Chapter 16 – The Red (4)

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Sadly, the workers had no time.  

They were not allowed to rest.  

They would head to the factory at 5 a.m., eat their “perfect” liquid or block-shaped food while working, and only get a 30-minute lunch break starting at 12:30 p.m.  

They had to endure this hellish labor for over 16 hours, often until 9 or 11 p.m.  

After finishing work and returning home, the weight of the day’s labor pressed heavily on their bodies.  

Their knuckles were cracked, their backs completely bent, and some even had cataracts forming in their dimming eyes.  

But they couldn’t stop.  

It might seem natural, but with an overflow of people, if the machines in the factory broke down, they had to be fixed.  

Here, the machines were the executives, and the parts inside the machines had to be replaced if they wore out and caused malfunctions.  

In other words, workers were simply replaceable.  

And their homes were always filled with damp air.  

Today, they endured with a glass of alcohol; tomorrow, they endured with a glass of water—that was the Empire.  

 

“Keuk, keuk, even a monarch has to work, right?”  

“Still, I saw it again. You’re much better than those Prussian monarchs.”  

Marx and Engels smiled, spreading their thumbs with both hands as they spoke.  

 

“Is that… a compliment?”  

“Of course! Naturally. How many capitalists do we ever compliment?”  

“Yeah, yeah. Besides that British guy Robert Owen, you’re probably the last one we’d acknowledge.”  

Engels added with a chuckle,  

“Actually, we once thought his ideals were too extreme. We even wrote in the *Communist Manifesto* that he was a utopian socialist.”  

“Ah… I remember. Yes. But why has the evaluation…?”  

“It’s changed. The place we originally lived in was still a place where the masses would rise up, saying, ‘This is bullshit.’”  

He sighed, crossed his arms, and looked out the window.  

“Look over there. The damn smog smells like shit, but the streets are oddly clean. The leaders are open-minded, but strangely, there’s no freedom. The whole country is depressingly gloomy! Where we lived, people dreamed of a bright future, but here, they’re worried about tomorrow!”  

 

“Well…”  

I held back my thoughts about the Empire’s common belief that “everything was invested in technology…” and sighed.  

“…I have nothing to say. Yes, you’re right.”  

 

“See? That’s why we changed our evaluation a bit. Here, even idealism has to be pushed forward to serve as an opiate for the suffering workers. Yes, there needs to be religion, too. Everyone, inside and out, is utterly broken in colorful ways.”  

Engels shook his head.  

 

On the wall, a faint lamp flickered, casting a dark red shadow, and I rubbed the mountain of documents piled on the desk with my fingers.  

Then, Marx clapped his hands and shouted,  

“Now, now! Forget that fake revolutionary bald guy stuck in the corner, and let’s show how theory can become reality. Got it?”  

“Yes!”  

 

The sharp voice of the teacher cut through the air and echoed.  

His words struck my heart like a sharp pickaxe, heavy and intense, as if a hammer was crushing my bones.  

Under the name of communism, it seemed that introducing socialism—which corresponded to “anti” in the Empire, which itself corresponded to “pro”—was the only way forward for the Empire’s future.  

Of course, it wasn’t just about settling for socialism—it had to be proven that it wasn’t just a simple compromise.  

Right?  

How great is socialist theory?  

Suffrage, gender equality, racial equality, everyone eating well and living well.  

How perfect is that?  

Even my butler would love it.  

But it was clear as day how much blood and sweat would be shed in the process of bringing it to reality.  

 

*Grit—!*  

I bit my lip and fixed my gaze on the documents.  

 

“Everyone will understand me!!! Communism was always an ideal that was hard to achieve! I only borrowed the name, but I tried my best to maintain that ideal!!! I deserve praise!!!”  

The room was filled with a roar.  

 

Amid the fierce shouts, the voice of a man huddled in the corner vibrated the air.  

Red blood dripped from Lenin’s face, but he didn’t seem to care, continuing to shout at the top of his lungs.  

He waved his hands, trying to justify all his actions and defend his logic.  

But the man standing across from him didn’t seem willing to believe his excuses at all.  

 

“Your so-called New Economic Policy is nothing but your own twisted interpretation of communism! You patched together my ideas to save your Russia, you crazy bastard!!! Did the country you worked so hard to build end up the way you wanted!?”  

Marx’s voice was firm and rough.  

He leaned forward fiercely, shouting at Lenin, his spit mixing with his rough breath, his beard shaking like waves of anger.  

Small droplets of spit landed on Lenin’s pale cheek, but he didn’t even think to wipe them off, just flinching.  

 

“Th-that’s…”  

Lenin’s lips twitched, but his excuse never came out.  

 

“You idiot. You spouted ideals like free education, free healthcare, but in reality, you introduced a market economy system. And what? War communism? What are you, the Kaiser!? ‘We’ll take your stuff because there’s a war. If you don’t like it, deal with it.’ That’s just holding a knife and threatening people!!!”  

“I had no choi—”  

As the short, merciless mockery flew at him, Lenin tried to make a brief excuse, opening his mouth again.  

Marx clicked his tongue and shook his head.  

 

“This is the problem with Slavs. They talk about Europe, but their actions are no different from medieval tyrants. You started a communist revolution but ended up in a position no different from an absolute monarch! It’s your fault, Lenin!”  

“W-what!?”  

Lenin’s voice began to tremble.  

He glared at Marx as if he hadn’t expected to be treated this way.  

But Marx didn’t care at all.  

 

“You didn’t even leave a proper successor. If the system you created wobbles just because of your death, is that really communism? No, it’s just another dictatorship you created! It’s your fault, Lenin!!!”  

 

As soon as Marx finished speaking, a momentary silence fell over the room.  

But soon, Engels sighed quietly and spoke up.  

“Now, now, Marx. Calm down. Even though the Kronstadt Rebellion ended up strengthening the dictatorship, we’re not in that era, so it’s hard to understa—”  

 

*Wham—!*  

Marx cut Engels off mid-sentence, pushing him aside and continuing to address Lenin.  

“No! That guy is messed up!!! From the beginning, he grabbed the wrong end and did stupid things, so he couldn’t realize the scientifically proven ideal we created! Mensheviks? Bolsheviks? Who cares!!! The Tsar said everyone was equal, but after that, it was you, Lenin, who did the same thing!!! It’s your fault, Lenin!”  

 

As the rapid-fire shouting ended, Lenin hung his head.  

Of course, the conversation wasn’t over.  

Marx approached Lenin, bent his knees slightly, and leaned down to meet Lenin’s eye level. With a sharp rolling “R,” he pointed at Lenin and began to speak.  

“If that Stalin or Trotsky guy is no different from you, then your Soviet Union probably survived by selling your corpse! Permanent preservation, huh? Like a mummy, it’d be useful, right?”  

 

“Th-that’s impossible!!!”  

Lenin vehemently denied it, jumping up from his seat.  

His eyes were a mix of confusion and anger.  

“No matter how unwanted the successor was, they wouldn’t insult me like that, embalm my corpse, and put it on display! Stalin! That friend wouldn’t do such a thing!”  

 

At that, Marx and Engels just shook their heads.  

Their eyes were filled with a cold, piercing cynicism.  

“If you want to believe that.”  

Marx waved his hand and spoke quietly.  

Lenin still wanted to argue, but his voice was growing smaller.  

 

“From what I’ve seen, he’s the type to do that and more. Just from the description—hijacking the will, Stalin’s position in the Communist Party Congress, the power struggle with Trotsky and Bukharin—it’s clear. The next leader is obviously Stalin.”  

Marx spoke with the expression of someone who had already reached a conclusion.  

A bitter smile hung on his lips.  

 

“Yeah, from the description, he seems like the type to get excited and like a dictator similar to himself. I’d rather have a lunatic who failed art school and committed suicide in a bunker. And that Stalin guy would probably cause a huge disaster, like a famine! And some purges!!! Right!?”  

“That’s speculation!!!”  

Lenin now almost screamed.  

But his cries were futile, scattering into the air.  

 

“Sigh…”  

I quietly watched the scene and let out a sigh.  

“Then why don’t we bring that Stalin guy here?”  

“…Huh?”  

“Huh!”  

At that, Lenin and Marx both widened their eyes and stared at me.  

 

“Right? If everyone has their own book, then Stalin must have his own book too… right?”  

I signed the “10-Hour Labor Law” document and spoke to the three of them.  

Marx wiped the spit that had flown out in his excitement, and Lenin, as if nothing had happened, wiped the blood that had spurted out and approached.  

 

“Library, you said?”  

“Yes.”  

“Let’s go.”  

“Huh?”  

“Let’s go!!!!”  

Lenin shouted.  

“I need to see that bastard’s face!!! I hope he didn’t kill Trotsky… like with an axe, or assassination, or in some remote country… yeah, like Mexico.”  

 

Lenin’s sigh echoed through the room.