wear that? You enlisting?"
"Army? Hell no. Not joining that filthy mix of aliens and mongrels."
Deep in National Socialism, he'd sourced the black uniform of the "Schutzstaffel Armed Guard." But it signaled no enlistment intent.
Pfft, some mutt barking? Me, mix with those rabble? Know what to say, what not.
Atlantis' National Defense Forces—racially tainted, colonial puppets—unfit for him. I'd said intra-human discrimination was wrong... but aliens and hybrids? Talking beasts?
A nation rejecting "racial pollution" would claim final victory! He yearned to found and lead an army of "pure humans" alone, passing another day in longing.