A book.
It was a book.
It was always books that connected the will.
Throughout history, many tyrants have tried to destroy books. There are even words called vibrio coast, referring to burning books.
But none have succeeded.
Books were burnt, turned into ash, fell apart, but did not disappear.
Someone kept it in his bosom and saved it from the fire.
Someone buried it in the soil of their garden, thus avoiding tyrant's eyes.
Someone hid it in a place they will forget, only to take it out after the fire is extinguished.
Book has always been there with the brave and passionate rebel that fought the tyrant.
Even today, books are still fighting. It continues to fight the greatest and strongest tyrants that began with the birth of history or with the birth of books.
Time is the name of the ruthless and hard-working tyrant who constantly watches over books and constantly destroys them.
Yes, books are still fighting to not be destroyed by the atrocities of time.
It was only yesterday that I decided to take part in this magnificent, noble, gorgeous, noisy yet serene, and above all exciting battle.
My name is ash.
I am a eight-year-old boy who seems to have the memory of my previous life.
"Please let me read a book!"
I opened the door to the church and confided my desire.
There is no reply. The church is lined with poor chairs, and only the dust greets me. Again, priest Folke seems to be withdrawing into his private room in the back. I can't blame him. Originally, the church is not only a religious place that holds festivals, but also an educational place to conduct classes for the village. Therefore, you can study in the church. The poor chairs are for ceremonial occasions and for the villagers to find time to come and study.
However, the place where I was born is without doubt a rural area.
There is no family register, but I know that there are only a hundred villagers. Hence, is there a free person in such a small village?
The civilization of this village is similar to the dark ages of the Middle Ages. There is no internal combustion engine. Everything is done through human power. Horsepower was there before, but there is none now. The only farming horse in the village died two years ago and it became food after having a funeral in this church.
That was a BBQ party called Funeral.
I want to eat again. I'm hungry.
... (Read more at https://silver-slime.blogspot.com/)
Let's go back to the problem. Since there are no such things as farming tractors, no farming horses or cows, no chemical fertilizer, there are doubts whether there are such things as a slacker in this village.
Needless to say. There are no slackers. Everyone here is working too much.
I am eight years old and have become one of the villager's workforce. It's without saying there is no difficult work for a child of my age, but we still have work, such as pulling out weeds and removing stones in the fields, collecting wild plants in the shallow forest, and fishing in the river.
In my past life, I remember that the concept of young boys and young girls are born under a rich social system and part of modern invention. In other words, the concept of boys and girls is between infants (non-labor) and adults (labor) which "can work but choose to not work". In this village, there is no such concept. Boys and girls are seen as half workforce than adults. As a result, there is currently no one in the village for priest Folke to teach, who has been assigned to this church.
Exceptionally, the village mayor's home is supposed to make educational time for children. It's understandable. It is the family of the mayor who will be handling tax and others. If their family can not read and write, the whole village will be in trouble. Well, in fact, this is also becoming famous and accepted. The idea is that the priest should be present and advised when necessary.
One year after the appointment of Priest Folke, he has been educated at zero villager.
Or, should I say that it was zero?
Because there is one person asking for a lesson.
"Folke priest, Folke priest! It's Ash from David's house! There is no reply so excuse me for coming in!"
After politely knocking on the door of the private room where the priest lives, in the back of the cathedral where the statue and the chair are placed, I rudely pushed the door with burning desire. There is a small, undersized room in it. In the room, a man lying down on a rattling desk scraping his long hair is looking at me.
"What, it's David's br―――son."
“Yes, this brat is Ash from David's house! You have a terrible face, Priest Folke!”
The man has a terrible bear under his eyes, perhaps he has been staying up all night. He is very thin and his appearance is dirty. He doesn't look like a priest. Secretly in the village, we refer to him as a dead priest. He likely appears in every normal eight-year-old dream. The dead priest frowns as if he received damage from listening to my voice full of vitality.
"What do you want? Also, speak quietly. My head hurt."
"I'm sorry, I'm a little overwhelmed. I'd like to read a book."
"A book?"
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