The Brothers Karamazov.

Not long after the publication of A Christmas Carol, Homer’s new work captured the hearts of all the empire’s intellectuals in a heartbeat.

Sin, love, desire, truth, false accusations, murder, and affairs—.

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The Brothers Karamazov, with its vivid depiction of the contradictory nature of human psychology, resonated with many and was beloved. Everyone viewed the story in their own way. Some focused on the contradictions within us, others on the shockingly complex events that unfolded, and some on the “divine love” tying it all together.

“Homer is the savior of the new age, and literature is his Bible!”

As usual, praises of Homer filled the air.

Critics also raised a ruckus.

“A Christmas Carol, which was deemed Homer’s masterpiece, was released, and just six months later, here comes this new masterpiece, The Brothers Karamazov. Can one person really write that fast?”

“Not long after Homer gained fame, he held competitions and established a ‘Temporary Academy’ to gather disciples. Isn’t it possible he’s stealing from his students’ creativity?”

The story made its round that Homer’s early work of bringing together an academy and nurturing students was really just for the purpose of “collaboration.”

In fact, some of his mid-stage works were published as co-authorships with students. The critics’ questions rapidly spread through the media, creeping into the capital.

“It’s possible precisely because he isn’t just ‘Homer,’ but a god-like being!”

“Instead, Homer teaches his writing disciples by crafting hundreds of ‘unpublished shorts’ and showing them off.”

“We can’t write anything that impressive…”

“Uh, I haven’t written much. I just rephrased some sentences, the whole story was crafted by Homer…”

Thanks to the Academy students’ testimonies, the fuss quickly died down.

In fact, more and more wealthy patrons began flocking to the Academy with loads of cash, eager to read these “unpublished shorts,” all sparked by the students’ accounts.

Homer never sold or published these “unpublished shorts.”

Instead, he donated them to the Academy as references, making them available for any student there to read. For outsiders seeking to read those materials, they had to contribute to the Academy in order to earn access.

In the process, countless funds were raised, leading to the establishment of a scholarship foundation. This foundation, connected to both the Children’s Welfare Foundation and the Artist Welfare Foundation, was called the Education Promotion Foundation.

“The critics said Homer was writing too quickly, suspecting he was plagiarizing from other authors.”

“Hah! If they knew Homer was actually the same person as Herodotus, they’d faint dead away!”

“But I can’t say I don’t understand. The Brothers Karamazov is indeed Homer’s follow-up to Don Quixote. Has there ever been a work that delves so deeply into the psychology and contradictions of human beings?”

“Hm, isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration? I think A Christmas Carol, with its humor and eloquence that gently draws the reader in, is a better work. Are you under the impression that detailing every little nuance of a person makes it a superior piece?”

“Huh? Did you just finish your statement? You sound like a typical fan of righteous justice stories—you probably haven’t read much beyond that!”

“What?! What did you just say?!”

“Did I say something incorrect?”

“Ha! Duel!”

As always, there were folks who debated fiercely, leading to duels.

However.

Unlike usual, it was others who were most impacted by this novel.

[“You should love life itself more than trying to find its meaning?”]

[“Absolutely.”]

“…Love, love.”

They were more dutiful than any laborer, charitable servants of the world, scholars seeking wisdom in contemplation, and priests humble before their faith.

Intentional poverty, perpetual purity, and total obedience.

Ascetics were even more averse to worldly pleasures than any priest, seeking salvation in sincere, mortal commitments.

“Brother Paul, are you okay? You look terribly pale.”

“…Ah, yes, Brother. Sorry, what did you say?”

He was called a monk.

Brother Paul was the most revered monk in the empire.

This was due to Brother Paul’s steadfast dedication to his duties. If a monk were to come to life, he would certainly embody Paul’s impeccable adherence to his obligations.

Of course, this was expected from a monk.

Avoiding worldly pleasures, diligently working, being charitable to others, and pondering deep questions was a monk’s duty. Anyone who violated those duties could hardly be considered a monk.

Yet, with that expectation comes the added difficulty. Monks, after all, are still human.

Desire, laziness, stinginess—holding the reins of these sinful urges was no easy feat, and it was this “hard work” that made Paul the most respected monk in the empire.

“If you’re not feeling well, let someone else handle the ‘beyond the wall’ duties today.”

“No way, this is my job.”

“You’re always working so hard.”

“Helping people brings me joy, so it’s only expected.”

With a kind smile, Brother Paul took the burden from the minister.

It was food to be taken to the ‘soup kitchen’ beyond the wall.

Though this was his regular duty, Paul felt the weight of the food on his shoulders heavier than usual for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

.

.

.

The yellow wall. The wall separating the ‘ghetto’ from the ‘capital’ was neither high nor thick.

At best, it was a wall slightly taller than eye level. Any normal adult could easily hop over it, implying that the yellow wall wasn’t built to keep out criminals or undocumented immigrants. In fact, it was intended to serve no purpose in keeping people out at all.

The wall… was meant to obscure the truth. One could see over it just by standing on a little platform, yet no one ever bothered with the hassle of looking beyond the wall.

Thus, the essence of the wall resembled a curtain more than a barrier.

A curtain that could be opened anytime, but no one wanted to lift it. Behind that wall lay the lazy souls.

“……”

As Paul stepped beyond the wall, he felt countless gazes upon him.

Bloodshot, obsession-filled looks from drug addicts, grateful glances from the poverty-stricken dodging work, and relieved stares from disabled folks unable to find jobs due to amputations.

These were the eyes of people who Brother Paul found impossible to love.

The lifeless eyes of helpless sinners, who had to beg for mercy to survive from one day to the next, fixated on Paul.

Traversing that sea of gazes.

Brother Paul recalled a passage from The Brothers Karamazov.

[“People refuse to recognize one another as martyrs. If it’s lower-tier sufferings—instinctual troubles like hunger—they’ll nod in agreement, but when it comes to higher calling sorrows, sufferings for a principle, such pains rarely get the acknowledgment they desire.”]

[“The moment he gazes into the other’s unappealing face, he realizes it’s nothing like the ‘martyr’ he’d envisaged.”]

[“Noble beggars can’t make themselves known; they must beg through newspapers. While it’s easy to love your neighbor in the abstract or from a distance, it’s impossible up close.”]

Until he finished The Brothers Karamazov, Paul thought Homer was an idealist. He imagined him as a saint who cherished the eternal and boundless love of a savior and assumed he had a privileged upbringing.

Anyone who has seen humanity’s darkest depths can’t help but know this.

They recognize that some individuals are simply unlovable. Just standing before them can evoke disgust and discomfort, confirming that the worst of humanity exists.

They understand that the breath they lend to a foul-smelling person isn’t love itself but merely a sense of duty.

At least that was the case for Brother Paul, who was viewed as the “ideal” monk. He could shudder in disgust from gazing at the lazy sinners beyond the wall while still smiling and bringing food as an act of obligation.

It’s not that he hated them for not loving them.

It’s just that even these “lazy” souls could only feel disdain because they were expected to love. For Paul, love was primarily an obligation.

“I’m Brother Paul, here with food for the free kitchen.”

“Oh, you’re here! Is the check still inside the food bag like always?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for your effort.”

But Homer, the author of The Brothers Karamazov, wasn’t ignorant of the abysmal.

The Brothers Karamazov could never have been penned by someone unaware of misery and squalor. Within this novel, Paul recognized pieces of this “worst” that only the one who grappled amid misery could genuinely relate to.

[“For humanity’s betterment, I could be crucified if needed. But sharing a room with someone for two days? That’s a no-go. Just having someone near me feels unpleasant. After a day, I begin to loathe them—one for taking too long to finish dinner, another for blowing their nose the whole time because they caught a cold. Yet the more I personally detest individuals, the more I seem to love humanity as a whole.”]

When first embracing faith, he swore an oath.

To love. He vowed to love his neighbor as himself and to love his enemy as himself.

And to share the cross of the Savior together.

[“I do love humanity, yet I find myself in a contradiction: the more I love humanity as a whole, the less I love individual human beings.”]

But that love wasn’t eternal.

He knew there were “people” he simply could not love, and that sometimes even his own measly self felt disgusting.

He could still be crucified for the sake of all humankind, but—.

If those lazy drug addicts he despised approached him, he would feel repulsed, even if they tried to hold his righteous hand without nailing him.

“…Brother.”

“Yes, monk.”

“Is it okay if I help prepare meals at the soup kitchen here?”

“Oh, that’s wonderful of you! We’re always short-staffed… but I hope it’s not too bothersome for you, I imagine you’re busy.”

Love takes precedence over all principles, and everything must be done out of love.

Where had that vow of faith gone?

Am I prioritizing love above duty? Do I carry any affection in my heart for those lazy slobs?

I was loving them as ‘neighbors’ and ‘enemies’ while simultaneously hating them as ‘people.’ So, is this ‘love’ wrapped in hatred just a façade? Is being of two minds a lie? Am I not true to my faith?

No matter how much I pondered, I couldn’t find an answer to this contradiction.

There are no answers. Contradictions persist. My mind is a mess.

So.

[“I believe in people, just as I believe in my brother.”]

I simply fulfilled my responsibilities as a monk.

“Is there any room for distraction while busy working on love? When I think about it, despite constantly visiting this spot, I’ve never really set foot inside.”

“Haha, you’re truly pious, Brother Paul.”

If God’s love is only attainable through miracles.

Then I believe in miracles.

Just as it was since the dawn of creation.