The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 83

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 83: The Prague Newspaper

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On the outskirts of the Sternberg industrial complex.

Dull pounding rang endlessly from a red-brick building beside the Sázava River.

Thump, thump, thump-

A steady vibration, like the heartbeat of a giant.

Oswald von Wolkenstein, newly appointed Director of the Royal Press Bureau, frowned the moment he entered. A sharp, acrid smell stung his nose.

It was an unfamiliar mixture of oil, iron, and the damp scent of alcohol.

"...This is a printing house?"

There was none of the quiet of a monastery, the scratch of quills, or the solemn atmosphere of scribes lost in contemplation.

Instead, burly men covered in black grease sweated as they turned metal blocks and tightened screws.

"Hey! The ink is too thin! How many times do I have to tell you? It'll seep into every gap between the movable type!"

A booming shout erupted from the center of the workshop.

It came from Johannes Gutenberg, a young metalworker in a leather apron, his arms stained black with ink.

Oswald covered his nose with his silk sleeve and approached him.

"You there. Are you the factory manager?"

"Hm?"

Gutenberg turned sharply. He gave Oswald's fine silk clothes a careless once-over, then snorted.

"Not a factory manager. I'm the head of the printing house. And as you can see, I'm busy enough already, so I'll decline a leisurely tour from some noble lord."

"Well, what a rude fellow. Listen here."

Oswald struck the floor with his cane.

"I am the Director of the Royal Press Bureau, appointed by His Majesty. I've come to inspect the machine that will print my writing."

"Director of the Press Bureau?"

Gutenberg rubbed his chin with an ink-stained hand.

"Ah, you're the noble writer His Majesty mentioned."

"W-Writer...?"

Oswald's brow twitched.

This man dared treat him, an influential nobleman of Tyrol and poet of the Empire, like some third-rate scribe who wrote love letters for market folk.

Gutenberg paid him no mind and pointed to a metal plate on the workbench.

"You came at the right time. I was just wondering how to arrange the manuscript you sent. Come take a look yourself."

Suppressing his irritation, Oswald stepped closer to the machine. Then his eyes widened.

A typesetting frame packed tightly with thousands of lead letters.

Every letter was sharp and smooth, as though carved by a jeweler.

The machine before him was the very height of precision.

"You're saying... all of these are letters?"

"An alloy of lead, tin, and antimony. His Majesty determined the proportions. With the oil-based ink His Majesty bestowed upon us, the print won't blur even after thousands of copies."

Gutenberg grabbed the handle of the enormous press.

"Watch. Look at that mechanical clarity."

The heavy screw turned, and the pressure plate came down hard on the paper.

Screeech, thump!

A moment later, the press rose again.

Gutenberg carefully lifted the edge of the paper with tongs.

Rustle-

Oswald held his breath.

The manuscript he had written through the night was printed on the page.

Yet it was no longer a worthless scrawl dashed off with a quill.

Perfectly straight lines. Even spacing, as though measured with a ruler.

Rows of crisp letters formed by black ink sinking deep into the paper.

Rather than handwriting, it looked like commandments carved into stone by God himself, majestic and decisive, like a truth no one could deny.

"I-Is this truly possible?"

Oswald had held a pen his entire life.

That was why he understood better than anyone the suffering involved in writing.

The tedious, painful labor of ink bleeding across the page, aching wrists, and scraping clean an entire sheet of parchment because of a single mistake.

And yet... with no more than a turn of the wrist, such beautiful letters could be stamped onto paper?

Gutenberg wiped the tip of his nose.

"What do you think? What if this machine poured out a thousand sheets a day containing the sentences you wrote?"

Oswald accepted the paper with trembling hands.

The smell of fresh ink still stung his nose, but this time it did not disgust him.

It seemed more stimulating and sweet than the finest perfume.

"Beautiful..."

He murmured as though possessed.

"I've seen countless manuscripts in my life, but never letters this clear and powerful. It's as though... the voice of God has been engraved upon paper."

Oswald looked at Gutenberg.

The contempt from before had vanished, replaced by a strange sense of kinship between artists who recognized one another.

"You're quite capable. I thought you were nothing but an oil-stained mechanic."

"I was surprised too. I thought a nobleman's writing would be nothing but dull praise, but your manuscript has some real bite to it."

The two men met each other's gaze.

One wove the soul of writing.

The other cast its body.

It was the moment a monster called the press was born within Bohemia's red bricks.

* * *

A few days later, Old Town Square in Prague.

"Newspapers! Newspapers issued by the Royal Press Bureau!"

Jingle, jingle-

Boys in flat caps and gray tunics began running through the square, ringing cheerful bells. Under their arms were thick bundles of paper that still smelled of ink.

Hans, the butcher, frowned as he hung a pig's hind leg from a hook.

"Newspapers? What's all the fuss about?"

"They've got all the news of the world! What that bastard Emperor has been doing in Hungary, what schemes those pigs in the papacy are plotting, all for one groschen!"

Hans's ears perked up. News about the Emperor?

He wiped his bloody hands roughly on his apron and beckoned to an approaching boy.

"Hey, brat. What nonsense are you shouting about this early in the morning? What did the Emperor do?"

The boy grinned and stepped closer.

"Curious, aren't you? Do you know what Emperor Sigismund finally sold after Venetian merchants came demanding payment for his debts?"

"What did he sell?"

"One groschen if you want to know!"

Hans searched his pocket with an incredulous look and tossed him a silver coin.

"Here. If it isn't interesting, I'll kick your backside with a pig bone."

The boy neatly caught the coin, pulled a sheet from the bundle under his arm, and handed it over.

Hans accepted it without much thought, then froze.

"...Damn it. The black marks are writing, and the white part is paper. How's an illiterate man like me supposed to read this?"

The boy's eyes sparkled as he held out his palm again.

"Sir, you can't read?"

"That's right, you little pest. A man who cuts meat only needs to be good at cutting meat."

"Then give me one more groschen. I'll read it to you."

Hans gave a disbelieving laugh.

"Look at this cheeky brat. You? You can read all that complicated writing with that little head of yours?"

"Of course! I attend the Royal Primary School, the school His Majesty founded! If you don't believe me, listen!"

At the boy's confident cry, a blacksmith, a bakery owner, and elderly shoppers nearby gathered around with interest.

"All right, read it. Let's see if it's true."

"They say children learn letters in school these days. I suppose it's true after all."

The boy cleared his throat, spread the newspaper wide, and began reading in a clear voice.

"First issue of the Prague Times, first report! Sigismund, disgrace of the Empire, pawns even his crown!"

The opening sentence was provocative enough. The noise of the square died down at once.

"According to reports, Emperor Sigismund could not repay the war funds he borrowed from Venetian merchants and has pawned the Hungarian royal treasure, the Crown of Saint Stephen! The man calling himself Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire was beaten black and blue by His Majesty our King, and now he's so broke that he's sold even his crown!"

The people's mouths fell open.

"My God, he pawned his crown? Is he an Emperor or a shopkeeper?"

"That man calls himself lord of an empire?"

The boy, encouraged by the crowd's reaction, raised his voice further.

"Next report! The Roman Papacy builds luxurious palaces for cardinals with profits from selling indulgences! It has been revealed that donations made by faithful believers are not being used to help the poor, but to fill the bellies of priests!"

Murmur, murmur-

The mood in the square boiled over in an instant.

"They built palaces with our money? What a pack of thieves!"

"So there was a reason they burned Master Jan Hus!"

"Those bastards claim to be Christ's representatives? Even a passing dog would laugh!"

The Emperor was a debtor trembling because he had no money.

The papacy sold God's name for profit.

When the shameful truths of those in power, once no more than vague rumors, were fixed in print and read aloud, the result was more than satisfying. It brought a kind of exhilaration.

The bare faces of people too lofty to even look upon were displayed in all their ugliness on a sheet of paper costing one groschen.

As the atmosphere grew heated, the boy cleverly changed the subject.

"All right, enough of the infuriating news. Look at page three! There's news that will help us too!"

He flipped the newspaper over.

"His Majesty's grace! Miracle fertilizer distributed at once! If you use the special fertilizer His Majesty developed himself, your wheat will grow twice as tall! And His Majesty has promised once again this year to stabilize grain prices, declaring, 'My people will not go hungry!'"

Cheers burst from the crowd.

"The Emperor sells his crown, and His Majesty makes fertilizer?"

"That's the difference, all right. Who cares if the Pope calls him a heretic? The best king is the one who makes sure we don't starve."

The boy casually folded the newspaper and shouted.

"That's all you get for free! Buy a newspaper if you want more! One groschen! Two groschen with the reading fee included!"

"Here! Give me one too!"

"Me too! Here's two groschen! Read it already!"

Before long, the boy's pockets were bulging with coins.

People took their newspapers, snickered as they cursed the Emperor, and admired the King's policies with serious expressions.

Then someone in the crowd asked suspiciously.

"Wait, but is all this true? Isn't it just made-up nonsense? No matter how bad things are, would the Emperor really sell his crown?"

Someone beside them clicked their tongue and snapped back.

"You ignorant fool! Can't you see what's printed at the top? That's the royal coat of arms! His Majesty himself sealed this document. Do you think they'd write lies on it?"

"Ah, r-right. His Majesty guaranteed it."

Authority was frightening.

Rumors passed from mouth to mouth were doubted, but a sheet of paper printed in neat letters and marked with the King's seal carried the authority of truth itself.

Hans stared blankly at the newspaper he had bought.

At first, he had thought it was no more than a scrap of paper he might use to wrap meat.

Now it was information for tomorrow's business, and the finest topic to laugh over and gossip about with his neighbors.

"Well... it's far too good to use for wiping up blood from meat."

Hans carefully folded the newspaper and tucked it deep inside his clothes.

All across the square, people gathered in small groups, passed newspapers around, snickered, cursed, and marveled.

There was a sharpness in their eyes that had not been there before.

* * *

At the same time, at Prague's high-end restaurant, the Golden Goose.

Unlike the marketplace frequented by commoners, it was a social gathering place where merchant guild leaders and lesser nobles in silk clothes quietly exchanged information.

But today, instead of fine wine, the tables held the same newspapers boys had been handing out in the market.

Hynek Krušina of Lichtenburg, a young nobleman dressed in a silk doublet, set down his teacup and frowned.

He, too, held a newspaper that smelled of ink.

"...Vulgar."

He irritably threw the paper onto the table.

A middle-aged gentleman seated opposite him asked with a wry smile.

"What's wrong, Sir Krušina? I found it quite entertaining. Sir Oswald's writing fairly danced across the page."

"Entertaining? You find this entertaining, Baron?"

Krušina pointed toward the square outside the window with disgust.

"Look at them. Butchers, porters, and gamblers are gathered there, laughing at the Emperor and Pope as though they're tavern gossip. Lowly people who cannot even read are daring to discuss politics!"

Krušina bit his lip.

"Information is power. And order is preserved only when power belongs to a select few. Yet His Majesty... is scattering this precious paper around with nothing more than advice on how to grow wheat well. Does that make any sense?"

He picked up the newspaper again. His jealous gaze carefully scanned every article.

"Besides, the content is laughably shallow. There isn't a single piece of important information, such as the Hungarian army's precise troop movements or the original text of an Imperial Diet decree. It's nothing but low-grade agitation on the level of saying the Emperor took a shit."

He felt thirsty.

Where was the refined information for true intellectuals and true rulers?

Was there no real newspaper containing sharp analysis and insight that could pierce through the current situation, rather than this cheap leaflet?

"This is... too good even to use as toilet paper. The paper quality is simply too fine."

Krušina clicked his tongue and tried to crumple the newspaper.

But he could not bring himself to do it. The texture of the paper was too alluring.

Then the middle-aged baron quietly set down his cup.

"Sir Krušina. Look at the back."

"The back?"

Krušina turned the newspaper over in confusion.

There was a short notice printed there.

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