"Latveria is the experimental ground for the ideal state. I admit many will die in the process, but even so, I will not regret it. I will pay what I must pay, and the Latverians will pay what they must pay. The weak have no ability to win their own future, so I will mold them into what they need to be."
Solomon stated plainly what he was doing, sounding cold-blooded and merciless. But young Lorna was already used to his thinking and raised no objection. Head bowed, he slowly flipped through a book he had read many times before. Unlike collectors who handled such works with extreme care, Solomon was far more relaxed—he didn't even bother wearing gloves as he turned the pages of this 1511 Venetian Latin illustrated edition of De Architectura. Athena had assigned him this title when he was thirteen, and he had consulted it repeatedly while designing both this manor and the Immortal City's fortifications and workplaces, adapting its principles to suit his own circumstances and needs.
"Next, go read that one," he said. "After The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, you'll also need to read Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right, On the Jewish Question, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, and Capital, Volume I. That's your reading list for the week—plus the essays to match." Solomon didn't look at Lorna's near-teary face; he knew that if he did, he'd soften and end up agreeing to her bargaining. "Lady Minerva has been far too indulgent with you. Here, you won't get the same treatment. Even if I go to the Immortal City, Bayonetta and Jeanne will supervise your reading."
"I don't like them."
The magus shook his head. Feeling his collar a bit too tight, he slid a finger under his tie to loosen it slightly.
"That's not my concern." He pulled a silver case from the drawer, packed with hand-rolled cigarettes. Lighting one, he took a deep drag, the act suiting the black gangster-style suit perfectly—especially with his rings and that air of utter nonchalance. Lorna frowned immediately, recognizing the test for what it was: a way to see if she'd truly quit, since Solomon had no actual craving for nicotine and would not smoke otherwise.
Solomon looked up and winked at her. "That's your problem to solve—yours alone. I have other matters. Now, go to the liquor cabinet and pour a glass of whiskey for both of us. Not too much. And don't tell anyone."
The task of reshaping the Latverians had been handed to the Immortal City's propaganda teams. Alongside Wakandan engineering equipment, they had come into Latveria's snowy mountains and forests, broadcasting the Unified Truth over television to young guerrilla recruits. At first, this work was extremely difficult—Latveria was steeped in superstition, its nobles having long relied on religion to keep commoners obedient. Even among the guerrillas resisting the local corporations and consortia, religious superstition persisted. But after the battle a few days ago that destroyed a fuel depot, things suddenly became much easier. Latveria's supreme military commander, Victor von Doom, even ordered that every unit must undergo cultural education and ideological unification.
"So this is the 'Unified Truth' you preach?"
"Yes, that's right. And it was this Truth that saved you from the gallows, Audra." The middle-aged man in charge of instruction and education sighed. Compared to teaching poorly educated and sometimes superstitious soldiers, the blonde woman before him was harder to handle. Flipping idly through the fine-print Immortal City–produced book, her face radiated disdain—even though the ideas inside had spared her life, she seemed eager to pick them apart, as if compelled by some political science student's instinct.
"Barbaric," she muttered under her breath. "Arbitrary vigilante justice, violating human rights—and the death penalty is itself an affront to human rights."
The man dragged over an empty ammunition crate and sat across from her. The tent's furnishings were simple but neat, with a soldier's crisp orderliness. The smell of gun oil clung to his tactical gear, and a pistol sat holstered at his waist. "Audra, how tall are you?"
Trying to hide a smirk, she answered offhandedly, "One seventy-eight. Why?"
"Do you know the average height for women in Latveria?" He leaned forward, his large frame exuding oppressive weight. "One fifty-five. Many are malnourished, skin and bones, mothers without milk to feed their children. You, on the other hand—slender, well-proportioned, with specialized body management courses to make sure you never eat so much as to spoil your looks. I've seen horrors in the Middle East beyond imagination, and I've pushed innocent people into the abyss myself. That's why, when I met my Lord, I chose to atone in this way. And you, Audra? While you gnaw on the flesh of the poor and still complain about getting fat—how will you atone?"
The smile drained from Audra's face, anger flushing her cheeks. "So you want to humiliate me? Is that all I am to you, George? I've never whipped them! I've never oppressed them!"
"That's why you're still here, and not drying on a noose. Yes, I mean to humiliate you. You've never seen starving people outside the castle walls eating human flesh. The worst things you've known are failing an exam, falling out with a friend, or finding out your boyfriend was a scoundrel—petty woes steeped in affectation. I know you look down on the guerrillas for being filthy and poor, but understand—they are that way because of you. The blood and sweat stolen from them built the life you've enjoyed. You and your family owe them a blood debt. And the book in your hands teaches their children how to demand payment. Fortunately, my Lord is a man of reason who believes in the necessity of order—that's why you're not on the gallows."
"I want to… Take me back. My family will pay a ransom."
"I don't care where you think you're going, Audra—you cannot leave here. Step one foot beyond the camp, and the sentries will shoot you on sight. Don't think we can't track you—no matter where in the world you run, the implant in your body will give us your location." The propagandist's voice was flat. "And besides, we don't lack money—we want your repentance. Pick up a hoe and farm, or wash the guerrillas' clothes. That's your work now. Your family will face their own punishment—labor or death—depending on the weight of their past crimes."
"I'll go on a hunger strike!" For a hothouse flower like her, this was the fiercest form of protest she could muster. To George, whose face lit up with the devotion of a martyr whenever he spoke of his Lord, it was merely a sign of her madness.
"Then we'll let you starve in comfort," George said calmly. "Everything from Western society is useless in Latveria. My Lord intends to forge this country into steel, so we will not waste much sympathy on you. Since you choose hunger, we'll help you take responsibility for it—ensuring you don't get a single bite. Believe me, we can do it."
"You'd really lay hands on a good person?" Audra leapt from the tent's only chair. "Where's your humanity?!"
"This isn't about goodness—it's about guilt. Once you've paid your debt, you'll understand my Lord's regard for humanity, though not in the way you imagine." George rose too, limping toward the tent's flap. "Remember—you have one day to think. I advise you to study The Unified Truth and grasp even a fraction of my Lord's ambition. Understand why we prize collective freedom over individual freedom—and you might become a better person."
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
Every 100 Power Stones = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.
Every 5 reviews = 1 extra chapter on Saturday.