Chapter 193 - The Investor II

4

The story I just told you about Cocktail Bar Mori was based strictly on documented real events.

While the customer slept soundly, enjoying the cocktail bar in a dream...

“F-for the background music, play jazz versions of Studio Ghibli soundtracks!”

Back in reality, the promoter—that is, the writer—was busily badgering the dream demon at the bedside.

“We need to emphasize that this place is run by a Japanese person! Besides, the weather’s far too mild! Rain! Let’s make it rain!”

“Hweee. This human is sneakily dropping all the politeness. It makes me want to check how firmly that skull is attached to that neck...”

“W-we agreed to split the fees fifty-fifty! Please!”

“I had no idea it would be this much trouble. Eek, I resent my past self...”

The writer sat beside the customer’s bed all night, pestering the dream demon.

The bartender’s lines. Family relationships. A backstory detailing the life the bartender had led. The bar’s atmosphere. Sounds coming from outside the window. Mysterious customers who suddenly dropped by around one in the morning (members of the National Intelligence Service), and so on...

In short, what the tutorial fairies had provided people with so far was, at best, the base game—the vanilla version.

The writer had begun customizing and selling “mods” for it.

The man who was once the world’s most famous exploiter of engineers once said:

- People don’t know what they want until you show it to them.

Indeed.

Even in an apocalypse that had utterly destroyed the capitalist economy, that famous saying held true.

The mod one writer had created and uploaded, “Cocktail Bar Mori,” became an absolute smash hit in this real-life Workshop.

“I want to go to Mori too!”

“Expand the cocktail bar already! You have this many customers, and you only let ten in? How does that make sense?”

“One thousand won per person! No, I’ll pay up to three thousand! Boss! Please invite me and my friend too!”

Writer A became happy.

Then he followed the well-worn path happy writers so often take.

That is, he started bragging to other writers about how fucking awesome he was.

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden? You even made reservations at a barbecue place... This place must be expensive.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine! I’m doing great these days! Tonight’s all on me! I called everyone from our old writers’ group so we could have a drink together for the first time in ages! It’s camaraderie between writers, camaraderie! Normally the others would be here too, but we’re the only ones left in Busan now.”

Ears pricked up.

The former writers who had gathered in small clusters at the army stew restaurant twitched their ears.

Every last one of them wore shabby clothes.

Of course they did. Writers were a breed with fragile psyches and no social skills, who envied and resented their peers, slandered them online behind masks of anonymity, wanted people to worship them, lacked stamina, and had creaking spines and joints.

In short, they had no redeeming qualities. They were the worst, lowest sort of people imaginable when it came to surviving an apocalypse.

Merely surviving this long and settling in Busan already made these particular specimens first-rate.

And so, no matter how long a speech their benefactor, Writer A, rattled off, his colleagues’ eardrums registered precisely one sentence.

――I’m doing great these days――

Those words flashed through the former writers’ minds in Kinoko Nasu-style prose.

“...”

“...”

They instantly exchanged silent glances (a fundamental skill for any writer).

First, the writers made small talk. Man, we used to make pretty good money. We should be grateful we’re alive. I heard from a Japanese writer I know, and things over there are—ugh, seriously...

By the time alcohol and chatter had made the unforgiving flow of time pleasantly sticky, someone finally fired the opening shot.

“So what are you doing these days that’s going so well?”

“Hmm?”

Their benefactor, Writer A, tilted his head.

For a moment, the writers felt humiliated by that despicable act of pretending he had no idea what they meant.

Camaraderie between writers, my ass. You know, I know, and the platforms all know you fucking gathered an audience here to brag about yourself. Who did you think you were fooling?

Still, they had borrowed alcohol’s strength precisely to endure this momentary humiliation. Considering that even the alcohol had come out of their benefactor’s wallet, they could put up with a little more.

“You said it earlier. You’re doing great. What, did you suddenly awaken an ability and join a guild or something? That guy back in the day—what was his name, ProseThug? His life turned around when he became an awakened too.”

“Oh, him? He’s no writer. He just switched careers from writer to awakened. I’m still making my living as a writer!”

Their ears pricked higher and higher.

The writers’ ears were gradually changing classes to elf.

“As a writer? You’re still writing? There are still readers who pay for fiction these days?”

“No, I’m not writing prose. Non-awakened people like us can’t even access SG Net. We don’t have a platform. But does that mean you stop creating? There are writers who create even in the middle of a war. For people like us, being a writer isn’t a job. It’s our heart. Our heart. The moment that heart stops beating, we die.”

Tonight’s benefactor ought to have been grateful that the army stew tasted so good. In the old days, gossip about him would already have spread throughout the industry.

“Anyway, what I’ve been doing lately is—”

A full two hours after the drinking party began, they finally reached the point.

“—So it hit me! Ah! If I buttered up the fairy from the tutorial dungeon I survived, I could break into this market! But what should I do? I know my cocktails. And I speak some Japanese. Ah, let’s go with a cocktail bar run by a Japanese person!”

“Ooooh...”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“But why a cocktail bar? I mean, it’s nice, but isn’t the scale too small? Wouldn’t you make a lot more money if you started with an interesting fictional world?”

“Oh, that’s only thinking from the writer’s perspective. No matter how successful we used to be, huh? We’re beginners now, beginners! It’s been well over five years since we last hammered away at a keyboard, and this is our first time creating anything this way, right? A new platform. A new format. You have to start getting used to it all over again!”

“Ooooh...”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Listening to you, it sounds a bit like a tabletop RPG.”

“Hmm? Right. That’s the problem with writers. They get arrogant too easily. Be humble, huh? Think of it as learning. Right, there’s that too. People who like drinking usually have a group. Drinking buddies. Get one regular, and they’ll bring in other customers for you. That’s how—huh? You have to approach this with a business mindset, huh? Honestly.”

“Ooooh...”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“What split did you settle on with that tutorial fairy bastard? Eighty-twenty?”

“Ah, shit. Like that would happen. Fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty. It’s like those contracts from when web novels first got started. I’ve got plenty of complaints about that, but without the fairies I can’t do business at all, so I don’t really have a choice—”

“Ooooh...”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

Their benefactor should have noticed that, while the other writers’ responses had become exceedingly mechanical, their questions were growing remarkably detailed.

But he didn’t. He was drunk.

It wasn’t that the other writers weren’t drunk. But they had “ideals” and “reality” to help them overcome their intoxication.

I mentioned it earlier.

Writers were merely a breed with no social skills, (middle portion omitted), and creaking spines and joints.

But if that were true, wasn’t it strange? How had such scum survived this long?

There was only one reason.

'I’m more successful than that bastard!'

'Fuck, I write better than that asshole!'

'That one has no artistic merit, that one has no commercial appeal, that one has no backbone, and that one’s too stubborn...'

Overwhelming, limitless competition that would horrify even the lowest depths of hell!

It was no exaggeration to call this competitive urge the sole force driving writers.

For example, Tolstoy was the most decent human being among all the writers in history.

This Russian’s novels were always full of love, consideration for one’s neighbors, and respect for nature.

Even he dissed Dostoevsky whenever he got the chance.

Whatever he felt toward other people, for some reason “love,” “consideration,” and “respect” did not apply to fellow writers.

In short, take the money out of America’s Wall Street, and you had a writers’ community.

“Ooooh...”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

In a sense, the benefactor who had arranged this drinking party achieved his aim.

Every single person gathered there could feel the old “affection” between writers.

THUMP.

The “serpents’ hearts” that the end-of-the-world apocalypse had barely managed to seal away, even at the cost of destroying civilization, began to stir.

5

A few days later.

Busan’s construction sites lost approximately seven laborers.

They were lousy workers anyway, so nobody on-site cared.

Instead, seven new standing signs appeared at the entrance to Dream Casino.

[Former web-novel author! 100 million views on a major platform! Specializing in contemporary fantasy and fantasy. Become ☆the world’s strongest awakened☆ and explore medieval dungeons!]

[Specializing in corporate-heir and office fiction. “Join a securities firm and become a legend!” - Only 1,000 won per night]

[Romance/beautiful-girl specialist. Previous work adapted for television. Yonsei University psychology graduate. Consult the author for details. Absolute confidentiality guaranteed]

[Former web-novel author / 200 million views on a major platform / Multiple webtoon adaptations / Animated adaptation / Your chance to hire the author every fiction reader knew back in the day as your personal writer! - Will tailor the setting to your wishes as closely as possible]

[Former web-novel author / 29 million, 30 million, and 50 million views on major platforms / Never missed a scheduled update / Tabletop RPG game-mastering experience: 8,500 hours on Roll20 / I promise to provide consistent, reliable quality]

“W-what the hell is this?”

That day, Writer A, founder of Cocktail Bar Mori, was heading cheerfully to work when he recoiled in horror.

There stood his old nemeses, whom he had treated to army stew last week, holding standing signs with utterly unruffled faces!

The former writers... No.

The “returning writers” spoke bashfully.

“Well. You know.”

“Your story inspired us too.”

“Yeah. We were really moved. Like you said, writers ought to make a living creating things.”

“Exactly, exactly!”

“You could say our creative spirits caught fire for the first time in ages. Haha.”

The writers smiled as though embarrassed.

Writer A felt humiliated by their despicable pretense that they were only doing this because his words had genuinely moved them.

Inspiration, my ass. This was plagiarism!

'But...!'

Writer A, a professional who had once made his living with words, bit his lip hard.

Calling this “plagiarism” was, in fact, an exceedingly gray area...!

Had any of them advertised a “cocktail bar,” a “pub,” or an “izakaya,” he could certainly have challenged them to a duel.

But the writers had merely borrowed the business genre and, cunningly, filled it with entirely different content.

Just like the old days in the fiction industry, when any genre—hunter fiction, academy fiction, whatever—became a hit, and everyone swarmed in to “creatively” reinterpret it...!

'Th-this familiar feeling! Don’t tell me!'

'That’s right.'

A dark gleam also shone in the eyes of his fellow writers, who were smiling so bashfully and innocently.

'It’s time to compete for updates again, rookie.'

'Ah, it’s been ages. This chilling sensation. I feel like I’m back in the days when I clicked on the bestseller rankings every two minutes whenever I launched a new series.'

'N-no! Absolutely not! Have you all forgotten that hell?'

'Yeah. Your hell looks like a better way to make a living than our reality.'

'Always liked hellfire anyway. Used to run three serials at once.'

Again, exchanging silent glances was a fundamental skill for any writer.

Only now did Writer A belatedly recognize his mistake.

Why had he done something he would regret for years, all for a single night’s pleasure?

(Because he was a writer, of course.)

- Huh? What’s going on? Why are there so many signs?

- Did Mori finally expand?

Murmurs spread through the crowd.

But Writer A scarcely even had time for regret.

The workday was drawing to a close, and the crowds pouring into Dream Casino were growing.

The inescapable fate of every writer—“update time”—was approaching.

'S-stop! No! My customers! My dear readers!'

Yet, contrary to Writer A’s fears, nobody stole his customers away.

“... Huh?”

Nor did the other writers suffer the misfortune of failing to attract new customers.

There was some variation, but all eight writers, including Writer A, drew plenty of customers.

“What?”

The next day. The day after that. And the day after that, too.

Even as the standing signs increased from one to eight, then from eight to twenty, the writers never lost any customers.

If anything, selling dreams went even better than before, and even after the cocktail bar’s capacity increased from ten to twenty, it was always full.

Only then did the writers realize.

“Ah.”

A term they had all forgotten, because civilization had fallen so long ago.

Blue ocean.

This was no blood-drenched sea where you had to kill your rivals to survive.

What these former construction laborers had newly discovered was a golden El Dorado—

A gold mine.