The Sorrows of Young Werther - 3
The reactions of the aspiring writers facing the mountain of "short stories" I'd prepared gradually shifted as time wore on.
"Hnggh! Th-this is an unpublished short story by Master Homerus…!"
"I'm so glad I'm alive…. Hic…."
"Master Homerus is a god!"
At first, everyone was thrilled. These aspiring writers all loved novels, and the thought of reading unpublished manuscripts had them grinning from ear to ear as they dove in. But as time passed, more and more students began to harbor doubts.
"Haaah… Is, is this agonizing thing really a novel…? What even is writing…."
"Whew, this one was incredible too…. Huh? There's still this much left…?"
The shorts I'd selected were specially chosen to build their literary chops. Many didn't suit this era, and some were downright avant-garde. They weren't all easy, entertaining reads.
"My eyes are so dry…. Hngh…. My eyes…. Please, call a priest…."
"I could read all day…!"
By the time the lecture neared its end, more than half the students had collapsed in exhaustion. Still, a few stood out. There were die-hard fans devouring the pages like they were licking them, finishing the whole stack and starting over from the beginning.
I checked the time, nodded, and livened up the mood.
"Good work, everyone. Feel free to take the manuscripts with you. Even if they leak out… well, as long as you're not publishing them under your own name or anything like that, it's fine."
Most didn't fit this era anyway, but they could still nudge literature forward in their own way. They weren't major classics with massive influence. My priority was nurturing these aspiring writers.
"H-heh heh…. An unpublished manuscript from Master Homerus…."
"I want to read more…."
"Pen, I need a pen! I have to jot down this inspiration!"
A few were still sparkling with excitement, itching to write. Seeds of new works were sprouting in this world. Sure, they might not suit the current public's tastes… but if I found them fun, that was enough. I smiled contentedly. A pleasant premonition told me these kids would produce novels I'd enjoy.
The Sorrows of Young Werther was, in truth, closer to a "soap opera." A young man's affair with a married woman, his friendship with her fiancé, the ensuing anguish and conflict, romance. The heroine torn between two men even mirrored the structure of romances from my past life. In a way, it was a simple, sensational plot.
Yet the reason it became a "classic" and captivated readers was this:
"Could a work like this truly spring only from a writer's imagination? Master Homerus must have experienced a passionate, sorrowful love just like Werther's…."
"He's pouring out his own wounds through literature. To comfort himself…."
It lay in his delicate confrontation of humanity's fragile side—something anyone could relate to. The story itself was just another romance novel, but Goethe had the knack for laying bare the soul while softly consoling it. He dug up emotions we'd bury deep, then soothed us: Everyone's this weak. It's normal.
So it was no wonder fiery young men lost their souls to it. And that led to some thorny issues.
"…I love you. I know it's wrong to harbor these feelings for you, who has a fiancé. But if killing my own emotions is a sin against the Lord, then I wanted to confess them to you at least once."
"Isn't your confession a bit late? I've loved you all along too…."
"…H-ha, but—."
"Shh. You confessed first— no need for excuses now. Even if it means erasing my family name, I won't hide my love anymore."
Broken engagements surged among prominent families. Normally, they'd face church and family backlash, but—
"Love is the noblest emotion bestowed upon us by the Lord. No promise can supersede it."
"Ahem, if that's your conviction, I'll speak to the head of House Rahiten about annulling the betrothal. We'll forfeit many interests… but our family's honor isn't dearer than our daughter. What truly matters is invisible…."
No one condemned these breakups. Everyone had been moved, great or small, by Homerus's works. The Little Prince's lesson—"What truly matters is invisible"—still lingered in hearts. And then.
"…Praying that the Holy Spirit grant wisdom to us who are lacking, we now commence the council."
The Papal Court began reinterpreting doctrine.
The ecumenical council convened. Every cardinal in the Church gathered at the Papal Court.
"This council is called to discuss the 'suicides' we have ignored until now."
Garnier Cardinal led it. Some cardinals bristled at the youngest among them taking charge, but as his words flowed, they fell silent, compelled to listen.
Not out of sway by his content.
"The Law restrains the strong, and the Gospel comforts the weak."
The Holy Spirit descended upon the council. With every word from Garnier Cardinal, divine power sparkled in his eyes, its radiance growing. Pure white light bathed the assembly, affirming his faith.
The Holy Spirit has descended upon the council.
"Our authority must serve only faith and belief; it must not be wielded to oppress the weak."
"Those so lost and bewildered they take their own lives are likewise lambs in need of the Lord's comfort. We have a duty to console and guide them. Instead of rebuke and blame, we must cherish them with love and offer wise solace. We must understand them. That is true devotion to God, true piety before Him."
"Let us not forget: Our Lord is love, the Word. He is consolation, peace."
"Strive to resemble Him. It's not difficult. The Savior and the Lord are one. He ever works to save us. So must we."
No cardinal dared heresy amid the Spirit-filled council.
"The Lord watches over us."
"…Lord, we thank You."
The Lord was watching over them. That sufficed.
"This concludes the council. Now, let us all spread the Gospel."
Thus, the Papal Court formed a priest-knight order to study suicidal minds, devise prevention measures. Composed of the most tolerant, progressive priests—outsiders who questioned Church authority.
Garnier Cardinal faced them directly.
"You must be more merciful and compassionate than any priest. Forget His Holiness's words, ancient laws, council doctrines. Let only the Lord's Word be your lamp, and comfort those beyond our sight."
They would meet those tormented by suicidal urges, families of the deceased, listen to their stories, console them, record it all to seek wisdom. Preventing future suicides. Holding funerals for those denied rites merely for suicide amid tragic fevers. Appeasing their souls.
"Love precedes all truth; all things must be done in love above all. But our Papal Court is too antiquated for that. Thus, I appoint you knights of God, to preach the Gospel from the lowest places."
"…What is the order's name?"
"New Gospel. You will be the new Church."
A Gospelist knight order prioritizing the Word over Papal authority—New Gospel was born.
In the literature academy borrowing the Knight Academy building, I smiled with satisfaction at the aspiring writers' sparkling eyes, brimming with anticipation.
These kids would produce the fodder—er, works—for me to read. Overflowing with emotion, I spoke.
"To become writers, you must expose your words to the public. From the moment they're published, they're no longer yours but the people's. So today, we'll serialize your works in a 'magazine.'"
Having hammered the essence of short fiction into their heads, it was time to output results. I'd already squared it with the Half & Half publisher.
"We'll run your pieces weekly, ranking them by 'reader votes' each time."
Reader votes. I'd drag that 21st-century comic magazine innovation here. A direct way to gauge popularity and feedback.
"And the top vote-getter will get a chance at 'co-authorship' with me."
"…Pardon? Co-authorship—?"
"Yes. Writing a new work together."
"…!!"
A juicy bait to hook them into magazine serialization.
"I'll teach you word limits, formats, everything for magazine runs."
Their eyes sparkled, enthusiasm overflowing. But none would likely take first. Under the Herodotus name—that serialized the Conan Saga—I'd drop a "new work" alongside theirs. If they beat that for first… well, I'd carry them on my back. A genius like that could craft something great even with a plagiarist like me.