Lelouch doesn’t just read books—he consumes them. He inhales the ideas between the lines, the symbols hiding in plain sight. Literature is the one discipline where cunning, emotion, and intellect all live on the same page. That’s where he feels most at home. His bookshelf wouldn’t just be a collection of classics—it would be a war room. Each text, a weapon. Each metaphor, a battle tactic.

And Macbeth? That might as well be his reflection in the glass. Ambition. Power. Fate. The slow, grinding erosion of morality in the name of purpose. Lelouch doesn’t just relate to Macbeth. He is Macbeth—with sharper cheekbones and a sharper strategy.

Literature gives Lelouch the tools to understand a world too broken to be reasoned with. It gives him the myths and monsters to explain himself. It justifies the shadows he walks through and the masks he wears. It’s not about escapism—it’s about control. Language is his weapon. Story is his battlefield. And literature is the one subject that gives him the full range of both.