The Storybook (1)

At first, I honestly thought he was just a raving lunatic.

A Frederick Mark II, so to speak.

“Wait, those were my goods in the first place, weren't they?”

Forcibly seizing supplies that I had personally sold or given away was utterly absurd. Naturally, given the anonymous nature of the Gallery, a torrent of righteous outrage came flooding in.

Fron was an isolated territory. Rugged mountain ranges walled off its rear, while a monster-infested forest stretched across its front. Stepping inside was never a matter of free will, and walking out was even less so.

“So he's giving me the 'sue me, see if I care' routine?”

Did he think he could lean on his land's geographical isolation to pick a petty fight with me? But surprisingly enough, that wasn't it at all. Count Marc was quite different from what I had expected. The man was simply a raving fanatic for principle.

“Huh?”

Tax collectors wielded substantial authority in their hierarchy. They almost always possessed powerful patrons and worked hand in glove with the aristocracy. I had naturally assumed he would gloss over the matter with a token reprimand, but stripping their credentials entirely?

A man utterly possessed by the law. He wasn't another Frederick at all. If anything, the problem was that he was too different. Had he been an arrogant, brainless despot like Frederick, the populace would have eventually taken care of him with their own hands.

His reputation among the locals was surprisingly decent.

“I should run a quick search on him.”

Naturally, my curiosity got the better of me. I pulled up the user history for that screen name, only to gaze straight into the abyss.

“Holy crap, this guy's unhinged.”

He was grinding through an insane sixteen-hour workday day in and day out. On top of that, his sleep routine was utterly rigid: going to bed at precisely 23:30 and rising at 06:30 sharp every morning.

“Wait, what's this?”

Scrolling further back, I uncovered the very first thread he had ever posted on the Gallery. It dated back to the time before he had even been appointed Acting Duke. Intrigued by what on earth he could have posted back then, I opened it, and the content was quite a spectacle.

“So that was the fucking catalyst.”

Nobody obeys the law. Therefore, if he ascended to the highest position of power, he could compel everyone to obey the law. He must have truly believed that was the only way to save the crumbling North.

In other words, he meant every single syllable with absolute sincerity. The fact that he was skipping meals rather than indulging in vanity just to bury himself in paperwork was proof enough.

“Still, if the laws themselves are broken from the start, isn't it all completely pointless?”

In the end, if the people refused to cooperate, it was all for naught. I eventually made my decision.

“Jukkiyahhooooo!”

Flump.

I threw myself onto my bed and pulled out a bag of snacks. Opening the Gallery, I began leisurely browsing through the hall-of-fame posts from a week ago.

“Like I give a shit.”

The tax collector who threw punches had been disciplined, and no Gallum had died. Pushing any further would just cross the line into interfering with local governance. It was slightly annoying that he had confiscated my supplies, but losing a few thousand or even tens of thousands of those barely scraped my points. It wasn't like he was hoarding them for his own pocket; he claimed he'd direct them toward developing the territory, so whatever...

“Hey, excuse me.”

Right then, a small hand tapped me lightly on the arm. I turned around to see Penny standing close by, clutching a picture book to her chest and staring at me with wide, expectant eyes.

“I finished this storybook too. Do you happen to have any other books?”

Her gaze was brimming with eager anticipation. Was it because she had crossed over from the Outside? Whatever the reason, she was wildly fascinated by children's storybooks. If my routine was eat-sleep-Gallery, Penny's was practically eat-sleep-storybook.

Wait a second... what if I tried selling storybooks?

While picking out another picture book for Penny, the thought suddenly struck me. I had held off on listing them because I assumed people were too busy scraping by to care about light reading, but perhaps they would sell surprisingly well.

“Here, the next volume.”

“Thank you, I'll read it well!”

Penny snatched the storybook and bolted straight back to her room like lightning.

“Still, dumping them directly onto the marketplace right off the bat seems a bit hasty.”

It would be nice to have someone gauge the waters and give me feedback first. Fortunately, I had the perfect candidates right at hand: my dutiful, unpaid slave sub-mods.

If their reaction turned out lackluster?

“Well, if it doesn't sell, then so be it.”

I just wouldn't list it on the marketplace. Since I was approaching it purely on a whim, I gifted the storybooks to the two of them without any grand expectations.

“Hmm...”

Inside the quiet audience chamber, Erzsebet sat perched upon the throne beside the refrigerator, staring intently at the object in her hands. It was none other than a storybook.

“Ju-ddak sent something strange again.”

Erzsebet's crimson eyes narrowed. It was a book, yet an exceedingly peculiar one. Compared to any tome one could encounter in this world, its craftsmanship was entirely alien. The hard, flawlessly bound cover, the silky-smooth pages that made her wonder what unimaginable technique had produced such paper—and above all, these illustrations.

“Such soft, rounded artwork... It's rather adorable.”

Coarse, fragile medieval paper could never hold such delicate artistry. Furthermore, finding a painter possessing such refined skill was virtually impossible.

“Did an artist of this caliber truly exist?”

Though she had witnessed countless masterworks and relics over her long life, this style felt entirely novel. Curiosity blossomed quietly in her chest. After a brief hesitation, Erzsebet gently opened the front cover, wondering what kind of story awaited within.

“!”

The instant she read the opening page, Erzsebet's eyes widened round as a rabbit's.

A full day had passed since I sent them the storybooks.

“They should be getting around to sending their reviews by now.”

Honestly, even if they just told me, 'It was pretty decent. Fun read,' I was fully prepared to post them on the marketplace. After all, weren't these fairy tales enduring classics that had spawned countless adaptations and interpretations well into the modern era? Yet the response that came back was entirely unforeseen.

One of my sub-mods was stammering out bizarre noises.

“Oh, did she finish it already?”

Just as I was about to drop an eager reply into the chat:

Full-Health Elf unleashed her righteous fury on me, before abruptly breaking down into tears.

Setting aside the illustrations, the written text barely spanned two pages of paper. I knew it packed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an emotional punch, but I never imagined she would get so thoroughly over-invested in it. It seemed that in a post-apocalyptic realm where fairy tales and novels had vanished entirely, the emotional shockwave delivered by a children's story was staggering.

Staggering, and then some.

“This is a massive hit.”

This blew far past anything I had anticipated. This... this would definitely sell! Now that its impact had been thoroughly proven, there was no time to hesitate.

“The problem is, which ones should I buy?”

I found myself at a loss over which fairy tales to pick. But as always, the shop interface had the solution ready.

“This is the one.”

Letting the system recommend books at random meant I didn't have to waste time agonizing over choices. Without a second thought, I placed a bulk order and listed them all directly onto the marketplace.

Never suspecting what kind of storm that impulsive decision would summon.

Late at night, as darkness settled deep over the northern territory of Adrian.

Inside the Duke's office in Fron, a soldier entered carrying a small stack of bound volumes.

“Lord Marc, these are the texts you requested.”

“Very well. Leave them there.”

“Understood, my lord!”

Thud.

A stack of three books came to rest upon the corner of the grand desk. Acting Duke Marc stared at them with a contemplative expression.

“So... these are the books that Ju-ttak has released onto the marketplace.”

From what he had gathered, two were known as children's storybooks, while the third was categorized as a bestseller. With a calm, measured gaze, Marc examined the stack to verify their contents.

“Well, the artistic quality is certainly remarkable...”

In particular, The Little Match Girl lived up to its reputation with an astonishing standard of illustration. It was compelling enough that he felt tempted to read it through should he ever find spare time. However, what truly seized his attention was not the storybooks.

“Hmm, what is this?”

The volume resting at the very bottom of the pile. For some reason, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠its cover was strikingly crimson, bearing a rough, austere aesthetic.

“I must inspect whether it contains seditious thoughts.”

Marc had always remained wary of Ju-ttak. A mere flick of Ju-ttak's hand had repeatedly shaken the fundamental pillars of entire nations. Marc could never look kindly upon a world where the fate of all things swung upon the whims of a single individual.

Marc carefully drew the book before him.

“Phew.”

To determine whether this was indeed dangerous, subversive literature, or whether it truly deserved to be hailed as great writing, Marc slowly turned the front cover.

“Hmm. A rather peculiar title.”

And the words that met his eyes were unmistakable:

It was none other than Vladimir Lenin's 1917 treatise, the defining bestseller of its era—Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism.