Truth is the most powerful force in literature.

That “truth” can be intensely personal and private, universal and timeless, or simply an expression of journalistic factual fidelity.

Some will find truth in their childhood experiences and current circumstances, some will find it in self-exploration and contemplation, and some will say they have found it by running around with bare feet and listening to the world’s voices.

And.

From what I’ve seen—.

There was enough “truth” in the monk’s story to elevate it into literature.

Of course, you might argue that essays aren’t literature but rather nonfiction, but if it’s written as a story, it’s fiction, and if it’s packed with information, it’s nonfiction.

“…I’m not sure. Are you saying it would be easier to reach people’s hearts through  writing a book than by breaking down a wall?”

“Well, it’s not like you can force the truth, right? If there were no walls, people would just close their eyes to avoid seeing the ugly stuff; they’d deceive themselves and justify discrimination and hatred. The wall blocking the truth is the human heart, not a yellow wall.”

“……”

“So, let’s go with a heartfelt approach. If truth can’t be hidden, wouldn’t it make sense to reveal it in the most beautiful way possible?”

In the end, there was only one solution I could offer.

Literature.

I, a reincarnated soul who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere, a plagiarist who gained fame by snatching other people’s work, and a social misfit drowning in hobbies, believed in just one thing.

Literature is useless but, in that uselessness, has the power to change people.

And the driving force behind that “power” is.

“Literature takes even discomfort and unpleasantness and turns it into food for thought. If it’s an uncomfortable truth, that’s an excellent topic.”

It was true.

Truth moves people.

“If there are those who can’t stand the discomfort and take action, great; maybe, like the monk suggested, some folks will pick up a hammer and break down the wall. Or, conversely, some might just build a higher wall out of discomfort; I can imagine someone adding barbed wire and guarding it with weapons.”

In the end, it was up to the people to decide.

I wasn’t in a position to say what’s right or wrong, lacked the wisdom to find a better way, and while I might hold some power to lean one way or another, I had no intention of using it.

“…What if the wall builders win?”

“Well, the very existence of the wall will become meaningless.”

“Pardon?”

“By the time such a debate even comes up, the truth has already triumphed. If truth becomes a scandal, then literature has fulfilled its role.”

“……”

“At that point, you’re welcome to be on the ‘side that wants to smash the wall.’”

And above all.

I wasn’t interested in anything that wasn’t literature. Honestly, whether what’s beyond the wall is an uncomfortable truth or a delightful lie really didn’t matter to me.

Those kinds of debates are for philosophers.

“First, let’s turn the existence of ‘beyond the wall’ into a scandal.”

In that way, literature is a really friendly form of truth.

It’s always waiting in the same spot for readers to show up, but it never gets mad when they don’t. Anyone can dive into literature if they wish, and what they take from it varies dramatically.

Some will criticize a work for its flaws, while others will praise it for its brilliance.

Literature doesn’t impose anything.

Just like the truth doesn’t complain about people’s lies, literature also doesn’t fuss about folks turning their backs.

“…Alright, I get it. But I’m not very knowledgeable about publishing…”

“Of course, that’s where I’ll help you.”

And just like that, a new publishing project kicked off.

.

.

.

Completing this new “book” took longer than anticipated.

That’s because Father Paul had to persuade a multitude from “Beyond the Yellow Wall” to become “co-authors” of the book.

“This book shouldn’t just belong to ‘me.’ It ought to belong to those behind the wall because it’s their lives encapsulated in this.”

“You have a lot of co-authors.”

Father Paul said he spent months living with them on the other side of the yellow wall, listening to their stories.

Finally, the finished manuscript bore the names of over a hundred people.

“Hmmm, Father, you do know I run a foundation to support artists, right?”

“Of course.”

“Actually, the qualifications for support from our Foundation are quite straightforward. For writers, you’re recognized as an ‘author’ if you have at least one book published under your name.”

“Oh, I see, then…”

“Yes. All the ‘writers’ whose names are listed here will be eligible for support, and if someone is addicted to drugs, there will be unlimited support for addiction treatment too.”

“Oh!”

The magic tower famous for its illusory magic delves into various electrical signals, neurology, and abnormal psychology inside the human brain.

Treatment for drug addiction is also reportedly possible.

It may cost dozens of gold coins to treat a single person, but, thankfully, budget constraints aren’t a concern for my foundation. There’ll also be management of their surroundings and follow-up care to ensure they don’t relapse after treatment.

“Thank you so much!”

“Helping authors is my role, after all.”

“Well, this might sound a bit rude and superstitious, but are you… perhaps… a prophet sent by Heaven to bring literature to this world?”

“Eh?”

“As a monk, I’ve always believed that miracles are made by those who have faith in them. That’s why I strive to follow principles and set a good example. I’ve disciplined myself to resist vices and pleasures. I’ve thought that true miracles are the efforts to follow in the footsteps of the Savior.”

“……”

“But what I see in you, Homeric Virtue… you truly stand at the edge of a miracle.”

A miracle.

It’s a word I’ve heard more than enough in this world.

And.

My response has always been the same.

“Well, I’m really not sure what a miracle is. But I do know this.”

“……”

“That manuscript in the monk’s hands is a miracle to me.”

Literature. Books. Reading.

Only that has ever been my miracle.

It’s been that way until now.

And forever shall it be.

[The People Beyond the Yellow Wall]

Thus, the book “The People Beyond the Yellow Wall,” authored by Father Paul, was published in the capital of the Empire.

.

.

.

“The People Beyond the Yellow Wall” didn’t quite stir up the buzz.

The hefty 2,000-page volume played a big part in that.

Thanks to Homer’s book reviews and vibrant promotion, quite a few people took an interest… but that was about it. Most folks weren’t keen on dropping nearly ten times the price of a regular fiction book just to learn about the poor folks’ lives.

In other words, just a select few readers who could splash cash without hesitation showed any real interest.

And those willing to “spend on books” were genuinely influential people. Consequently, there was a debate in Congress about the Yellow Wall. Though it didn’t reach any significant depth, mind you.

“Hmmm, it’s a solid book, yet it hasn’t sold nearly as much as I anticipated. I guess it’s really a matter of the 2,000 pages and the steep price…”

“Perhaps it’s simply too thick and intimidating for readers?”

“Zion. Get the foundation to purchase all remaining stock and donate them to libraries. Also, oh! We should try out a public lending program.”

“Public lending rights… what’s that?”

“Simply put, if libraries lend out books for free, authors financially lose out on royalties, so our foundation will cover those. The more people borrow and read, the more profit the authors earn.”

To tackle these issues, I introduced the “public lending rights” system, following in the footsteps of a few future nations implementing it.

For now, it will be aimed at libraries under the foundation and registered artists. But hey, it’s certainly an effective policy to boost reading and publishing rates.

And once again, time marched on.

“Ah, Father Paul. What brings you here?”

“Well, there’s a student from Beyond the Yellow Wall… who mentioned wanting to enter Homer Academy, and I’m wondering if you could meet with him? Oh, just to clarify, this isn’t about guaranteeing admission.”

“Writers are always welcome.”

“Though, there’s just… one little problem.”

“Problem, you say?”

“The child has dyslexia.”

“…Excuse me?”

.

.

.

“Are you Mister White?”

“Ah! Hello! Mr. Homer…. Hehe. I’m really grateful you’re meeting me.”

Meet the cheerful, white-haired boy aspiring to be a writer but with dyslexia.

He greeted me with a bright smile. Those mischievous round eyes were so sharp that it was hard to believe he couldn’t read.

I’d read about this boy once.

He featured in The People Beyond the Yellow Wall with the subtitle “The Child Who Couldn’t Attend School.”

“As you might have heard from Father Paul… I can’t read. I can’t even go to the school that you, Mr. Homer, set up for me…”

“…I guess I need to chat with the Foundation about opening a special school.”

“Ah, hehe. Thanks for your care!”

“So, do you want to be a writer?”

“Yes! I may not be able to read, but I can listen to stories and share them. Father Paul jotted down my stories, and I got a royalty payment… and with it, I bought a  children’s book—The Little Prince!”

“Does someone read to you?”

“My father! He’s, uh, missing his left arm and leg, but he’s a good guy. He can be a little lazy… but when I ask him to, he always grumbles yet reads me fairy tales! To be honest, when he made the books with Father Paul, he’d tell me to keep it chill, but I think he’s happy with the royalities now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah! Also, he mentioned he’s  writing a book to publish. Just one to snag an artist grant… Uh, am I not supposed to share that? Hehe. He isn’t a bad guy; he just lays around all day usually, but since he said he’d publish, he’s been sitting at his desk scratching away at sentences. He lets me know what he writes every day, but honestly, it’s not that entertaining.”

“……”

“Lately, he’s reading tons too! He figures writing without reading anything gives him writer’s block, so he’s been trying to prep with books, mainly yours. If he asks the foundation, they provide all the help he needs!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah! So, I wanted to share this!”

The white-haired boy with dreams of writing bent forward, beaming with the brightest of smiles.

“Thank you so much for motivating my dad! I want to be a writer just like you, Mr. Homer! Hehe.”

“……”

For the growth of literature, I’ve always believed that we first need more readers.

Every reader is a potential writer; thus, increasing the reader population should be step one. In simpler words, I’m thinking it through in a rational manner.

“…I’ll get you an assistant who can read to you.”

“Oh, that’s fine! I can just ask my dad to do it! And I can look at picture books!”

But the world’s not always as rational as one might think.

Sometimes results take precedence over processes. Occasionally, unconventional solutions are required that defy all established norms.

“Since you’ll be coming to Homer Academy every day now, you’ll need someone to guide you. Let’s say they’ll be both an assistant and a tour guide.”

“Excuse me?”

“Congratulations, White Student. You’re accepted!”

“…Oh! Thank you! Hehe. I’m so thrilled…”

If everyone becomes a writer, they all automatically become readers. Isn’t it only natural that those who’ve crafted their own words would be curious about the words of others?

It’s a coincidence when readers turn into writers.

But it’s inevitable that writers turn into readers.

Therefore, to create a “literature-centered society,” we must establish an environment where anyone can become a writer.

“Zion.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring me a record of libraries the Foundation operates and their entire collection… No, get me a record for every library in the Empire.”

“Understood.”

My new epiphany had come!