Chapter 195 - The Investor IV

8

A plan for Busan’s writers to join forces.

"My creativity: 150. Your creativity: 150. Let’s create a perfect work with a combined creativity of 300!"

"What a brilliant idea."

Collaboration, in other words. A proposal for two or more writers to come together and create a work.

It was practically the same as putting Hitler and Stalin on one team and fantasizing, ‘Wow! Combine this guy’s propaganda skills with that guy’s talent for purges, and it’ll be amazing!’

We all knew that whatever route this scenario took, it would end in a nuclear explosion.

A group project in a college general-education course was at least 500% more likely to go perfectly and earn a standing ovation from the students and professor than a collaboration between writers was to succeed.

"Of course, simply joining forces wouldn’t give us plus 300. It would give us minus 22,500."

Writer A wasn’t foolish enough not to know that. At the grilled pork belly restaurant where the Supreme Eight had assembled, he gave a detailed PowerPoint presentation.

"Therefore, we’ll establish a strict hierarchy among the writers participating in the project. As its lead writer, I’ll respect your opinions, but I will have sole, unconditional, absolute authority over every decision."

"Huh?"

His fellow writers began murmuring. Whether they had double eyelids and how thick their eyebrows were varied, but the meaning in their eyes was unanimously agreed upon.

Who the hell do you think you are?

Their insolent eye-beams didn’t cow Writer A. Instead, he grinned.

"The fact is, I pioneered this DM market, and you rode my coattails. In other words, regardless of what you think, objectively speaking, you all owe me one."

"...!"

"Whoever among us becomes leader, it’s never going to be smooth sailing. And having everyone participate as equals? Fuck, you know that’ll be a complete shitshow."

"Hmm."

"Right. So it’s wiser to put the one and only person every single one of you might feel indebted to in charge. That’s me."

"Maybe..."

The writers exchanged silent looks that said, That sounds pretty convincing...!

Writers were a breed more susceptible than anyone to plausible bullshit. If they’d had levelheaded brains to begin with, they would never have chosen such an irrational profession as writing.

"Suppose we let you lead. How exactly are you going to coordinate our opinions?"

"First, we divide up our responsibilities."

FLAP

Writer A turned to the next slide. Of course, he wasn’t displaying it on a computer; he’d merely prepared paper handouts resembling a PowerPoint template.

"I never actually told you this, but over the past few years, I’ve had a secret agreement with the fairies that let me observe your DM content."

"What?"

"Your fate was sealed when you started DM businesses without any professional courtesy, not even cutting me in. Deal with it. Anyway, thanks to that, I’ve gotten a general idea of what makes your DM work entertaining and what you specialize in."

Wasn’t this guy a complete lunatic?

While his colleagues considered how much it would cost to bury him and cover up the murder, Writer A calmly laid out their positions.

"These are what I consider your strengths and roles."

1. NPCs.

A writer renowned since their web-novel days for punchy, flavorful dialogue, whose lively, animated characters had also earned glowing reviews from DM customers.

2. Maps.

A writer who had devised ingenious stages and mechanics for each episode in their web-novel days, and had secretly worked on level design for several indie games without revealing their pen name.

3. Lucky breaks, items, and training locations.

A writer who had always made scenes of the protagonist’s lucky breaks and training deliciously satisfying in web novels, and had become popular as a DM by letting customers savor the process of becoming the strongest.

4. Main events.

A writer skilled since their web-novel days at grand narratives such as friction between nations and struggles between political factions, whose ruthless political dramas had also won lavish praise from guild-leader-level DM customers.

5. Worldbuilding.

A writer who had not only crafted beautiful fantasy settings in their web-novel days, but had become popular as a DM by offering customers adventures that were both vividly realistic and magnificent.

There was even a role for accuracy checks.

The presentation materials listed each writer’s strengths and specialties in detail. In Writer A’s own handwriting.

"..."

His colleagues’ eyes grew serious. Writers were a breed more susceptible than anyone to sincerity and care.

Those were the values they pursued all their lives. An honest, unadorned face. A craftsman’s resolve.

Writer A set the papers down with a tap.

"I bought a small apartment building near Haeundae with the money I’ve made doing DM work."

"An apartment building?"

"Yeah. You’re all single anyway. Move in. Let’s eat, sleep, and work there until the project’s finished."

"..."

"You know we could die at any moment."

The age of anomalies.

"Let’s make one work before we die, guys."

If there was anyone in this world who could shed tears at the mere sound of the word ‘human,’ then, regardless of the era, that person was destined to become a writer.

That fact remained unchanged as the home of a story passed from a bard’s lips to nobles’ fingertips, to workers’ palms, to university library shelves, to empty slots in rental shops, to smartphone screens, and into fairies’ dreams.

The writers were ready to sing of humanity again.

9

And three years passed.

"Oh, Undertaker. Some DMs invited me over as a consultant. Want to come along?"

So spoke Dang Seorin, the single thread that always kept me, the human being called Undertaker, connected to the world.

"A consultant?"

"Yeah. The DMs are doing some sort of joint effort? Collaboration? Anyway, a really big project. They say they’re creating a massive fantasy world."

"Oh?"

"Apparently, mages have tremendous power in that dream world, and you can’t talk about power and magic without mentioning me, can you? So they invited me as an accuracy consultant? Something like that."

"They’ll certainly get very detailed advice on executions and monster-dissection shows..."

"Hm? What was that?"

"Nothing. Anyway, I’ll come. As a Romance of the Three Kingdoms expert, I might be able to advise them on realistic schemes and stratagems."

Dang Seorin looked both appalled and dead serious. "Could you not smear Romance of the Three Kingdoms all over fantasy?"

We picked a day and headed to Haeundae.

Those of you from Busan might know the places called Dalmaji Hill and Dalmaji Road in that area. The writers’ shared residence was an apartment building there with an unobstructed view down to the sea. The awakened hired as guards recognized us and froze stiff.

I offered the guards a few kind words as we passed, then whistled.

"They’re rich."

"It’s where Busan’s most successful, top-tier DMs live together. They’re probably among the wealthiest ordinary people around."

"And since they have to collaborate with the tutorial fairies, they can’t even evade taxes. Commander Noh Doha likes DMs too."

"Aha. But I hear Noh Doha has never hired a DM. Is that really true?"

"It is. He hardly ever even asks the fairies to help him sleep soundly. He asked why he should have to look at anomalies’ ugly mugs even in his dreams."

"Hmm..."

That was when it happened.

"You fucking bastard!"

A lion’s roar erupted from inside the building, loud enough to make the windows rattle. Dang Seorin and I stopped just as we were about to ring the doorbell—not an electronic one, but a bell physically attached to the door handle.

"How can a bill passed by the kingdom’s parliament apply retroactively? That would invalidate every interspecies marriage from the past several hundred years! How does that make sense?"

"It makes sense! Fuck! That’s why we kept stressing that this marriage law is a huge political scandal, both in the worldbuilding and the main events!"

"No, fuuuck! Then what about taxes? Married and unmarried people would’ve been taxed differently, and all sorts of laws would’ve applied differently too. Are you making all of those retroactive? Is the chancellor’s office full of morons, then? This stupid bill just multiplied their workload by 3,000!"

"The kingdom’s on the brink of collapse because they’re morons!"

Dang Seorin and I glanced at each other’s faces.

‘We did schedule this for today, right?’

‘Yeah. Today, at this time.’

‘The illustrious guild leader of Three Thousand Worlds is gracing them with her presence, and instead of waiting with the front door open, they’re squawking and fighting among themselves? Are they human?’

‘No idea. Must be anomalies.’

Fortunately, both Dang Seorin and I had a natural aversion to entitlement. Whenever we were bored, we’d cast face-altering magic on ourselves and go touring restaurants together.

KNOCK KNOCK

I tapped the door-handle bell.

"This dumbass just won’t listen... Huh? Hey, hold on. I think someone’s here."

"Wait a second. Uh, who is it?"

Dang Seorin cleared her throat.

"Hello. I’m the guild leader of Three Thousand Worlds."

"Three Thousand... H-huh? Ohhh!"

CRASH BANG THUD!

A racket broke out on the other side of the front door.

"You crazy bastard!" "Why didn’t you tell us?" "No, I thought it was tomor—" "Fuck! Die! You fucking moron, just die!" "Put some clothes on! How many times have I told you not to walk around shirtless—" And so on.

In short, utter chaos.

I only learned much later—in the next run, in fact—that it was Dang Seorin, not the writers, who had mixed up the date. But in run 205, even Dang Seorin herself didn’t know that.

"Uh..."

The supreme sovereign of Three Thousand Worlds, who lacked a sense of entitlement but had continued enjoying actual privileges, was slightly flustered.

"Ah. Sorry, Undertaker. I didn’t know it would be this kind of meeting. I only came because someone who was my personal DM three years ago introduced me. Um... I just thought, since you like Romance of the Three Kingdoms, you might be interested in novels and writers too, so I suggested coming together..."

"Come to think of it, hasn’t it been quite a while since we took a walk together like this, aside from our restaurant tours?"

"Huh?"

"I enjoyed taking a walk with you for the first time in a while. That’s enough. You don’t need to apologize to me over every little thing like this."

"..."

"Isn’t it actually pretty funny?"

I grinned.

"A startup somehow uses its connections to invite Warren Buffett and Bill Gates to its offices. Then they forget the date and leave both of them standing outside the door. Absolutely insane. When else would we get to have such a rare experience?"

"... True. Yeah. It’s funny."

The atmosphere between us, briefly unsettled, relaxed at once. Dang Seorin’s usual faint smile returned.

We could turn back into mischievous children anytime, anywhere. Even as we waited at the building’s front door, we giggled and debated what to have for dinner.

The thirty-centimeter gap between us was short but packed full. There was no room left for a guild leader’s dignity, pride, or resentment over discourtesy.

"—W-we’re sorry!"

"We’ve committed an unforgivable offense! We’re sorry!"

So even when the writers, who had scrambled into what passed for formal attire, pressed their heads to the floor in a dogeza bow, we didn’t think much of it.

Dang Seorin chuckled softly.

"It’s all right. DM Moru referred me here, so there must have been a mix-up somewhere."

"No, we’re truly sorry! The mistake was on our end!"

The writers couldn’t bring themselves to raise their heads, like criminals guilty of high treason. Meanwhile, I had a chance to admire the interior of their shared residence.

"Hweh?"

For starters, fairies were floating around the living room. Five of them, no less.

"Comrade General Secretary Undertaker? What brings you here?"

"What about you?"

"We’ve been dispatched to assist with the work!"

The writers flinched, their heads twitching once more as they overheard my conversation with the fairy.

Their reactions were roughly, ‘U-Undertaker?’ ‘The one from the Tenlegs and Meteor Strike subjugation battles—’ and ‘What brings such a hero to a place like this?’ But they were so predictable that I’ll skip them. If I described every one of those reactions, about 50% of every installment would be the same content.

Only after things had calmed down a little did Dang Seorin get to speak with the DM in charge of accuracy checks. Meanwhile, I was able to talk with Writer A, the project’s director.

"Well... Um. So, we’re creating a dream world that runs entirely autonomously. It’s called <The Kingdom Project>..."

"Autonomously?"

"Ah, y-yes. Um. For example, suppose there’s a count in the kingdom in the dream world. We establish his background in fairly fine detail—what he’s been through, how he’s been hurt, what he thinks about those wounds, what events he’s currently caught up in, and so on..."

Writer A looked back at the fairy.

"We share those details with the tutorial fairies. Then, even if we DMs aren’t there to attend to customers, the fairies should be able to run the dream with a degree of realism on their own..."

Writer A wasn’t terribly inarticulate, but he wasn’t eloquent either. So I needed to distill his explanation into a simple, intuitive phrase.

"So if you’re the game developers, the fairies serve as its operators?"

"Ah, yes. Th-that’s right. Exactly..."

Writer A fumbled for words.

"O-of course, there may be details the operators can’t handle individually. In that case, the fairies and we can exchange feedback in real time..."

"Oh?"

"We just have to stay awake in the middle of the night, while the fairies are working anyway... W-we’ve already invited customers as beta testers and tried it out. Through six rounds..."

"Everyone was very satisfied!"

The fairy poked its head out beside him.

"Statistically speaking, the dreams in <The Kingdom Project> gave participants over 2,000% of the satisfaction of dreams we provide alone!"

"2,000%? More than twenty times as much?"

"Hweh! Exactly! Our Fairy Rights Commission has reached a consensus that we should actively participate in developing <The Kingdom Project>!"

I looked around the residence’s interior.

Setting notes covered the walls. Maps. Personal profiles for hundreds of major NPCs. Red, blue, and yellow threads crisscrossed like spiderwebs to show the relationships between the various details.

All the while, the fairy kept chattering as it munched on a Cheonhajangsa sausage.

"The fairy comrades who’ve been downhearted since Your Excellency the General Secretary banned us from running tutorials have especially regained their energy thanks to <The Kingdom Project>! In dreams, we can run as many dungeons as we like just like tutorials, and legally kill humans left and right!"

"—Wait."

I abruptly turned my head and caught the fairy by its shoulders.

"What did you just say?"

"Hweh? That we’re happy we can legally kill humans left and right?"

"No, the other thing. You run dungeons in dreams like tutorials?"

"Hwehh. Yep!"

"... It goes without saying, but dying in a dream doesn’t have any particular effect on people’s real lives, right?"

"Hweh. They might develop psychological trauma, but everyone knows it isn’t real, so it’s fine!"

"..."

I felt as though I’d been struck in the back of the head. Why on earth hadn’t I thought of such a simple idea before now?

Run 205. At this point, I’d established Dream Casino to provide people with enjoyment and circulate won through society under a dream standard.

I’d approached it solely from the perspectives of welfare and economics.

But Dream Casino—and the DM ecosystem built through it—held potential far more tremendous than welfare and economics.

"Mr. DM."

I looked at Writer A and said,

"Would you happen to need combat data on Tenlegs and Meteor Strike?"

"... Pardon?"

"I can provide detailed information on hundreds, thousands of anomalies. If you wish, I’ll invest whatever you need, without holding anything back."

That was right.

The vast virtual world the DMs had built could give ordinary people and awakened alike limitless practice, infinitely close to actual combat—

It was, quite literally, a tutorial dungeon.