Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 33: Official Rhetoric
“The Book of Aery?!”
Marlon forced an expression of astonishment, his brows lifting and his lips parting as if he had been caught off guard. Truth be told, it was more performance than sincerity—an effort to match the expectations of the “big man” standing before him.
Yet even as he acted, Marlon could not deny to himself that he was genuinely surprised. The Secretary of State, Von Newvently, was not a man easily underestimated, but still—it was astounding. In the span of barely a day, he had reached into the chaos of the slums, a district torn apart by rioters and looters, and retrieved The Book of Aery—a volume said to be worth one hundred thousand lant. That was no ordinary feat, not something even a government could manage without great effort.
“Yes,” the Secretary intoned warmly, his eyes crinkling with a smile that could disarm even the sharpest critic. “Our little Marlon, this Book of Aery is yours. It belongs to you.”
Marlon’s feigned shock seemed to satisfy him. His kindly smile deepened, his voice softened, and the way he repeated that affectionate phrase—our little Marlon—carried a deliberate intimacy.
“Remember this well,” Von Newvently declared, raising his voice so that all within earshot could hear. His tone carried the weight of righteousness, like the voice of justice itself. “Our nation will never allow a citizen who has served the country to suffer losses he should not bear! Therefore…”
He stepped forward quickly, the hem of his cloak brushing across the ground until he stood directly before the young writer. His voice thundered with solemnity:
“Therefore, our little hero—this book must return to your hands. It is not merely appropriate; it is necessary.”
Marlon hesitated, searching for the right words, when another figure hurriedly emerged from behind. It was Mayor Kachibu of White Sand City, his face pale with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, as though he had slept not a wink since the uprising.
“Marlon Lister !” the mayor cried, his voice hoarse yet firm. “On behalf of all three hundred and sixty thousand citizens of White Sand, I thank you for the great sacrifice you made in last night’s unrest—that shameful turmoil which nearly brought dishonor to our proud city!”
He began with praise, but his speech swelled like a tide. Raising his hand dramatically, he projected his words so that every reporter and official present could hear:
“Therefore, with the joint proposal of Secretary Newvently and myself as mayor, the ruling council of White Sand voted unanimously to award you the highest honor of our citizens—the Golden White Sand Medal, adorned with the Gemstone Oak Leaf!”
As he spoke, more than a dozen reporters busily scribbled every word. Among them were not only writers but even illustrators, their pencils flying across paper. In swift strokes, they captured the moment—the Secretary of State, the weary but resolute mayor, and in between them, the young prodigy, the boy writer they all now called our little Marlon. On the artist’s page, radiant colors would later bring life to the scene, immortalizing it as a tableau of harmony between the people and their leaders.
“And more!” the mayor declared, his voice swelling with pride. “The council has resolved to erect, in the great square before City Hall, a full bronze statue in your likeness, Marlon Lister , so that future generations will know the name of our little hero!”
Marlon blinked, his lips twitching. What?! A medal and now a statue? Isn’t this a bit… excessive?
His mind raced, half-amused, half-uneasy. Then, quickly adopting a modest tone, he raised his hands in protest:
“Honorable Secretary, esteemed Mayor, I… I merely did what any good citizen should do. These highest honors belong not to me, but to you. If not for your wise command and steadfast leadership, how could such a vast riot have been quelled in but a single night?”
Flattery had its place. Honors offered by the powerful could not be outright rejected. Marlon, for all his disdain of authority and his rebellious streak, was no fool. To embarrass men like the Secretary of State and the Mayor in public would be nothing short of suicidal.
“Child,” Von Newvently said with a gentle smile, “it is precisely because your deeds are those of a good citizen that I found reason enough, as Minister of Culture, to propose to the council that you be awarded this medal.” His eyes shone with a hint of true emotion as he added, “Your pure and selfless act makes me, an old man, ashamed of my own service.”
“Yes, indeed!” the mayor joined in, seizing the moment. “Tell me, who in this city besides our little Marlon is more worthy of such honor? Unless—” he turned to the gathered crowd with a theatrical flourish, “—unless someone here believes otherwise. Then let him speak now!”
It was mere posturing, a rhetorical gesture. But to everyone’s surprise, a young man in the crowd raised his voice, shouting:
“The mayor is right! Our little Marlon is the best!”
Marlon glanced over and immediately recognized him. That’s… Andrewson, isn’t it? Old Andrew’s son, the lad from the three-hundred-man work crew we organized? The same boy entrusted with a task just last night?
Andrewson’s outcry was the spark. Soon, other voices followed, uneven but insistent, until even the reporters—supposed champions of impartiality—joined in, their words dripping with praise rather than critique.
Marlon tried to decline once more, but the chorus of insistence drowned him out. At last, with feigned reluctance, he bowed his head and accepted. Well, he thought grimly, I’m no saint. I’ve never chased fame or profit, but if they insist on thrusting them into my arms, who am I to refuse?
And so the ceremony continued in predictable fashion.
Together with the orphanage’s headmasters, Secretary Newvently and Mayor Kachibu toured the grounds, speaking kindly with the destitute still sheltering there. They promised—publicly and loudly—that both the nation and the city would soon allocate funds to rebuild homes, restore livelihoods, and compensate the victims. The gathered poor, in turn, voiced their loyalty, pledging unwavering support to the government’s decisions.
The playbook was universal: though the costumes and languages differed from world to world, the structure of “official news” never changed.
There was even a lighthearted interlude. While mingling with the crowd, the officials happened upon Marlon’s young cousin, Anvi, proudly showing off a curious card game he called “Duel of the Nobles.”
When the Secretary of State learned, to his surprise, that the game was Marlon’s invention, he crouched down, listened intently to Anvi’s explanation, and even played two rounds himself. His laughter rang across the courtyard when he triumphed, declaring the game not only entertaining for the masses but also rich with symbolic meaning—the common folk rising to topple corrupt nobility. He proclaimed that it deserved wide distribution.
Later, after the staged displays of kindness had concluded, the Secretary and the Mayor held a closed-door meeting with Marlon in a shabby wooden shack nearby.
Yes—closed door. No journalists allowed. Only three figures: two seasoned statesmen and a boy prodigy.
When they finally emerged, Mayor Kachibu looked utterly transformed—his fatigue vanished, his spirit alight. Secretary Newvently, too, bore a smile of quiet satisfaction.
Marlon, however, wore an expression wholly different: a strange loneliness, a melancholy calm that seemed to belong not to a boy but to a master swordsman who had already bested the world and found no worthy rivals left.
“Marlon, my friend!” cried the Master Druid, unable to contain his curiosity. “What did you speak of with those great men?”
“Nothing much,” Marlon replied with an easy shrug. “I simply shared with them two little tales recorded in The Book of Aery. Perhaps those stories gave them some inspiration.”
And indeed, it was as simple as that. At first, the officials had only wanted Marlon—already hailed as White Sand’s brightest young author and soon-to-be best-seller—to write flattering essays praising their leadership.
But Marlon had steered the conversation elsewhere. With calm resolve, he pressed them to act against the cult of demon-worshippers festering nearby. To his surprise, the mayor agreed without hesitation, issuing orders at once through a communication crystal.
He had even learned that high priests, capable of raising the dead, had already been summoned to restore several prominent citizens killed in the riots.
So, Marlon told his stories—fables from his world. He recounted Pointing at a Deer, Calling it a Horse and Crossing the Sea Under Heaven’s Nose. He even tossed in a few notions like “expanding employment,” “attracting investment,” and—most crucially—“maintaining stability.”
Ah, yes. In moments like this, Marlon thought with quiet amusement, having an entire world’s worth of knowledge—and being able to recite the Xinhua Dictionary of Idioms from memory—was invaluable indeed.