Chapter 97
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 97
Chapter Title: The Little Prince (3)
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He safely made it home with the book.
No one ambushed him or stole it.
He'd been tense because it was a famous author's book, but fortunately, all was well.
"Let's wash up quick for now."
He set the book on the table and headed to the bathroom.
Luckily, the house had a small bathroom.
Even enjoying this luxury was thanks to his good fortune.
"Come to think of it, getting The Little Prince was lucky too."
He didn't always have great luck, but he figured he had enough for the little things.
After entering the bathroom, wiping off the dust, and coming out, he flopped onto the bed.
No expensive fabric or even straw mattress—just a wooden frame strung with ropes—but it was comfortable enough.
It doubled as a sofa anyway.
Bern patted himself on the back for making it through another day.
He'd have to head back to the factory tomorrow, but for now, it was peaceful.
"Feels like I've really become just one part of a machine."
Thanks to his luck, he'd picked up all sorts of trivia.
Some of it was about machines, from stories an old man passing by had told him.
A machine works because its parts come together.
Individually, they're useless, but united, they form something magnificent.
The old man valued the unity, but Bern saw it differently.
Looked at one by one, aren't they worthless?
And everyone sacrifices for the one machine— from a part's perspective, what's the point?
The machine doesn't look back at its parts.
The parts can't see the whole machine.
That's why Bern sometimes wondered if his life was meaningless.
Why bust your ass for something you don't even understand?
"Ugh, enough with the weird thoughts."
With a deep sigh, he picked up the book from the table.
The cover felt smooth and soft, made with high-quality paper.
And the embossing looked like real gold.
"Limited edition or something?"
Whatever—as long as it was good for reading. He cracked it open and started.
It began with a man who crashed in the desert.
A man who'd grown up harboring a pure childhood dream crushed by adults.
*
At the age of six, I once saw a magnificent picture in a book about the primeval forest, the kind called "true stories."
It was a picture of a boa constrictor swallowing a wild beast.
The book said:
"Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing. Afterward, they can't move, and they sleep in a dark cave for six months while digesting."
I thought a lot about adventures in the jungle after seeing that picture.
Finally, I picked up some crayons and managed to draw my first drawing.
My Drawing Number One looked like this.
[Boa constrictor digesting an elephant]
I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups and asked if it scared them.
The grown-ups said:
"No, why would a hat be scary?"
Ah, it wasn't a hat.
It was a boa constrictor eating an elephant and digesting it.
Adults always need explanations.
So I drew the inside of the boa constrictor so they could understand.
Drawing Number Two looked like this.
[Inside of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant]
*
"Heh, this is fun."
Bern chuckled at the pure child's drawing.
But he frowned at the next lines.
The adults told him to study instead of wasting time drawing—learn one more thing.
Bern thought: Is it right to say that to a kid just being a kid?
Still, he understood the adult in the book.
Because he was an adult too.
"Probably just wants him to have a better life."
Bern hadn't thought that way before the factory came.
Learning costs money, and commoners hit a class wall anyway.
But getting the factory job changed his mind.
You have to learn anything and everything.
That's the only way to a slightly better life.
Bern had learned faster than most, so he ditched farming for factory work.
He'd seen slow learners or the dim ones get kicked out.
Handling machines was more complex than farming.
Lifetime habit versus something new—worlds apart.
Bern kept reading.
The man ended up a pilot, somewhat against his will, following the adults' advice.
"Pilot, huh. Oh, there's an explanation."
Helpfully, two lines at the bottom of the page.
One for pilot: someone who flies an airplane.
The other for airplane: a machine that flies through the sky, modeled after birds.
"This author's got imagination. Well, sometimes I wanna be a free bird too."
He smirked and turned the page.
*
After living alone with no one to confide in, I crashed my plane in the Sahara Desert.
Something was wrong with the engine.
No mechanic, no passengers—just me, facing a tough repair alone.
Live or die, that was the question.
I only had water for a week.
That evening, I fell asleep in the desert, thousands of miles from civilization.
Far lonelier than a shipwrecked sailor on a raft in the ocean.
So imagine my shock when a strange little voice woke me at dawn.
"Draw me a sheep..."
"What?"
"Draw me a sheep..."
I jumped up like I'd been struck by lightning.
Rubbing my eyes, I looked around and spotted a child.
A most extraordinary little boy stood solemnly gazing at me.
[The Little Prince standing calmly]
...
I stared at him, eyes wide, this child appearing out of nowhere.
This wasn't near any settlement—thousands of miles away.
The boy didn't look lost, exhausted from hardship, or terrified.
He didn't seem like a castaway at all.
After a long stare, I finally managed to ask:
"But... what are you doing here?"
The boy repeated softly, as if it were the gravest matter:
"Draw me a sheep..."
When something absurd hits you with force, you can't resist.
Thinking it foolish, I still pulled out paper and pen.
But I couldn't draw.
All I'd studied was geography, history, arithmetic, grammar.
I said I couldn't, but he replied:
"That's okay. Draw me a sheep."
I drew my old boa-with-elephant first.
He shook his head—no.
I tried several sheep, but he shook his head each time.
Then I urgently needed to fix the engine, so in frustration, I scribbled:
[Box with three holes]
"This is a box. Your sheep is inside."
To my amazement, the little examiner's face lit up.
*
"Hmm, pure or what?"
Bern tilted his head, glancing at the book.
The sudden child felt a bit odd to him.
He'd expected the man's story to continue straight, but no.
Still, it was early, and more story remained.
Bern pegged the child as pure but hard for an adult to grasp.
If he'd been a kid himself, he might've loved it.
Turning the page with that thought.
Thus, Bern learned the child was the Little Prince.
Curious, whimsical.
Doesn't listen, just talks his own talk.
Lives on a tiny star.
So small, he can't afford to lose a sheep.
"Whoa, wild imagination."
Bern marveled at spinning this from stargazing.
A farmer-turned-factory worker like him couldn't dream that big.
But the book let him indulge in small fancies.
"Just little daydreams. No way I could write it."
Turning pages, Bern laughed at the Prince's quirky, fun questions.
It felt like slipping back to childhood innocence.
Sometimes, street kids' chatter came to mind.
But pity stirred too.
Not just the Prince on his tiny star.
The man talking to him had grown up too—that nagged.
He kept turning pages.
Bern saw a king with nothing.
And a king with everything.
"Keh, this is a king?"
Not real life, but it hinted at a king's essence.
The king squirmed under the Prince's questions.
Yet he wasn't bad.
"Fascinating."
But as no noble, it didn't hit home much.
The Prince's "Adults are weird" echoed louder.
Reading on, he got hooked at a point.
After the conceited man, drunkard, businessman— the lamplighter gripped him.
*
The Little Prince entered his planet and politely greeted the lamplighter.
"Hello. Why did you just turn off the lamp?"
"Orders. Hello?"
The lamplighter replied.
The Prince tilted his head.
"What's an order?"
He relit it and answered:
"To turn off the lamp. Goodbye."
As he lit it again, the Prince asked:
"Then why turn it on now?"
"Orders."
Same reply—the Prince was puzzled.
"I don't get it."
The lamplighter shrugged indifferently:
"No need to get it. Orders are orders. Hello?"
He extinguished it again, wiping sweat from his brow with a red-checkered handkerchief.
*
Bern paused, swallowing hard.
"This is... just like me now."
A life like one cog in the machine.
Move as ordered, never stray from your role—that's fate.
You choose it at first, but later it's agony.
Machine ignores parts; parts can't see the machine.
Is this even living?
Bern felt sorrow seeing the businessman count stars like numbers, and the lamplighter.
"Man, the author really sees our lives straight."
With a hollow laugh, he turned the page.
After the lamplighter, the Prince met the fox.
"Taming... calling bonds 'taming' like that."
He'd projected himself before; here, he found solace.
No one to talk to but his sole friend.
Or rather, too hard to bother.
The fox and Prince's talk recalled human connections he'd forgotten.
"Haha, even parts are human, huh."
Unlike machines or parts, humans have feelings and souls.
Remembering that, he finished the book.
At the end, the Prince returned to his star.
Bern teared up at the scene.
First time a book did that.
"Heh, what a ridiculous book."
Wiping tears, he recalled the Prince's words.
"Stars in the sky."
Fiction, sure—but right now, he wanted it true.
Done reading, Bern set the book down and went to the window.
He opened it, leaned on the sill, and gazed at the sky.
"Beautiful."
He lost himself in the view for a while.