At this stage, it is clear that my constitution is fundamentally compromised.
I have lost count of how many times this body has succumbed to unconsciousness.
I should have exercised more during my time back on Earth...
I blame that wretch of a Professor. The man never afforded me a single moment of physical activity, unless one counts those agonizing mandatory hikes he enjoyed so much.
Death to the Professor. He remains my ultimate class enemy.
Regardless, the world is fading to black once more.
I feel as though I have been moved somewhere, but the weight of exhaustion is a leaden shroud; I have no desire to open my eyes.
The road to liberating my own empty wallet appears long and treacherous indeed.
While I lie here in the dark, let us strategize. What intellectual capital can I sell in this bleak land?
The most famous? *Capital*?
No, that won't sell a single copy here. It would be buried beneath the waves of history before the ink even dried.
I am not an established dissident like Marx, living in exile with a growing reputation. I am a mere stranger—an interloper with no name. Who would believe the words of my book? (Though technically it is Marx's book, Marx does not exist here.)
Furthermore, *Capital* is a dense academic tome.
Consider the *Communist Manifesto*—a prequel intended to distill those complex ideas into a language any semi-literate worker could understand. Even that only had a few thousand copies in circulation by 1905. How many people would realistically trudge through the dry economic theories of *Capital*?
Thus, *Capital* is shelved for now.
In truth, Terra lacks the systemic foundation required for such a work. Before *Capital* came the *Manifesto*, and before the *Manifesto* were the liberal revolutions of 1848. Terra possesses no such ideological bedrock.
If I were to scream the word 'Communism' into the streets right now, the citizens wouldn't even comprehend the concept.
Therefore, the priority is to build the foundation. I must establish the prerequisite thought that preceded Marx.
If I synthesize the contents of the books I recall... I might just be able to construct that platform.
Rousseau's *The Social Contract*.
Plekhanov's *Materialist Dialectics*.
Marx's *Wage Labour and Capital* and *The Poverty of Philosophy*.
Mixing these four could forge a powerful instrument of change.
While Rousseau's *Social Contract* isn't strictly socialist and would eventually face rebuttals from later communist thinkers, it is perfect for explaining the fundamental role of the state to a primitive society. I recall its core tenets from my grueling studies. That essence will suffice.
Strategy set.
Now, let us face this world again.
***********************
"So, you are finally among the living again."
I opened my eyes to the interior of a dilapidated log building. I was lying on a makeshift cot in what appeared to be a clinic.
In my field of vision were two figures: the girl from before, and a man in his forties with a thick, black beard reminiscent of Friedrich Engels.
"Where... am I?" I croaked.
The man's voice was stiff, yet possessed a strange, underlying warmth.
"At ease. You are in a hospital—of sorts. I am the only physician in this village. I must say, it is quite rare to see an outlander in my clinic. What is your name?"
"My name is..."
*'My name is Park Si-hun.'*
No, the name 'Park Si-hun' feels entirely alien in this world. It is time for a pseudonym. A Russian-style name that fits the surname 'Park'...
Park Petrov? Park Dzhugashvili?
Suddenly, a name struck me like a bolt of lightning. Not a man I personally idolize, perhaps, but a figure who exerted an undeniable force upon the history of revolution.
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. Better known as... Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
"Park Vladimir. Or, as per your local customs... you may call me Vladimir Park."
I forced myself upright and extended a hand. He took it in a firm grip.
"I am Maxim Weber," he introduced himself.
After the handshake, the doctor continued, "You were inches from the grave, young man. You should thank Alyosha. Had she not found you when she did, you would be frostbitten carrion by now."
He gestured toward the girl, whose face instantly flushed a deep crimson.
Wait, 'Alyosha'? Isn't that a male diminutive for Alexei? I recall seeing that in *The Brothers Karamazov*.
"Ugh! Uncle! Stop calling me Alyosha! I told you, it's Alexandra!"
"Of course, of course, Alya. But when you react like that every time I use it, how can I resist the urge to tease you?"
"You're impossible... fine, whatever."
So, it was a joke. I found myself cracking a small, involuntary smile. Terra is indeed filled with beauties. The girl resembled a brown-eared Ursine version of Suzuran. If she grows up well, she'll be a force to be reckoned with.
Of course, this village is merely a temporary waypoint for me. I will likely never see them again once I move toward the nomadic cities.
"Thank you, Alexandra."
"Hehe, it was nothing. I just did what anyone would have done!"
I patted her head, and she beamed at the gesture. I turned back to Maxim.
"What is this village called?"
"Beryozovka. That is our name. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to the Village Elder. His condition is worsening. Rest well."
*Beryozovka*. The 'Birch Village.' A fitting name for a place surrounded by such woods.
A doctor here represents the educated class. In a world like Terra—where technology is advanced but social structures remain entrenched in pre-modern, early-capitalist misery—a man who can read and write is a member of the *intelligentsia*.
Full of renewed hope, I spoke up. "Wait. Do you have any paper? And a pen, if you could spare it."
"What use do you have for those?"
"I am... somewhat proficient in writing. I have some thoughts I need to organize—concepts I've been developing for some time."
"Is that so? Very well. Here, paper and a pen. Return whatever you don't use."
"Much appreciated!"
Maxim nodded and vanished out the door. It was time. I began to write. The title would be... *Justice and Order*.
I activated the shimmering holographic interface at the back of my mind and began the arduous process of transcribing and reimagining history.
**********************
"Whew... that was a close one. The Elder almost breathed his last."
Maxim Weber exhaled a ragged breath as he pushed open the clinic door, returning from his rounds. He tidied his medical instruments and glanced toward his patient.
"Hmm... where is the young man? Ah, there."
The stranger was an enigma. Maxim had never seen a Terran with ears quite like those—neither Sarkaz nor Ursine. He was a biological mystery.
As he studied Si-hun, Maxim's gaze drifted to the desk beside the cot.
"What is this?"
He picked up the scattered sheets of paper.
"*Justice and Order*. A bold title. Let us see what occupied your mind while I was away."
Settling into his wooden rocking chair, he perched his spectacles on his nose and began to read. At first, it was mere curiosity. Then, his breathing slowed.
*"If he who does not labor commands, and he who labors remains silent, then that society is indistinguishable from a den of thieves..."*
*"The history of all hitherto existing society on Terra is the history of class struggles... The marginalization of the Infected and the stoked animosity between races are but tactical divisions orchestrated by the ruling hegemony to maintain its grip on the subjugated... Only the unified action of the masses can dismantle this mechanism of oppression..."*
*"Liberty is not a choice; it is the capacity to create choice. The people must resist any act that erodes this freedom. Those who claim the world cannot be changed are simply those who have the most to lose should it happen..."*
By the time he finished, Maxim's hands were trembling violently. He frantically flipped the papers over, hiding the text as if the very ink might set the building ablaze.
"This is madness..." he whispered, cold sweat dripping from his brow. "Utopian fantasies... if the authorities—if the Imperial Secret Police ever laid eyes on this..."
His rough hands drifted toward Si-hun's throat. A single, heavy squeeze could end the threat. He could protect his village, his clinic, and his own life from the fallout of such sedition.
But the cracks were already forming in his heart—that stalwart organ he prided on being unwavering. He found himself unable to apply pressure. He slumped to the floor instead.
He sat in the silence, thinking. Finally, his expression hardened with a desperate sort of resolve.
"Just one more read. I will read it once more... surely I will find a flaw that dismantles this insanity."
He retrieved the papers. He searched for an error, a logical fallacy, anything to prove it wrong. But the foundations were too solid. There were minor inconsistencies, yes, but nothing that compromised the shattering truth of the primary premise.
The text had its hooks in him now. In that moment, the 34-year-old doctor—who looked more like 40—became the very first convert to the ideology on Terra.
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