The imperial edict was brief and simple, but its significance was anything but: All the children of the empire, irrespective of birth, will go to schools funded by the state. It is obligatory. Unjustified absence will be fined or made to work.
When heralds read it out in the streets, people went mad with rage. Farmers grumbled that they would lose the labor of their sons in the fields. Merchants complained that their daughters would no longer assist in the shops. Nobles swore oaths, horrified that their offspring would learn together with butcher's sons and washerwomen's daughters.
But Sharath didn't budge. He stood at the palace balcony, gazing over the turbulent streets below, and whispered softly, "The empire is constructed of more than bricks and swords. It's constructed of minds."
🐧NeuroBoop snorted in his brain. "Noble sentiment. But you do understand most of those minds would rather chase goats than memorize multiplication?"
Sharath tuned out the voice and spoke instead to Madhu, who stood by with a pile of papers clutched under her arm. "We begin now," he stated.
It was Madhu who bore the impossible dream on her shoulders. She coordinated the construction of schools in each district, recycling abandoned warehouses, unused barracks, and even half-destroyed temples as classrooms. She arranged timetables for teachers, most of whom were volunteers initially—retired scribes, idle priests, and scholars with more pride than money.
Her calm presence stabilized the enterprise. When a group of parents broke up into a new schoolhouse insisting to be told why their children spent hours locked in there rather than working, Madhu was the one who emerged and spoke softly. "Your children will come back with more than they took with them," she said. "They will come back with mind tools sharper than sickles, stronger than hammers."
Some parents continued to glare, but some were attentive, nervous interest tempering their indignation.
The classrooms themselves were in disarray.
At the start, forty kids packed a room that was supposed to hold twenty kids, sitting on benches groaning with their weight. Chalk dust clung to the air like fog, and ink and wax filled their nostrils. Shouts from teachers rang out as they tried to get through numbers and letters to the din of kids arguing, laughing, or in one case, attempting to conjure a frog spirit beneath the desk.
A boy proudly put up his hand in mathematics classes and said, "If two goats graze, and three other goats graze, is that five goats grazing, or no grass remaining?"
The teacher mouthed words, closed his mouth, and breathed a deep sigh.
The magic experiments were worse. Sharath maintained that children should not just learn numbers and letters but also the basic principles of magic. The consequence: explosions. Little ones, luckily, but enough to shake windows.
In one school, a class of children attempting to "light a candle with intention" inadvertently set their teacher's beard aflame. In another, a girl attempting to levitate her pencil really lifted the whole desk and dropped it onto her neighbor's foot.
When word of the incidents reached the palace, Sharath simply laughed. "Good. Better that they blow up here under direction than in ignorance on the streets."
🐧NeuroBoop muttered, "You're going to burn down half your empire in the name of literacy."
Despite the mishaps, change began to show.
In taverns, where once only rumors and gossip flew, children now sat reading aloud from their lessons, their parents listening with stunned pride. "Look," one farmer said, thumping his mug, "my boy can write his own name. His own name!"
Merchants, initially furious at losing child labor, realized the benefits when their daughters returned able to count faster and more accurately than they could. "Profits balance quicker with her at the ledger," one said with grudging admiration.
Even the nobles, initially bitter, soon perceived benefit. "If the smith's boy can read," one grumbled, "then at least he'll obey my written instructions correctly." They continued to sneer, but fewer withdrew their children.
The biggest fight, though, was with the teachers. Many groused the work was impossible—too many kids, too little control, too many mishaps. Some stormed out of the room during lessons, vowing never to come back.
Sharath himself went to one school after the like of such a rebellion. The children gazed as he walked in, his cloak brushing dust from the floor. He did not say anything at first, but just sat among them, drawing one of the new typewriters onto the desk. With careful composure, he typed out a single line:
Knowledge is the empire's true army.
Then he turned to them. "Every one of you is a warrior in that war. Every word you know is a sword. Every digit, a shield. Keep this in mind: ignorance is the foe, and I will not allow it to conquer."
The room became silent. Even the most troublesome kid in the back of the room adjusted his demeanor. From this time on, attendance never wavered.
🐧NeuroBoop whispered: "You've just invented homework propaganda. Wait until they start revolting over bedtime."
Madhu introduced another innovation: night schools for adults. Farmers came after sunset, their hands still rough from labor, to trace letters under flickering lanterns. Soldiers off duty struggled through multiplication tables with more sweat than they ever gave in battle. Women who had never held a book before whispered the alphabet like a prayer.
It was a humble sight. One white-haired old man smiled triumphantly as he signed his name for the first time. "Now I live twice," he declared. "Once in my youth, once in this."
Sharath observed from the rear of the room, his chest constricting. This, he considered, was worth all the coins spent, all the noble's grievances suffered.
But it was not entirely success. The treasury creaked under the expense—books, chalk, benches, teachers' salaries, magical wards to protect classrooms. Sharath drew the empire's finances apart methodically, with taxes funding the schools and his own coffers financing palace extravagances. Nevertheless, there were governors who grumbled angrily.
One burst into council, bellowing, "Why spend money educating peasants to read letters when they only require shovels?"
Sharath's response was frost as steel. "Because a peasant who knows how to read is no longer a peasant. He is a man capable of thinking, asking, and responding. Do you worry about that?"
The governor departed pale and speechless.
Months went by, and the schools multiplied. Where children used to wander the streets, now they walked around with slates and books. Where children used to sleep in darkness, now villages hummed with arguments over arithmetic, poetry, and even magical theory.
The empire mocked its falls, yes—but gradually, it also started dreaming. A peasant murmured that his daughter could be a healer. A soldier secretly hoped his son might be a scholar. A laundress said her child wished to "learn stars."
Madhu strolled in the city one morning, stopping to eavesdrop on a cluster of children reciting lessons in the street. Their voices sang in chorus:
"Knowledge is strength! Ignorance is weakness!"
She smiled, a rare softness lighting her face.
Sharath, watching from the palace balcony, whispered, "The empire's foundation is no longer stone. It is minds."
🐧NeuroBoop grumbled: "Lovely. Just wait until they invent student loans. Then you'll see real chaos."
And thus, amidst chalk powder and giggles, amidst wizardly errors and scolding lessons, the very first generation of imperial students came into being. They were untidy, boisterous, obstinate, inquisitive, and incredible. They were the future.
Sharath was aware of it. Madhu was aware of it. And although the world ridiculed now, with time, all would realize: this was the transformation that would survive every war, every highway, every throne.
This was the empire's biggest bet.
And its highest promise