Chapter 48: The Scholars of the Ash (Part 3)

The psychological rebirth was not isolated to a single classroom. Across all seven counties of the City-State, the same profound realization was taking root. From the bustling administrative hubs to the quiet edges of the agricultural belts, thousands of citizens held the printed pamphlets in their hands. The fear of the Vanguard’s iron enforcement dissolved, replaced by an unbreakable, fanatical devotion to the Sovereign who had finally given them dignity. 

But not everyone holding a pamphlet felt that same comfort. 

In the shaded courtyard of the 4th District guest quarters, the Royal Envoy stared blankly at the crisp black ink on the pages. Beside him, three of his elite capital guards looked just as helpless. In the King's court, literacy was a luxury reserved only for the highest scribes and the royal treasurers. To the Envoy, the precise letters were nothing but meaningless geometric shapes. 

Frustrated, the Envoy flagged down a passing citizen—a young man pushing a wooden wheelbarrow full of clay bricks. 

"You," the Envoy commanded, waving the pamphlet. "Find me a scribe to tell me what your warlord has written."

The bricklayer set his wheelbarrow down, wiping the sweat from his brow. He didn't look intimidated by the Envoy’s fine silk robes or the armed guards. He simply took the pamphlet, cleared his throat, and began to read. 

He read them one by one. He read the Edicts of the Hearth, explaining how women were no longer property. He read the Shield of Innocence, detailing the state's absolute protection of children. And finally, he read the Edict of the Apex—the death penalty for corruption and the ban on nepotism. 

The Envoy’s face drained of color. These were not the laws of a rebel warlord. These were the laws of a terrifyingly advanced civilization. If King Mwaala tried to enact even half of these laws in the capital, the harem vipers and the tribal chiefs would assassinate him by nightfall. 

"Wait," the Envoy interrupted, his voice faltering as he realized what he was looking at. He stared at the young man’s calloused, clay-stained hands. "You are a laborer. A bricklayer. Why can you read the Sovereign’s script so flawlessly?"

The bricklayer looked at the Envoy, blinking slowly. The expression on his face wasn't fear, or even respect. It was pity. He looked at the powerful minister of the capital as if he were a slow-witted child.

"Because the classes are mandatory," the commoner explained, speaking slowly as if humoring an idiot. "Everyone in the City-State can read and write. How else are we supposed to follow the Law? Or sign our labor contracts? Or do the math for our wages?"

The Envoy exchanged a stunned look with his guards. "Math?"

"Of course," the bricklayer sighed. "Every citizen can calculate up to ten thousand units in our heads. We have to, for the agricultural quotas." The young man reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, wooden frame strung with beads on metal wires. "For anything over ten thousand, we just use an abacus."

He flicked the beads with practiced, lightning-fast precision, solving a complex sum in seconds before tucking the tool away. 

The bricklayer shook his head, a look of profound marvel on his face. 'This man is supposed to be a powerful official from the outside world,' he thought, picking up the handles of his wheelbarrow. 'He wears silk, but his mind is still stuck in the dirt. The outside world has truly fallen so far behind.'

"Have a productive day, Minister," the bricklayer said politely, before wheeling his bricks away toward a construction site.

The Envoy stood completely frozen. A random laborer had just outclassed the King's greatest spy in literacy, mathematics, and civic comprehension. It was like living in two entirely different realities. 

"Envoy?" a bright, sharp voice called out. 

Approaching them was Tuwilika, a high-ranking administrative executive appointed by Amutenya. She wore a crisp, tailored uniform, holding a leather-bound ledger. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, and entirely unafraid of the capital guards. 

"The Lord of the Southern Reaches requested I give you a proper tour of his domain," Tuwilika said with a polite but piercing smile. "To assure you that the King's new territory is in capable hands."

For the rest of the day, Tuwilika walked them through the heart of the machine. 

She showed them the towering, smoke-belching iron foundries, where standardized tools and armor were being mass-produced by the thousands. She showed them the great water wheels of the agricultural belts, turning the harsh scrubland into an endless sea of green crops, completely immune to the drought that was currently starving the capital. She took them to the sprawling civilian mess halls, where thousands of people ate hot, hearty meals in perfect, disciplined order. 

There was no squalor. There was no tribal infighting. There was only development, and the absolute Law that bound it together. 

As the sun began to set, painting the massive perimeter walls in hues of fiery orange, the Envoy stood on a high walkway overlooking the City-State. He watched the streets illuminate with carefully placed oil lamps as the night shift seamlessly took over the factories. 

One of his royal guards stepped up beside him. "Envoy... what do we tell the King? How do we fight this?"

"We don't," the Envoy whispered, the absolute weight of his despair finally crashing down on him. 

He looked at the thriving, illuminated empire below him. He thought of the rotting capital, the starving borders, the squabbling concubines, and his own perilous, exhausting existence serving a trapped King. 

The Envoy let out a long, heavy sigh. 

"If I were not bound by my blood to the King's court," the Envoy murmured, his voice laced with a tragic, aching envy, "I would strip off these silks, walk down to their administrative center, and beg Lord Amutenya for a job."