The next morning.
Kaito was jolted awake by a frantic staccato of Soul Link signals. He rubbed his skull, his "Fantasy Ti" cut short by a literal bombardnt of chaotic data coming from the Ministry of Literature.
"Master! It's a riot!"
"The plaza is packed with people!"
"They're demanding the next volu!"
"Soone just offered a full gold crown for the next page!"
"What do we do?!"
Learning this, Kaito's Soul Fire pulsed with a violent, triumphant intensity.
Checkmate.
He perford a perfect leap out of his coffin. Via the Soul Link, he imdiately transmitted the text of the next hundred chapters—archived from his mories of late-night reading—directly into the minds of the Skele-Printers.
"Print it! All of it!"
"Price: Ten copper coins per volu!"
"Release schedule: One volu per day, ten chapters each!"
"And if anyone tries to skip the queue, have the Punishnt Legion 'escort' them to the pits!"
The command was absolute.
The skeletons of the Ministry of Literature sprang into a frenzy. The Evernight Press roared to life, sheets of parchnt whistling through the gears as the undead worked with chanical precision to bind the booklets. It was pure, unadulterated industrial chaos, but the efficiency was terrifying.
In less than two hours, the first batch of "Volu 2" hit the stalls in the plaza. The Ghoul clerk stood atop the stage, his voice amplified by a gaphone.
"THE SEQUEL HAS ARRIVED!"
"TEN COPPERS PER VOLU!"
"LIMIT ONE PER CUSTOR!"
The words acted as a starter pistol. The plaza exploded into a deafening roar of cheers.
"CHARGE!"
"TAKE MY COIN! GIVE TEN!"
"GET OUT OF THE WAY! I WAS HERE SINCE DAWN!"
The crowd surged forward like a broken dam. It looked less like a book sale and more like a high-stakes robbery. The Ghoul clerk was forced back by the sheer pressure of humanity, and it was only the tily intervention of the Skeleton Knights—who leveled their spears to create a barrier—that prevented a total stampede.
The queue stretched into a massive dragon that coiled around the plaza and snaked down the main thoroughfare.
The Dwarven miner was near the front. He hadn't slept a wink, having spent the night huddled on the stones to ensure he was the first to get his "fix." When the pamphlet was finally pressed into his grimy hands, his entire fra shook with adrenaline.
He didn't even wait to get ho. He flipped to page one.
His stride slowed.
Then it stopped.
Finally, he simply slumped against a wall and began to read right there.
All around the plaza, a bizarre tableau erged: hundreds of people—Dwarves, Humans, Orcs—huddled over thin pamphlets. One man would suddenly burst into a fit of wheezing laughter. Another would punch the air in excitent during a "Hype" mont. Others, reaching the final page, would stare into the void with a look of profound, post-binge emptiness.
The miner finished the last sentence and let out a long, shuddering breath. He carefully tucked the booklet into his tunic as if it were a holy relic. He looked toward the stage and shouted at the Ghoul:
"WILL THERE BE MORE TOMORROW?!"
The Ghoul blinked, then nodded. "YES! DAILY RELEASES!"
A jagged grin split the miner's face. "Then I'll be back!"
He marched away, his step lighter than air.
On the opposite side of the plaza, a wandering Elf minstrel nad Elia clutched the pamphlet, her eyes shimring with a strange, analytical light.
She had traveled to every corner of the continent. She had heard the grand epics of kings and the tragic ballads of fallen heroes. But she had never encountered a story like this. There were no "Sacred Saints." No "Flawless Knights." There was only a relatable loser and a Goddess who was a bigger liability than a mabeast.
Every action, every failure, felt... real. The irony, the helplessness, and the sheer grit required to survive a world that didn't care about you—it hit her like a physical blow.
Elia closed the booklet and took a deep breath. She looked toward the building marked Imperial Ministry of Literature. Her heart began to drum against her ribs.
I could write a story like this, she realized.
She gripped her pamphlet tight. "I'm going in."
Elia set her jaw and began to walk toward the ministry.
The Imperial Ministry of Literature.
Kaito sat in his office, listening to the Skele-Minister's report on the day's intake.
"Master, we have moved thirty thousand and two hundred copies today."
"Gross revenue: 302,000 coppers."
"Per your directive, after deducting material costs, the total profit has been allocated to the Ministry's expansion fund."
Kaito nodded, satisfied. Three hundred thousand coppers was thirty gold crowns. In a single day.
And that was just the beginning. Once the "plot-hooks" settled in and the readers beca well and truly addicted, the numbers would go vertical.
"Excellent."
Just as Kaito was about to issue the next directive, a knock thudded against the door. "Enter."
The door swung open, and Elia stepped inside. She wore an exquisite traveler's robe, an Elven harp slung across her back. She looked nervous, but her gaze held the sharp glint of a creator.
"Greetings. My na is Elia. I wish to enlist in the Ministry of Literature."
Kaito leaned back, scanning the Elf with interest. "You want to write?"
Elia nodded vigorously. "I have read the publication you issued. I believe... I believe I have a story that can match its intensity."
Kaito crossed his bony fingers. "And what is your tale about?"
Elia took a breath. "I want to write of the Elves. A wandering minstrel who leaves the safety of the Great Forest to walk the world. She sees the blood, the laughter, the betrayal, and the warmth. Throughout her journey, she seeks a single truth."
"What is Freedom?"
Kaito's Soul Fire flared. Philosophy? In a light novel? That's so high-tier subversion right there.
"And how do you intend to write it?"
Elia's eyes sparkled. "I will write of every soul she encounters. The cody and the tragedy. She will learn that freedom is not an escape from reality, but the ability to choose one's own chains."
Kaito was silent for a long mont. Then, he stood up.
"Very well. I will grant you an opening."
"Write three chapters. Two thousand words each."
"If your 'pacing' and 'hooks' et my approval, we sign a contract."
Elia's eyes went wide. "Truly?"
Kaito nodded. "However, there are terms. Once signed, the Ministry takes a fifty percent cut of all sales. In exchange, we provide the 'Evernight Press' and the distribution network."
"Fifty percent?" Elia blinked. "And... that is all? No ideological control? No noble censorship?"
"None," Kaito replied. "You write your truth. I handle the logistics. We split the gold down the middle. Simple as that."
Elia felt her eyes moisten. She had dealt with countless nobles and rchants who either wanted to twist her words into propaganda or strip her of every copper she earned. This Undead King was offering her the greatest luxury an artist could ask for: autonomy.
She offered a deep, reverent bow. "I accept. Thank you, My Lord."
Kaito waved a hand. "Get to work. Make it good."
As Elia departed, her fists were clenched with a new purpose. I will write the greatest story this continent has ever seen.
Over the following week, the queue outside the Ministry of Literature grew until it rivaled the gacha stall.
There were Elves, Humans, Dwarves—even a particularly literate Orc. They all held thick stacks of manuscript. They were creators drawn to the fla of Kaito's new industry. They wanted their voices heard.
Kaito stood by the window, watching the line snake through the street. His Soul Fire burned with a manic, satisfied heat.
"This is just the prologue," he whispered.
He turned to the Skele-Minister. "From today, all applicants are subject to the standard audit. Three chapters. Two thousand words per chapter."
"Passes get a contract. Failures get a polite rejection."
"Fifty-fifty split. No exceptions."
The Skele-Minister gave a sharp nod. "By your command, Master."
☆☆☆
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