Chapter 4 - Episode 1: The Regressed 10th-Circle Swordmaster of a Chaebol Family (4)
◈ How to Become a Star Writer ◈
Episode 1: The Regressed 10th-Circle Swordmaster of a Chaebol Family (4)
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Stealing someone else’s manuscript.
Once, I never could have imagined doing something like this.
“Whew...”
I didn’t think I could read the manuscript sober, so I headed to the convenience store outside my place to buy some soju.
But damn it, on the way out I ran into someone I didn’t want to see.
Could someone really look that intimidating just by wearing work pants pulled up to their chest and holding a broom?
“Student, you’re behind on this month’s rent. You know that, right?”
It was my landlady, cleaning the hallway.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“I’m only letting it slide because you look like such a decent kid.”
Good thing I looked decent.
“So, how’s the job hunt going? Are you still writing that novel thing?”
“...”
“Oh, my daughter got a job at a big company this time. See? You can do it too. By the way, how old are you this year?”
If I got into it with her, the conversation would only drag on, so I simply bowed my head and passed her by.
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back soon.”
Behind me, I heard her click her tongue.
Ji Eun-yu was right. Misfortune didn’t need many sentences.
If someone put just one line in a novel saying, “The landlady said something again today,” I’d probably burst into tears from sheer misery.
“1,600 won.”
I drank half the bottle of soju in one go as I walked back.
Fortunately, the landlady wasn’t there on my return, so I made it back to my room without incident.
Maybe it was the alcohol, but the room suddenly looked different.
A tiny rented room, about ten square meters, with no bathroom or washing machine. Fewer than ten outfits total between my summer and winter clothes. Empty cup noodle containers piled high by the entrance.
An eight-year-old junk laptop on the desk...
Damn it. Let’s stop there. The misery is getting too long.
“Let’s at least see how well it’s written.”
Muttering to myself, I poured the rest of the soju down my empty stomach and opened Yoo Chan-young’s manuscript.
“A familiar scene, a familiar landscape. There was no doubt about it. This was Armennia, the desert city. But how?
Fehilt Rune looked around and spoke in a horrified voice.
‘Where is this? I definitely died. Don’t tell me...’”
Why did web novels always start their opening lines like this?
Well, it was a cliché. Let’s let it slide.
Just reading it felt like a waste, so I decided to transcribe the manuscript into a word processor.
I could get a feel for Yoo Chan-young’s style while I was at it.
One page. Two pages. Three pages.
The alcohol made me dizzy, but the pages turned easily.
There were no sticking points, no frustrating parts that made me stew. The cathartic payoffs landed at just the right moments, refreshing enough to clear my head.
As expected of Yoo Chan-young.
Still, I’d be lying if I said there was nothing disappointing about it.
“Isn’t this just a story about a regressor causing havoc?”
I wasn’t saying that out of jealousy. It really was.
Of course, it wasn’t just about a regressor. As expected of a famous author who knew the trends, it had everything.
Other worlds, Demon Kings, Swordmasters, chaebols, regressors, systems, even returnees...
That was it. That was exactly the problem.
“How is this any different from my novel?”
I slowly took a deep breath.
No. Yu Chan-young wrote this.
I must be missing something.
Let’s read it again from the beginning.
I opened the manuscript again.
I read and read.
About two hours passed before I finally reached a conclusion.
...I really didn’t know.
No matter how much I read, I couldn’t figure it out.
The material was similar. The prose and plot structure were much the same. The characters weren’t particularly more appealing, either.
And yet this had been read by a hundred thousand people, while mine had been read by ten.
That was all.
Why?
The soju I gulped down burned my throat. A hollow laugh escaped me.
Learn from a famous author?
That sounded nice.
But what was I supposed to learn?
I couldn’t see any difference.
...No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one enormous difference between Yoo Chan-young and me.
Yoo Chan-young was famous.
And I wasn’t.
All at once, it felt as though everything had been resolved.
Even knowing it was cognitive dissonance, I couldn’t suppress the emotions welling up inside me.
Right. That was the whole issue.
Someone like Yoo Chan-young could take a shit and still become famous, while someone like me could die and never make the papers.
If Yoo Chan-young wrote about regressors and Swordmasters, it took off. If I wrote it...
Then something in my head went snap.
I pressed Backspace.
The sentences I had painstakingly copied from Yoo Chan-young’s manuscript began disappearing.
“Damn regressors!”
I deleted one sentence.
“Damn chaebols!”
I deleted another.
“Damn Swordmasters!”
I deleted one more.
Every time I erased a sentence, something surged from deep within me alongside a strange sense of pleasure.
They could all go to hell.
I began tearing apart Yoo Chan-young’s prologue and rewriting it however I pleased.
I changed the setting. I changed the worldbuilding.
While I was at it, I changed the protagonist too.
From a regressor who knew the future to Extra A, someone who would be killed by that regressor.
It wasn’t going to be serialized anyway, so what did it matter how I changed it?
A regressor? Heh. Heheheh. All regressors could just drop dead!
I cackled for a long time as I read my new prologue.
Look at this. Look at this. This was the kind of story that would give readers cancer.
Then I fell asleep.
It was such a quiet sleep that I didn’t even know when I drifted off.
But if I’d known what would happen to me afterward, if I’d known who would really get cancer, I never would have gone to sleep.
Never.
I never would have gone to sleep.
* * *
“Ah, this person still hasn’t posted anything.”
At the Dragon Management office, Team Manager Kim Myeong-hun stared at a monitor and tore at their hair.
The work displayed on the screen was The Regression of the Tower Swordmaster.
Its last update had been on February 17.
Today was February 24.
Editor Cha Jin-hee, looking at the monitor beside them, laughed.
“Pfft! That author’s gone on hiatus again?”
“It’s already been a week. How did I not notice?”
“This makes ten times already. That has to be a record.”
Still fuming, Kim Myeong-hun slumped back in their chair.
“...They even turned off their phone. This is driving me crazy. Do I have to go all the way to their house again?”
“Try to understand, Team Manager. They say the author has a history of mental illness.”
“The problem is every writer and their dog has some sort of psychiatric history. How many times can they use that excuse?”
Cha Jin-hee gave a bitter smile and pointed at their own monitor.
“It’s trendy these days.”
Kim Myeong-hun looked at the screen, and their expression stiffened.
“What? An Extraordinary Regression is on hiatus too?”
“Yes. Nothing’s been posted for three days. At least they wrote a hiatus notice. ‘I’m sorry, everyone. I actually need to make a quick trip to another world...’ That’s a creative excuse, at least. If they’ve got the energy for that, they should just write another chapter.”
“These people are trying to make easy money. Yoo Chan-young has spoiled them, didn’t they?”
Kim Myeong-hun cracked their knuckles.
“This is why you need to straighten them out before they get too big. Train them to be obedient from their rookie days, and they won’t even dare go on hiatus.”
“Are there any decent new writers lately? Oh, isn’t the Hatchling Project still underway?”
“It is. Hmm, there’s still some time before the deadline, but... should I make a few calls? They’re probably loafing around right now. Time to slowly put the squeeze on them.”
“Wow, Team Manager. Sometimes you really seem like a devil.”
“A devilish editor is a good editor.”
Team Manager Kim Myeong-hun sprang up from their chair, picked up their phone, and headed for the office printer.
Then something in the scrap paper bin caught their eye.
“Huh? This is Yoo Chan-young’s manuscript. Who printed this?”
At that moment, Ji Eun-yu raised her head from the neighboring partition.
“I assigned it to my author.”
“Your author? Lee Hak-hyeon?”
“Yes.”
“I already assigned this work to Gu Dae-seong.”
Ji Eun-yu’s expression stiffened at the casual remark.
“When?”
“Last week.”
“...You didn’t mention that at last week’s meeting.”
“Hmm, I guess I forgot to report it. Ha ha.”
Their gazes clashed in midair.
Both were smiling, but there was a chill in their eyes.
“I was first. Why don’t you yield, Assistant Manager Ji?”
“For the record, I submitted a formal proposal an hour ago.”
Kim Myeong-hun checked Ji Eun-yu’s monitor, and their expression hardened.
The document had already been forwarded to the company president for approval.
“Just cancel it. Give me the mouse.”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you, Ji Eun-yu? Do you not know how much I value Gu Dae-seong?”
“I know how to value my author too.”
A smile lingered around Kim Myeong-hun’s mouth.
“Right. You have an author too. Even if they’re a literary fiction writer who hasn’t produced a single result in half a year and has only eaten up project funds.”
“Watch what you say. No one knows the future.”
“Why wouldn’t we? Do you honestly think Lee Hak-hyeon and Gu Dae-seong are comparable? Gu Dae-seong may be struggling now, but they were an A-list author in the print market. With a little polishing, they’ll shine in no time. They’re a gem.”
“A-list? That’s just your taste, Team Manager. Honestly, I found that author’s books boring. That kind of middle-aged taste might have worked in the print market, but it doesn’t work anymore.”
Several employees in the editorial department rose from their seats with expressions that said, Here they go again.
“Assistant Manager Ji. There’s an order to things at work.”
“And there are procedures at work too, Team Manager Kim.”
Kim Myeong-hun and Ji Eun-yu fighting in the editorial department was nothing new, but this matter seemed particularly serious.
To make things worse, the editor-in-chief was away.
As the employees exchanged glances and nudged each other forward, someone unexpectedly leaped into the battlefield.
It was the new employee, Cha Jin-hee.
“Wow! Wait a second! Does that mean Lee Hak-hyeon and Gu Dae-seong are both revising Yoo Chan-young’s manuscript right now?”
At Cha Jin-hee’s timely interruption, Kim Myeong-hun and Ji Eun-yu shut their half-open mouths.
“Isn’t that actually a good thing? Lee Hak-hyeon is from the literary fiction side, and Gu Dae-seong is a traditional genre author. If they become co-authors, it could make for an even better work, right? Wow, this is seriously my dream combination!”
“...”
“Lee Hak-hyeon and Gu Dae-seong! The union of literary fiction and genre fiction! All right, Team Manager, calm down. Assistant Manager Ji, relax a little too. We all want this to work out. Everyone, right?”
The surrounding employees seized the chance to add their own comments.
“Cha Jin-hee is right.”
“Team Manager Kim, Assistant Manager Ji. Let’s settle this nicely. Nicely!”
With public opinion on their side, neither could easily make a bigger issue of it.
Kim Myeong-hun was the first to yield.
“Ha... Fine. Well, they haven’t even started serialization yet.”
“Exactly. Exactly.”
It seemed the matter had been resolved.
But it wasn’t over yet.
“Still, we can’t choose the two as co-authors. There’s no precedent for it, and there’s no need. Only one person will get the contract.”
Kim Myeong-hun’s calm voice once again brought silence to the office.
Ji Eun-yu raised her head.
Kim Myeong-hun was looking down at her.
“Assistant Manager Ji, how about a bet?”
“What kind of bet?”
“Literary fiction versus genre fiction.”
“...What?”
“Lee Hak-hyeon versus Gu Dae-seong. Let’s have them face off.”
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