[The Information Revolution (5)]

Thump, thump, thump—

Gutenberg’s workshop did not stop for a single moment, twenty-four hours a day. Every time the massive oak press creaked and descended, black truth was stamped relentlessly onto white paper.

At an hour when the dawn mist had yet to clear, the back door of the workshop swung wide, and a line of wagons pulled away. The cargo beds were not filled with weapons or rations, but with bundles of paper, tightly bound with rope.

“Giddy up!”

As the driver cracked his whip, the wagon wheels began to roll. Their destination was not the dusty studies of nobles or the silent libraries of monasteries. It was where the people gathered—places thick with the scent of sweat and ale, the bustling marketplaces and taverns where the intensity of life pulsed.

Through the veins of Bohemia, a new kind of blood, by the name of movable type, began to flow.

Prague, Old Town Square.

At midday, under the scorching May sun, the square was packed so tightly there wasn't room to plant a foot. It was a crucible of chaotic noise—the cries of merchants hawking their wares, the crowing of chickens, and the rumble of wagon wheels all blending together. Through the throng, an old cart creaked its way in. A Hussite priest in a black cassock climbed atop the cart and raised his voice.

“Come, come! Approach! Look! Listen! Today, I have come to sell you not bread, but nourishment to fatten your souls!”

Passersby stopped one by one, driven by curiosity. Women out to shop, day laborers who hadn't found work, and porters carrying loads all began to murmur.

“What is it? Another sermon?”

“He’s wearing a priest’s robe, so he’s probably just looking to collect tithes.”

Their eyes held more distrust and fatigue than respect for the clergy. Even though he was a reformist Hussite priest rather than a Catholic one, the distrust of the Prague people, who had long suffered under a corrupt church, did not vanish easily. However, the priest ignored them and ripped the cover off the cart.

What he pulled out was a book. It wasn't the kind of book nobles used, adorned with gold leaf or bound in leather; it was a crude, simple volume bound in a thick paper cover.

The citizens’ reactions were cold.

“Ugh, what is it? Just a book.”

“I can’t even read, so what good is that to me?”

“Looks too expensive to use as firewood, though.”

It was a natural reaction. In this era, a book was a treasure worth as much as a house. It was a one-of-a-kind work of art, created by stretching and drying calfskin, with a scribe laboring for months to write down every single letter. To commoners who lived hand-to-mouth, a book wasn't even a "pie in the sky"—it was an object from an entirely different dimension.

But the priest did not stop. He pulled another book from the box. And another. And another. In an instant, dozens of identical books were stacked like a tower on the stall.

“Oh…?”

The look in the people’s eyes began to change. Something was wrong. A book was a precious item. Something that might exist in one or two copies in the deep archives of a monastery was now stacked like crates of fish at a market.

An old scribe, who had been mingling with the crowd, stepped forward, looking as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

“H-hey there, priest. What on earth is all that?”

“It is the Bible, elder. It contains the Gospel of John, the Epistle to the Romans, and the edicts of our King.”

“The Bible? Don’t lie to me! How could there be so many Bibles? To copy all those, you’d need hundreds of scribes working together! Did you steal them? Or is this some kind of trick?”

The old scribe picked up a book with suspicious eyes. He was certain that this was a ruse to deceive the illiterate—that the cover was fancy, but the inside was blank. Or perhaps it was trash filled with illegible, scrawled handwriting.

The scribe turned the cover with rough hands. And at that moment, he stopped breathing.

“……!”

It wasn't there. The scent of a human hand was absent. The density of the ink was uniform from the first letter to the last. The spacing between the letters was perfectly consistent, as if measured with a ruler, and there wasn't a single error in the thickness of the strokes.

“W-what is this….”

Flustered, the scribe picked up another book from the side. He began to spread the two books out side-by-side to compare them. The first word of the first line. The position of the period on the tenth line. Even the microscopic ink smudge in the corner of the page.

“Haaah…!”

They were identical. Not just similar. They were identical to a terrifying degree, without a single letter out of place. It was impossible for human hands. No matter how skilled a calligrapher, writing something twice would always result in minute differences. Yet, these were as if reflected in a mirror—or rather, as if one had divided into many.

“T-this… this wasn't written by a human….”

The scribe backed away in terror. The book slipped from his hands and fell to the ground. “It’s a demon… a demon wrote this! How else could the letters be so identical?”

His horrified reaction only served to make the crowd’s curiosity explode. Whether a demon wrote it or an angel, the fact that a book existed which wasn't written by human hands was a spectacle in itself.

Just then, a burly man holding a sledgehammer pushed through the crowd. He was a blacksmith wearing a leather apron.

“How much?”

He picked up the book that had fallen to the ground, indifferent, and brushed the dust off with his rough palm. “I did need a Bible for the guild members to read together. I couldn't buy it if it cost a house, but….”

The priest smiled and held up three fingers.

“Thirty groschen in silver.”

“……What?”

The blacksmith’s eyes widened. Thirty groschen. It wasn't a small amount of money by any means. But it wasn't the price of a house—it was about the price of a well-fed pig. It was an amount he could touch if he hammered away at his forge for a month and saved every penny.

“Liar! A Bible for the price of a single pig?”

“It is no lie. It is the mercy bestowed by His Majesty, Ulrich. Just as bread fills the belly, truth must fill the soul. That is His Majesty’s will.”

The crowd stirred. Thirty groschen. It was expensive, but not impossible. It was an opportunity to hold in their own hands the knowledge that they had only ever been able to steal glimpses of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from over the walls of noble estates.

The blacksmith looked back and forth between the book and the priest’s face. His hands were calloused, and he didn't know how to read. But he pondered. The strange sense of conquest that came from the fact that he could buy, with his own hands and his own money, a fragment of knowledge that only nobles could possess.

“Give it to me.”

The blacksmith pulled a crumpled leather pouch from his tunic and counted out the silver coins. Clink, clink. The sound of the silver passing into the priest’s hand echoed through the square. The deal was struck. The Bible, once an area of inviolable sanctity, was exchanged for money just like pork at the market.

Only then did the floodgates open.

“G-give me one too!”

“Me too! To think I could have a Bible in my own home!”

People scrambled, digging through their pouches. But the priest didn't stop at just selling the books.

“Are there those among you who cannot read? Do not worry!”

He spread a book wide and began to read aloud at the top of his lungs.

“In the beginning was the Word!”

It wasn't Latin. It wasn't the language of those unintelligible incantations that priests mumbled from the high pulpits of the church. “And the Word was with God, and the Word was God!”

It was Czech. The language they used to haggle over goods in the market. The language they used to scold their children. It was that familiar, crude mother tongue they used to whisper love to their lovers.

Farmers and porters passing by stopped in their tracks. They stared blankly at the priest’s mouth.

‘God… speaks our language?’

What they had always heard at church was Latin, like Dominus vobiscum. They didn't know what it meant; they just bowed their heads and said "Amen." But now, God was speaking to them in their own language.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it!”

Something surged up within the hearts of the crowd. The frustration of not being able to know God’s will without a priest’s interpretation. The helplessness of having to hear from someone else’s mouth whether they had sinned or not. That thick wall was crumbling down, piece by piece, because of that one thin sheet of paper.

“The truth of the Lord triumphs!”

As the priest shouted the final verse, a cheer erupted from the crowd gathered in the square, with no one knowing who started it.

“Amen!”

“That’s right! The truth triumphs!”

Even those who couldn't buy a book, even those who couldn't read, did not leave the spot. They gathered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in small groups, sitting around those who had bought books.

“Hey, read that part for us. What does it say next?”

“Is it true that Jesus drove the merchants out of the temple?”

“It’s true! It’s written right here! He said, ‘Do not make my Father’s house a house of trade!’”

Those who could read, read; those who couldn't, listened. And they asked and answered each other. The passive flock, who had previously only listened one-sidedly to the priests’ sermons, had begun, for the first time, to have a discussion about the word of God. The Prague square was no longer a marketplace; it was becoming a church without a roof.

“Ah, read a bit faster! I’m getting dizzy!”

“Don’t push! I can’t see either!”

Hundreds of Bibles loaded on the cart sold out in an instant. However, the expressions of those who actually held the books were mostly not bright. They were, in fact, on the verge of tears.

“Damn it….”

Hans, the butcher, sighed as he looked down at the book in his hands. Thirty groschen in silver. It was the "Word of Truth" he had impulsively purchased with a small fortune. But to him, this book was nothing more than an object where the black was letters and the white was paper.

Illiterate. To him, who had spent his whole life only knowing how to cut meat and count numbers for the weight of the flesh, the Bible was nothing more than a locked treasure chest.

“Hey, Thomas! Read this passage for me! What did Jesus say?”

He grabbed the hem of Thomas the scribe, who lived next door, and pleaded. But Thomas was in the same boat.

“Ah, get out of the way! I’m busy reading my own book!”

Similar scenes were unfolding all over the square. Dozens of people were crowded around the few who could read, listening intently. “I’m going crazy with frustration!” “How can it be that I can’t read a book I bought with my own money?”

A fire had been lit in the hearts of the people. It was a lack they hadn't known before. When there were no books, being ignorant wasn't a sin, but now that a book was in their hands, their ignorance had become a source of deep sorrow. They wanted to know. They wanted to read. They wanted to decipher those black codes and confirm the voice of God with their own eyes.

It was right then.

Boom, boom, boom—!

The King’s heralds entered the square, beating drums. In their hands, they held a massive poster stamped with the red royal seal.

“A royal edict! Clear the way, everyone!”

The heralds slapped the poster onto the bulletin board in the center of the square. People rushed toward it.

“What is it? Don’t tell me it’s more taxes?”

“The war is over, so what edict is this?”

“Someone read it! What does it say?”

A young man who could read was pushed to the very front. He cleared his throat and, in a voice tight with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tension, began to read the first line.

“In the name of Ulrich I, King of Bohemia and the rightful successor of Luxembourg, I proclaim!”

The noise in the square died down. It was due to the weight carried by the King’s name.

“I intend to end the era where ignorance blinds the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠people and false authority monopolizes the truth. Just as bread fattens the body, knowledge fattens the soul; therefore, to guarantee the right of learning to all Bohemian subjects, I decree the following!”

The young man swallowed hard and read the next part. It was as follows:

When he read this far, gasps erupted from the people.

“Free support?”

“The King is going to pay for our children’s schooling?”

To those who lived hand-to-mouth, education costs were a luxury they couldn't even dream of. But the King had declared he would bear that burden instead. However, the real shock was in the final clause.

“Furthermore, we seek talent far and wide to teach the growing number of students. There is only one qualification! You must be able to read and write!”

The young man’s voice began to tremble.

“Regardless of status, age, origin, or gender! Whether noble or commoner, man or woman, we will look only at ability!”

“……!!”

The square was turned upside down.

“Regardless of gender? Women can be teachers too?”

“They don’t even care about status! Even a butcher can be one if they know how to read?”

Maria, a laundress mingling in the crowd, doubted her own ears. She was the daughter of a fallen merchant; she knew how to read, but after her family went bankrupt, she had been scraping by doing other people’s laundry. ‘I… could be a teacher?’ The opportunity for her talent, which had been rotting away at the washbasin, to shine had arrived.

She wasn't the only one. Clerks who knew how to read but were ignored due to low status, poor lower-level scholars, daughters of fallen nobles—life began to return to the eyes of the intellectuals who had been hiding in the shadows.

The spring breeze in Prague carried the scent of paper and ink. It was the fragrance of a new era.