It was quite enjoyable to chat about old stories.

Of course, it wasn’t as great as reading books. As we chatted away in the library, the topic quickly shifted to “books.”

When book lovers get together, it’s only natural for the conversation to get lively with tales of authors and their works.

Naturally, there were some subjects that had me stumped on how to respond.

“The author Homer must be an angel sent from heaven!”

“Isn’t that a bit… exaggerated?”

“Exaggerated?! It’s not even enough! Before Homer graced this earth, literature was just chivalric stories supported by the nobility, which is kind of funny considering the noble families I know…. Basically, all of them were exactly the same story with just different names swapped out. Literature was dying faster than you can say ‘boring.’….”

“Hmm.”

I had to admit, I could sympathize with that.

That’s actually why I had ‘borrowed’ literary ideas from my past life, to plant the seeds of new literature in this world.

“But Homer’s  Don Quixote changed everything. It crushed the breath out of chivalric literature and opened the doors to a new era of  writing. How can we not praise that?”

“…….”

“Don Quixote is the literary bible of the second age! Just like the Savior came to earth to share the gospel, as long as literature exists, Don Quixote will be loved forever. It symbolizes that our world, which was stuck in the ‘age of philosophers and heroes,’ has stepped forward. Because all classics eventually meet their demise… yet, paradoxically, Don Quixote will be loved eternally.”

In her fervent, almost fanatical eyes, I felt the talent of a girl named Isolette Reinhardt shining through.

She had the eye of a critic. Someone who doesn’t merely view a work as a piece of art but digs deep to find interpretations.

She was looking at Don Quixote’s significance in my previous life—the fact that it’s considered “the classic most adored by writers”, even in a modern age constantly chasing new things—with an absurdly clear perspective.

The last work of the Renaissance, the first modern novel. The holy book of literature.

Don Quixote.

It was a novel that heralded the end of “unchanging literature,” making it tragically immortal. After all, nothing is as permanent as death, right?

“He’s like the second savior sent by heaven! Homer is the savior of literature…!”

“…….”

Listening to this incredibly talented critic, I suddenly understood the influence I wielded in this world.

This influence didn’t come from any church beatification. It wasn’t because I advanced the academic learning in this world with my Principia, nor was it dictated by silly trinkets like the royal seal of the Dragon of Harren, the golden staff of the Sioux shepherd, the Ring of the Wise, or the platinum card from the Upper Alliance.

Those things are about as useful as junk.

The real power I held lay in the dozens of books stacked on top of that junk. Because the soul of literature resides within literature itself.

Not 21st-century knowledge, wealth, fame, or any precious symbols or fancy stuff.

Nothing can last forever.

Eternity exists solely in the human heart.

[“The daughters of the air may not have souls… but they can create a soul for themselves by doing good.”]
[“Mermaid, you strived with all your heart to gain a soul like the rest of us, enduring cold, bitter pain that brought you to the realm of air. If you live virtuously for the next three hundred years, you will earn your immortal soul.”]

Thus, literature may be the most useless of disciplines—
But it remains the most eternal one.

That, my friends, is the true “power” of literature!

.

.

.

Isolette sang the praises of Homer for what felt like ages.

Then, noticing her throat was growing dry from all the talking, she cleared it with a cough and pivoted to a new subject.

“Oh! Ed, since you like books too, why not join us?”

“Join?”

“Homerism!”

“…What kind of ‘religion’ is that?”

“It’s a group of followers devoted to Homer, the saint of literature!”

“Isn’t that kind of blasphemous…? Sounds a bit heretical…”

I was sensing a flair of fanaticism here. Surely, there couldn’t be an actual religion involved.

When I expressed my disbelief, Isolette responded with a triumphant grin.

“Denying the holiness of Homer is truly blasphemy! This is still a big secret— the Holy See is preparing for His beatification! Hehe.”

“Hmm.”

A secret, huh? I hadn’t really talked about it much, so I wasn’t aware.

Cardinal Garnier didn’t exactly tell me to keep it under wraps. Maybe they just weren’t ready to make a formal announcement yet.

I’ve heard the beatification process can span over several years or even decades.

But that wasn’t the important part. What really mattered was—

“So, all these people in this ‘Homeric’ group just love literature, right?”

“Exactly! Sometimes they  write their own stories and critique one another—”

“That sounds cool. Let’s go.”

“Now? I think it’s fine, but don’t you need to eat? It’s been days since I last saw you eat.”

“Oh, right.”

“While I know you love books, let’s make it a point to eat like normal humans.”

Isolette glared at me with her sleepy eyes.

Well, I guess I should grab a light snack and then head out.

.

.

.

Upon my arrival at the ‘Homeric’ gathering with Isolette, the atmosphere was far from that of a cult-like meeting of heretics lighting a single candle in a dark room.

It was at a library, and honestly, it felt more like a wholesome reading discussion.

The only notable difference from my past reading groups was that everyone was dressed up as nobles in fancy attire—as if they were ready for a banquet, not just casual reading!

“Oh, Miss Isolette! You’re here! I thought you had plans with a friend!”

“Hoho, I converted that friend into attending with me here! Ed, would you like to chat with the members of the Homeric Church?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

So this is how Isolette speaks in social settings. It’s suddenly a mix of formal and casual—it’s kind of fascinating!

Nodding, I introduced myself.

“I am Ed Frieden, the second son of Count Frieden. I came here because I love books.”

Hmm, that felt awkward…

Thinking back, in my previous life, I didn’t often join reading groups. I would usually just end up reading classics I’d already read like ‘Demian’ or ‘Zorba the Greek’, or running into folks who hadn’t even touched a book but just wanted to talk.

Oh, and let’s not forget those who enthusiastically praised Japanese literature over everything else while living in Korea, boldly declaring, “All Korean literature is trash!” It’s just… well, a tad much…

Anyway, those reasons made me pretty unfamiliar with reading groups. I bet if someone looked at my expression right now, they’d find me really awkward.

Honestly, I’d prefer tossing a project at students at the academy, which isn’t much different from what I did when I taught at a publishing house.

“It’s great to meet you all, and I hear you share your original stories here—”

“The author Herodotus…?”

“Hmm?”

But then I heard a name that seemed oddly familiar.

Turning my head to the source of the voice, I saw a guy staring at me, wide-eyed, mouth agape in shock. He looked somewhat familiar, but where had I seen him before?

“Have we met before?”

“Yeah, I… I was at Eric’s wedding and—”

“Oh! At my brother’s wedding….”

“And I also saw you at the Holmes X Lupin competition…!”

“Aha.”

As the guy and I chatted, the surrounding members of the Homeric Church gawked at us, looking utterly confused.

Their expressions screamed they didn’t quite grasp what we were on about.

I awkwardly laughed and introduced myself again. While I didn’t particularly plan to clarify, there wasn’t any real need to hide it either.

“Under the pen name Herodotus, I  write mystery and various commercial fiction for ‘Half and Half.’”

With that, a heavy silence blanketed the room for a moment.

Suddenly, in order of their realization, shrieks burst forth throughout the place.

“No way, no way! The real Herodotus is here?!”

“Lane! Go grab every magazine I stashed at home—now!”

Before anyone knew it, the library turned into absolute chaos.

Isolette, finally grasping the situation, asked with a shaking voice.

“Ed, you were the author Herodotus…?”

“Uh-huh.”

…Maybe I should have just claimed I was a look-alike after all.