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Chapter 574: The Expansion of Education

Summer announced itself with rain.

It hammered the windows and turned the city beyond to silhouette — mountain ridges and rooflines dissolved into the grey-white blur of the downpour, recognizable only by mass and shadow. Roland stood at the French window and watched it come down, and noticed that the chorus from The City of Love was still running in the back of his skull three days after the premiere.

He hadn’t expected it to land that hard. Echo’s ability during the performance had transformed a competent piece of propaganda theater into something else entirely — the square had gone completely still at the end, five thousand people breathing together in the dark, and even Roland, who had seen enough manipulative cinema to be vaccinated against it, had felt something move in his chest that he couldn’t quite account for.

That’s the resonance. That’s what it actually does.

He filed it carefully: a weapon, underestimated, that cost nothing to manufacture beyond one trained performer and good material. The machines would not tire. The guns would not grieve. But men would — in the long stretch of an enduring war, when the mathematics of survival pressed down day after day, morale was exactly as real and exactly as critical as ammunition. And ammunition you could drop from the sky; morale required a different supply chain.

History had tried everything: hot food, ice cream airlifts, political officers, chaplains. None of those were immediately available to him. Echo was.

The office door opened. Barov entered with his customary folder pressed under one arm, his expression the particular mix of satisfaction and self-importance that meant good numbers.

“Your Majesty. The house purchase statistics from the past three days.”

Roland returned to the desk. Barov unfolded the list on the mahogany surface.

The numbers were good — notably good. Since the premiere, applications for housing rental and purchase had spiked sharply at the City Hall. Marriage registrations had also climbed. Roland read the figures twice and let the pattern settle.

The City of Love had not been merely entertainment. It had done exactly what he designed it to do: linked the concept of belonging to the concrete act of owning property. He had not announced this linkage. He had let the audience draw the conclusion themselves, through watching characters who were not nobles, not scholars — ordinary people — find stability and each other within a single city. The lesson embedded itself without stating itself, which was the only way lessons lasted.

You are one of us if you have a house here.

Crass, if said aloud. Undeniable, if arrived at independently. The difference between those two phrasings was the entire mechanism of culture.

He thought about the diamond advertising he dimly remembered from his previous life — four words that had constructed an entire market out of nothing, made a moderately rare mineral the mandatory centerpiece of a ceremony, and persisted for generations. Compared to manufactured sentiment about carbon crystalline structure, attaching belonging to housing was at least useful.

Of course, the housing price had to stay within reach of the imagination. Twenty years of labor for a single fifteen-square-meter room was not comfortable to contemplate, and he could already hear what the people of his original era would call him for it. But the target had to be credible — reachable by someone willing to climb from temporary work to better-skilled trades. The promise was not easy. The promise was possible.

“Well done.” He rolled up the list. “Continue expanding refugee recruitment. Population is the base. Other projects can wait.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Barov’s mustache lifted at the corners.

“And send Scroll up. I have something to discuss with her.”


Scroll arrived in her usual working clothes — black skirt, white blouse, the whole effect precise without being formal, the pen still tucked behind one ear from whatever she’d been doing before the summons.

“Your Majesty.”

“The education scope.” Roland poured tea. “I want to extend it to the new refugees — the people who arrived in the most recent migration waves, not just the registered citizens.”

She took the cup, considered, and set it down. “That’s not currently tenable. The refugee intake is too large. We’d need two to three times our current teaching staff, plus new classroom space. Even if we could build it, we couldn’t staff it fast enough.”

“I have a method that reduces the pressure on teachers considerably.” He paused. “Let them study themselves.”

“Self-study?”

“One public lecture per week — basic reading and writing only. The rest of the time, they work through illustrated booklets with pronunciation guides at their own pace. No tests, no mandatory requirements, no attendance tracking. Purely voluntary.”

Scroll ran her fingers through her damp hair — rain had caught her somewhere between buildings. Her expression was the careful skepticism of someone who had managed actual classrooms. “Without supervision, nine out of ten will do nothing with it.”

“That’s fine,” Roland said. “I’m not trying to educate nine out of ten. I’m trying to give one out of ten somewhere to go.”

The mechanism was simple and he’d seen it work in his previous life: take any large population under economic pressure and sort by ambition. Most people would accept the conditions they were in. A meaningful minority would not. Those people needed a path — something to do in the evenings besides resignation. If you closed that path, the ambition curdled. If you opened it, even in modest form, it produced exactly the kind of upward movement that a growing city required.

And the economic signal would do the rest. More and more positions would require literacy. Those positions paid better. The people most desperate to stop being handymen would notice, because people who are desperate pay very close attention to price signals.

He didn’t need to explain any of this. It would happen.

“Make sure the booklets are printed and distributed to the temporary workers’ quarters by the end of next week,” he said. “I’ll work out the lecture schedule with you.”

Scroll picked up her tea. She seemed to be running the numbers in her head — not doubting him exactly, but calculating how to execute it with the staff she had.

“It’ll be thin coverage,” she said at last.

“That’s all right. Thin coverage is coverage.” He leaned back. “The people who need it most will find a way to use it.”

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