Chapter 362: A Matter of Perspective

When Gawain saw what Hetty was holding, he immediately guessed what it was. Surprise flickered across his face. “Already?”

“A scholar from the capital who specializes in grammar heard about the lord’s plan to publish a ‘newspaper’ and volunteered to help. Mr. Nicholas Egg also got wind of it and crafted metal printing plates so the first issue could come out quickly,” Hetty explained with a smile, handing the sample paper over to Gawain. “Of course, this is just a prototype. For mass production later, we’ll still need to use traditional plate-making techniques—or wait until your new printing press is built.”

Gawain nodded as he took the paper, a flood of emotions stirring within him.

After all this time, he was finally beginning to recreate some of the familiar things from his old world here—whether it was chess, billiards, or now a newspaper. Though these were made to help develop his domain, he couldn’t deny a certain selfish pride in seeing these echoes of his past life gradually take shape in this strange new world. The sense of accomplishment rivaled even the day he first got the magical engine running.

In this world with its bizarre physical laws, how many more things could he recreate that would remind him of home?

The faint scent of ink, tinged with a grassy undertone from the local recipe, drifted into his nostrils. He gently rubbed the paper in his hands: the texture was somewhat rough, the thickness thin. This was “gray pulp paper,” a cheap variety produced using Ansu’s mature papermaking techniques. It was far less expensive than the white frost paper nobles used for official correspondence, made from hemp grass, snakevine, or bark shed by giant trees. Scholars and mages usually reserved this inexpensive paper for their apprentices.

As industrialization in the domain progressed day by day, Gawain replaced traditional manual processes with more efficient industrial cutters, grinders, and mixers. This drove the cost of this already cheap paper down sharply while improving its quality, making it the domain’s standard paper. Because it also held ink well for woodblock printing, it became the perfect medium for the first issue of the Cecil Weekly.

At the top of the paper, large ornate letters spelled out “Cecil Weekly,” with the date and publisher’s name printed in a smaller font beside it—just as Gawain had requested.

The main text began with lengthy praise of the southern mountains and the whitewater river’s waves, followed by poetic odes to clouds and wind. Then came an analysis of wine and an overview of heraldry… Gawain read straight through to the end, where a small lifestyle tip explained how to season steak with wine.

He quietly set the paper down, his expression so serious it startled Hetty. She cautiously asked, “Ancestor… is something wrong?”

“Have you read it?” Gawain lifted his eyelids and looked her in the eye.

“…Yes,” Hetty nodded slightly. “The content is well-researched, with no errors in knowledge or grammar.”

Gawain sighed ever so slightly. He really wanted to say, “It’s nonsense,” but for the sake of his great-granddaughter’s impression, he held back. Instead, he shook his head gently. “It’s useless. It doesn’t meet my requirements at all.”

“Ah?” Hetty was taken aback by such a blunt assessment. “Why…?”

“A newspaper is for the common people. At least, the ‘Cecil Weekly’ I envision is for the common people,” Gawain cut her off. “Its value depends on whether the common folk need it, can understand it, and want to read it. Praising mountains and waves, waxing poetic about clouds and wind, teaching people how to season steak with wine—after printing this, how many of the sixty or seventy thousand people in Cecil’s main city and the Kant region do you think will actually understand it?”

Hetty paused, then immediately grasped the problem. “…I think I understand now.”

“Such ‘high culture’ studies aren’t without value. Someday, when our people have enough leisure and knowledge to appreciate nature’s beauty, and enough food to study wine and steak, these things will matter. But right now, in a newspaper distributed across the entire domain, we don’t need that,” Gawain said, tossing the sample on the table. “I listed the main sections needed in the plan—life tips, news from inside and outside the domain, and so on. But just listing sections isn’t enough. I need to specify exactly what each section should contain… Here’s what we’ll do: find the person editing the paper. I want to speak with him directly.”

Hetty nodded immediately. “Understood.”

Soon, she returned with a gray-haired man dressed in a scholar’s gray robe.

Gawain sized up the volunteer editor from the capital. The man looked to be around fifty, showing signs of nervousness and reverence, but also the confident air typical of a scholar in his field. His gray hair was neatly combed back, and his robe—favored by scholars of this era—was complexly laced. He was slightly stooped, likely from years bent over desks, but still tall—half a head taller than Hetty.

“Greetings, Lord,” the man bowed deeply. “Your heroic deeds echo throughout the kingdom.”

“No need for formalities, Mr. Gawain Orlando,” Gawain said bluntly, having recognized the name from the editor’s signature on the paper. “Do you know why I called you here?”

“Ms. Hetty told me the newspaper I edited didn’t meet your standards,” Gawain replied, trying to stay calm despite his nervousness. “Not because of grammar errors, but because the content was off.”

“I need a publication for the common people,” Gawain said, pointing to the sample. “Here, I want straightforward information about wheat and vegetable price changes—not an aria about the Whitewater River’s history. Here, I want news about the expansion of the new district—not a discussion on how many heraldic variations southern nobles have. And here—people won’t care about how to season steak with an entire bottle of wine. They want to know how to bake bread, harvest wheat, and filter the dregs from their beer. Of course, what you wrote isn’t without value—these things are useful in many fields. But for this newspaper, they’re not needed yet.”

As Gawain outlined what a true popular newspaper should contain, Gawain’s expression grew increasingly complex. Finally, he spoke, barely able to control his tone: “Lord, if I follow your instructions, won’t these words lose all elegance? Won’t the printed pages lose their noble knowledge? Are you asking me to use these papers and words, quill and ink, to write about how peasants pull sweet roots from the ground?”

“If it’s autumn, then yes, that’s exactly what you should write,” Gawain leaned back in his chair. “And a reminder, Mr. Gawain: sweet roots can’t just be pulled out—you have to dig with a spade, or they’ll break underground.”

A faint blush crossed the scholar’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he spread his hands. “With all due respect, Lord, if you want that kind of content, you should hire a farmer or a general laborer to write it…”

“That would definitely have grammar errors,” Gawain said flatly. “Mr. Gawain, it seems you’re not suited for this job. You may leave.”

Gawain’s face twitched slightly. He shifted his feet, hesitating for several seconds before finally bowing deeply. His voice was heavy with regret. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you. That was never my intention.”

After Gawain Orlando left the study, Amber’s figure gradually appeared in the air behind Gawain.

Without turning, Gawain said quietly, “Tell me about this scholar.”

“Member of the Capital’s ‘Grammar Research Society’ and ‘Historical Records Association,’ with notable achievements in literature, history, and heraldry,” Amber reported. “He’s one of the more reputable scholars among this group from the capital. To come south, he gave up promising futures in both societies and a well-paid consulting job. His reasons? A deep curiosity about the Cecil domain’s development—and about you personally. As I mentioned, he studies history.”

Gawain pondered. “…Studies my history?”

“More or less,” Amber smirked. “Everything happening on this land is ‘history repeating itself’ to him—or at least, that’s how he sees it. He’s in his element here, living his dream—except for the stumble with the newspaper.”

Gawain’s mind stirred. If this historian took the current development of the Cecil domain and your post-resurrection actions as reference material for his research, his historical work would be utterly ruined…

He shook his head, brushing away the wild thought, and sighed softly. “He’s useful. It’s not easy for him to come south.”

“Many of the scholars from the capital are like him,” Amber nodded. “Though they’ve integrated into various departments and mostly adapted well, they still don’t quite fit with the ‘new order’ here. Scholars are a special group. Unlike craftsmen or engineers, they have knowledge, mature and stable logic, and often pride themselves on it. Most also possess some knowledge of the supernatural or are low-level supernatural beings themselves—that’s part of their pride.”

“But these knowledgeable people must become an asset to Cecil,” Gawain said calmly.

(End of chapter)