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Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 51: The Information Revolution (4)

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After the fervor in the square had died down somewhat, we moved to the grand hall of Prague's royal palace.

The cheers of citizens who had filled their bellies still drifted faintly in from outside.

Inside the hall, however, the atmosphere was cold and serious.

"The fifty thousand bushels of wheat we brought have been transferred to the state granaries at once. The rye will be sent to the mills tomorrow to be ground into flour."

Abraham opened his ledger and gave his report.

"Aside from the reserves urgently needed for poor relief and military provisions, we intend to release the rest onto the market. As instructed, the price has been set at half the current market rate."

I nodded.

"Good. Make sure the merchants can't hoard it."

Grain prices had stabilized.

For the time being, we had won over the people's hearts.

Now that we had filled their stomachs, it was time to examine the problems beyond our borders.

"By the way, I heard King Władysław II Jagiełło sent a message?"

At my question, Abraham hesitated for a moment.

He glanced over the officials lined up around us, then spoke with an odd smile.

"Yes, Your Majesty. His Majesty the King of Poland made a very personal proposal."

"A personal proposal?"

"He said that next time, rather than sending an envoy, Your Majesty should come in person. He'd like Your Majesty to join an old man like him for a cup of mead."

An invitation to drink together. Not bad.

Then Abraham's next words shattered all my expectations.

"And he added that he would like to introduce his youngest daughter, Princess Jadwiga, at that gathering."

"...!"

Silence fell over the hall.

Then, a second later.

"Ooooh...!"

A wave of barely restrained exclamations rose from the officials.

Konrad, the chamberlain, was especially bright-eyed.

"Princess Jadwiga... isn't she King Władysław II Jagiełło's only child?"

"That's right! There is currently no legitimate prince in the Polish royal family! If Your Majesty were to marry the princess...!"

It was almost possible to hear the frantic clatter of calculations in their heads.

The King of Poland still had no son.

If I married Princess Jadwiga and Władysław II Jagiełło died without an heir?

A vast Eastern European kingdom uniting Bohemia, Poland, and Lithuania would be born.

In that scenario, I, Ulrich, would hold immense power as co-ruler of that great empire, or as the princess's husband.

I scoffed inwardly.

'No one's even offered them rice cakes, yet they're already drinking bowlfuls of kimchi soup.'

Władysław II Jagiełło was a seasoned old bear. There was no way he had made this proposal because he truly intended to hand over his throne.

It was probably either sophisticated political rhetoric meant to bind me under his influence or simply an attempt to test the waters.

Still, the real reason I felt repulsed had nothing to do with political calculations.

"Hold on."

I raised a hand, quieting the officials who were so worked up they were spraying spit.

"Abraham. How old is Princess Jadwiga now?"

"I heard she turned thirteen this year."

"..."

I froze halfway through lifting my teacup.

'Thirteen?'

I was twenty. Including the memories of my previous life, my mental age was over thirty.

And she was thirteen?

He wanted to set me up with a girl who had just graduated elementary school and entered middle school?

"This is insane..."

"Your Majesty?"

"No, has that old man gone senile? She's thirteen. She's completely a child. What does he expect me to do with some kid who still smells of milk?"

Rather than sharing my disgust, the officials looked baffled.

"Your Majesty, what are you saying? Thirteen is the proper age for marriage."

"That's right. If anything, it is late, never early. Besides, what does an age difference matter in a royal marriage?"

Ah.

This was not twenty-first-century South Korea.

This was fifteenth-century medieval Europe, where average lifespans were short and political marriages were routine.

An age when being engaged at seven and married off at twelve was considered normal.

A thirteen-year-old bride and a twenty-year-old groom?

Here, people would call it a match made in heaven.

But Park Kang-jun inside me was screaming.

No matter how political the marriage was, my modern sense of morality simply would not allow me to take an unfamiliar middle-school girl as my wife.

I waved a hand in revulsion.

"Enough. There are countless other affairs of state to discuss right now. We can discuss that later... much later."

"But, Your Majesty! This is also a grave matter concerning the affairs of state!"

"That's right! If Polish royal blood were joined to Bohemia's ruling line, its legitimacy would become even stronger..."

That was when it happened.

Knock, knock.

A cautious yet urgent knock cut through the commotion in the hall.

"Your Majesty, an urgent message has arrived."

The door opened, and an attendant entered. In one hand was a scrap of parchment covered in grease stains.

An Utraquist noble in the hall frowned at the interruption.

"Who is it? We are in the middle of an important council."

"It is an express message from Sternberg. It was sent by that technician called Gutenberg."

Gutenberg.

The moment I heard that name, my eyes widened.

"Bring it here."

Ignoring the officials' protests, I snatched the note from the attendant.

Only a single sentence had been hastily scrawled across the roughly torn parchment.

[Es ist vollbracht]

It is finished.

Or, it is complete.

They were the final words Jesus left upon the cross in the Gospel of John, a declaration that a great undertaking had been completed.

A smile spread across my lips.

The matter of marrying a thirteen-year-old princess vanished completely from my mind.

I shot to my feet.

"The council ends here."

"Y-Your Majesty? We have not yet reached a conclusion regarding Princess Jadwiga...!"

"Later. Something more important has come up."

Leaving the dumbfounded officials behind, I swept out of the hall with my cloak billowing behind me.

"Prepare the horses! We leave for Sternberg at once!"

My voice held more confidence and excitement than ever before.

We had filled their bellies with bread.

Now it was time to fill their minds.

* * *

Clatter, clatter...

The sound of hooves striking the hard ground echoed in a steady rhythm.

On a good day, Sternberg was only a day's ride from Prague. Even that single day felt too precious, so I rode without stopping.

My backside ached from the saddle, and my inner thighs burned, but cold sweat soaked the hand gripping the reins.

A completely different kind of tension from heading into battle coursed through my body.

I was going to smell lead and oil, not blood.

János Hunyadi rode silently behind me.

Before long, as we crossed the forest ridge, the familiar sight of my domain appeared before us.

I pulled on the reins and stopped for a moment. János Hunyadi came alongside me and let out a short gasp.

"Huh, my lord. Is this really that backwater village we used to know?"

He was right.

There was no trace left of the Sternberg that had been reduced to ashes by Hussite raids only a few months ago.

Where green woods and peaceful farmhouses should have stood, enormous black monsters now filled the land.

Rumble...

Black smoke poured from dozens of chimneys.

The acrid scent of sulfur and burning coal rode the wind all the way up the hill.

Huge waterwheels turned without rest in the Water channel that drew in a tributary of the Sázava River, letting out dull groans as the bellows they powered thundered through the valley.

Ironworks, smithies, and brickworks.

Hundreds of laborers moved between them alongside lines of coal carts.

The pastoral scenery of the Middle Ages had been utterly destroyed.

In its place, the heart of industry beat fiercely, radiating overwhelming power.

"Let's go."

I dug my heels into my horse's sides.

The noise grew louder as we descended the hill and entered the factory district.

Hammering, sawing, and workers' shouts blended together until my ears rang.

Yet I liked that noise.

It was proof that Bohemia was alive, and a sign that the system I had built was running without rest.

We stopped before an annex at the very back, guarded under tight security.

It had once been used as a grain warehouse, but thick curtains now covered every window. Armed soldiers stood at the entrance.

"Your Majesty!"

The guards hurriedly lowered their spears.

I jumped down from my horse and tossed the reins to a guard.

As I opened the door and stepped inside, heat rushed over me, followed by a strange smell.

Burning Pine resin. Boiling lead.

The fishy scent of linseed oil.

The workshop was even noisier than outside.

"No! The temperature is too high! I told you to cool it! Tighten the screws holding the type plate! If it shakes, the letters will dance!"

Johannes Gutenberg.

Unaware that I had entered, he stood in the middle of the workshop, bellowing at his assistants.

His clothes were caked in grease and ink.

His eyes were sunken, with dark circles reaching his jaw.

Yet his gaze burned with life.

Without calling to him, I quietly approached from behind.

A mountain of small silver-gray metal pieces glittered on the workbench.

Movable type.

Bullets of knowledge, made from lead, tin, and antimony blended in perfect proportions.

Gutenberg picked up a piece of movable type with tweezers, held it to the light, and muttered.

"The edges... good. No shrinkage. No bubbles. Perfect."

He grinned in satisfaction, then finally sensed someone behind him and turned around.

"Oh...?"

The moment his eyes met mine, his expression went blank.

He nearly dropped the tweezers in his hand as he hurriedly bowed.

"Y-Your Majesty! You've come! Without sending word, how could you...!"

"Enough. It was good to see you so absorbed in your work."

I raised a hand to stop his fussing and pointed toward the center of the workbench with my chin.

"Show me what you said you completed."

Uncontainable pride spread across Gutenberg's face.

He was no longer a fugitive fleeing creditors.

He wore the expression of a craftsman presenting his masterpiece to his lord.

"This way."

Where he led us, a massive machine crouched in place.

A heavy frame built from hard oak.

A thick screw shaft running through its center.

And beneath it, a flat metal platen.

"Oh..."

János Hunyadi let out an admiring breath.

It was crude but sturdy. A pure mechanical structure that existed only to apply pressure, stripped of every unnecessary part.

"It is not over yet. Now I shall show Your Majesty my masterpiece."

Gutenberg gestured to his assistants.

"Prepare."

At his short command, the assistants moved in perfect coordination.

One assistant dabbed sticky black ink onto a leather-covered ink ball.

It was a special oil-based ink made by mixing soot and oil so it would adhere well to metal.

Tap, tap, tap...

The assistant began patting the ink ball across the type plate.

With each rhythmic sound, the silver-gray surface of the movable type turned black.

Gutenberg picked up a sheet of paper himself.

It had the rough texture of pulped rags, but it was thick and tough.

He fitted the paper onto the frame's holding pins.

His fingertips trembled slightly, but it was not from weakness. It was from exhilaration.

"Here it goes."

He lowered the frame holding the paper over the inked type plate.

Then he pushed the entire bed along its rails until it sat directly beneath the massive screw shaft.

Everything was ready.

Silence fell over the workshop. Even János Hunyadi held his breath and stared at the machine.

Gutenberg drew one deep breath.

Then he gripped the enormous wooden lever with both hands.

"Hngh!"

He threw his full weight into it and pulled.

Creak!

The screw shaft turned, and the massive platen descended vertically.

Paper and type, ink and fiber, crushed together under intense pressure.

The wooden frame groaned, but Gutenberg did not stop.

He pulled the lever all the way down as though wringing out his own soul.

A perfect impression.

Gutenberg released the lever with a rough breath.

Without even wiping the sweat from his brow, he pushed the lever the other way and raised the platen.

Screeeak...

Carefully, he pulled the bed back out.

Then he opened the cover.

Sssrk.

The faint friction of paper separating from the type plate cut through the silence.

Gutenberg carefully lifted the freshly printed sheet.

His fingertips trembled slightly, but the gesture with which he offered it to me was utterly respectful.

"The first reproduced Word of Truth, Your Majesty."

I accepted the paper.

The ink had not yet dried, and the smell of oil was strong, but it smelled sweeter to me than any perfume.

It was the scent of revolution.

Black letters stood clear and sharp on the white paper, aligned in orderly rows and columns.

There was none of the crooked handwriting or smeared ink unique to manuscripts copied by hand.

Strokes sharp as if cut with a blade.

Mechanical uniformity that allowed no error.

As if possessed, I looked down at the sentence printed on the paper.

There, the opening verse of the Gospel of John, printed in Czech, was stamped onto the page as though carved in steel.

[Na počátku bylo Slovo, a to Slovo bylo u Boha, a to Slovo byl Bůh.]

(In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.)

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