Chapter 22 - The Reader II

4

I was immensely satisfied with the “Canned-Author Hotel” I had established.

A guilty conscience? I had no such thing. These authors would die pointless deaths in other runs anyway. Even the Saintess, who could fairly be called the embodiment of ethics, would give my actions a thumbs-up.

["... Mr. Undertaker."]

"Yes? What is it, Saintess?"

["... No. It's nothing."]

Above all, I really was saving the authors' lives.

Remember the monster I mentioned earlier, the “Reincarnation Truck”?

The Reincarnation Truck is a mysterious monster that randomly appears to web-novel readers. It announces, “I'll transport you to a world that faithfully brings every detail of your favorite novel's setting to life!” and then runs the reader over.

I'm not bullshitting. This monster actually exists.

If you're an avid web-novel reader, you might be walking down the street one day when suddenly you hear a horn blare.

HOOOOONK!

Turn your head, and an eleven-ton cargo truck will be barreling straight toward you.

Its distinguishing feature is a license plate bearing the title of a work instead of numbers.

Some people might rejoice—“Oh! Finally, I can escape this monster-infested, apocalyptic hellhole of a peninsula!”—and eagerly try to plant a kiss on the truck instead. Don't.

I let it hit me three times as an experiment, and dimensional travel, my ass. Nothing happened. It's another lying sack of shit of a monster, just like Hero Syndrome.

Anyway, these Reincarnation Trucks appear to authors as well as readers. After all, an author is also the very first reader of their own novel.

Meaning?

HOOOOOONK!

HONK! HOOONK! HOOOOONK!

HOOOOONK! HOOONK!

Cargo trucks began pulling up and parking one after another in front of my Canned-Author Hotel.

"Eeeek...! A whole bunch of strange trucks have gathered in front of our revolutionary hideout!"

Even the fairies, thoroughly inured to monsters, tilted their heads in wonder at the bizarre spectacle.

Those trucks were not to be underestimated.

No matter when or where a fictional protagonist walks, a Reincarnation Truck will use space-shrinking arts to pursue them without fail, then calmly disappear after the hit-and-run without facing any legal consequences.

Just look at the protagonists Reincarnation Trucks have murdered in fiction: world saviors, heroes, destroyers, masterminds, gods, self-proclaimed extras (the strongest of the lot), and so on. All towering heroes who could hold at least one world in the palms of their hands.

An anomaly with a résumé more than worthy of the epithet “Godslayer”!

Only a tutorial fairy, which had likewise butchered countless protagonists, could possibly stand against such a terrifying anomaly.

"No problems with the defensive wall?"

"None, Comrade Manager! However desperately those reactionaries struggle against the times, the dialectical advancement of the revolution is the purest, most exalted truth! History's evolutionary turn is a tide those bourgeois hired thugs could never dare reverse with their pathetic struggles!"

KABOOOOM!

As if to prove that statement, one of the eleven-ton trucks charged in from far away—it had suddenly materialized beyond the horizon—and rammed the hotel's main entrance.

But the entrance, which the fairies and I had worked together to barricade, remained intact. Only the truck crumpled like an aluminum can.

HOOOOONK...

HOOONK! HOONK...

The Reincarnation Trucks lined up in the parking lot sounded their horns, as though mourning their comrade's glorious death.

By contrast, the fairies on the balconies, their courage bolstered a hundredfold, wildly waved red flags printed with Che Guevara's portrait. Some were even sobbing through their tears.

"Ah, revolution! Revolution!"

"Drop dead, you fucking imperialists! Petty bourgeoisie!"

"Long live the commune of fairies of all nations!"

I nodded in satisfaction.

"Mm, good. The revolutionary vanguard is to continue defending the barricades. The success or failure of the revolution rests on this operation. Keep up the good work, everyone."

"Yes, Comrade Manager!"

"Viva la revolution!"

"Our dream will never end!"

The fairies saluted with a spirit that would have earned a standing ovation even from the citizens of Paris in 1871.

Behold how deeply I cared about the authors' welfare and safety.

Where would all those dozens of trucks have headed without the Canned-Author Hotel? I had saved not only the authors' lives, but their readers' lives as well. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say the Korean peninsula's entire web-novel industry now owed me its life.

And I wasn't asking much from the authors in return for such devotion. Novels. All they had to do was write novels.

If they'd just refill my empty food bowl with fresh feed, I could easily guarantee them food, shelter, clothing, and protection against Reincarnation Trucks for ten years or so.

After making my rounds of the security detail, I headed for the Secretariat (Editorial Department). Fairies with a distinctly more intellectual air than the guards greeted me.

"Ah, Comrade Manager. Welcome!"

"Yes. You're all doing good work. It's been a month since we canned the authors, so they should have built up a healthy backlog of chapters by now."

I gave the chief editor a warm, expectant look.

"Comrade Secretary No. 264. Bring me the novels we've accumulated."

"Understood!"

Fairy No. 264, who had secured a key position in the Secretariat this run, brought over the newly written works, fresh from the printer.

I waited with mounting anticipation, accepted the new works... and could hardly believe my eyes.

"What?"

The stack of A4 paper was a little—no, far too thin to represent a month's work by hundreds of authors.

Forget a whole novel. I could have believed it was a reasonably hefty collaborative zine.

"... Why is this all there is?"

"But this really is all there is!"

Unbelievable.

The authors, whom I'd asked only to write novels in exchange for food, shelter, clothing, and protection from Reincarnation Trucks, weren't actually writing novels!

Having just returned to the hotel today after spending a month completing my regressor duties—awakening Seo Gyu, cooperating with the Saintess, closing gates, nurturing promising talents, working with guild leaders, and so on and so forth—I was dumbstruck.

I'd endured the entire month looking forward to this day.

"I brought in no fewer than 335 authors, and there aren't even a hundred chapters...?"

The bundle of manuscripts in my hands trembled. My rage and disappointment, translated into a seismograph reading, had produced a magnitude-seven convulsion.

Authors who didn't write? What was the difference between them and unemployed layabouts? At least the unemployed felt anxious about pointlessly killing time when they watched movies or TV dramas. These so-called authors, on the other hand, patted themselves on the back: “I'm not playing around.” “Experience.” “Learning.” “I'm absorbing experience from movies and dramas.”

If there was no difference between the two professions—or non-professions—why should I spend my precious resources as a regressor taking care of complete freeloaders?

"How is this supposed to satisfy anyone?!"

"Are we sending them all to the gulag?"

"This is already a gulag... No, anyway, why would we send our precious writing slaves anywhere?!"

I slammed my fist onto the desk.

"Assemble the authors in the lobby immediately!"

A little later, the authors were summoned to the lobby.

But... huh?

'Haven't the authors... put on some weight?'

They waddled in.

Their average state of health hadn't exactly been stellar when I kidnapped them and brought them to the Canned-Author Hotel. But whatever they'd been doing to manage their diets over the past month, they'd become positively plump.

A little longer, and their faces would be shining twenty-four hours a day.

"... Authors. Your reader is deeply disappointed."

For the moment, I addressed them in a towering rage.

"If each person wrote just one chapter a day, that would be 335 chapters. Over a month, that's more than 10,000. Do you understand? Ten thousand chapters. And yet! Look at the manuscripts in your reader's hands."

"..."

"Ninety-one chapters! Ninety-one! Does that make any sense? And even that number is misleading: only twelve authors actually wrote anything! Out of 335, just twelve produced work!"

With a flourish, I scattered the A4 sheets from the podium. For the record, they weren't actual manuscripts, just blank paper. It was a bit of theater.

I couldn't really throw the work of brilliant writers onto the floor, could I?

Anyway, my performance worked. The authors' expressions changed.

"Even now, your reader is working tirelessly day and night for your safety and comfort! And what is this?! If you have any excuses, let's hear them!"

"Hmm..."

"Um..."

The authors discreetly averted their eyes.

"B-but... dear reader. Um, we're ashamed to admit it, but new works don't just pop out one after another like that..."

"... That's right. We tried everything to get something written—brainstorming, taking walks, sleeping—but we couldn't come up with anything that felt right."

"Dear reader! Planning a work takes longer than actually writing it! Especially when you're preparing something new."

"I hate to say this when we're living off your generosity, but objectively speaking, I think demanding ideas for new works in just one month was unreasonable to begin with."

"Hear, hear!"

"We really, truly weren't refusing to write. We wanted to, but the words wouldn't come. We want to write too. But we can't. It's driving us crazy...!"

The authors continued their chorus, trading lines like founding members of an a cappella choir that had been together for over a decade.

Their explanations gave me pause.

'... That sounds plausible.'

Certainly... I'd heard that creative work was an endless succession of suffering.

Some authors took as long as three or four years to start a new work after finishing their last one, didn't they?

Perhaps demanding a new work in just one month had been unreasonab—hmm?

"... Wait a moment. Only 126 authors here need to prepare new works. The rest of you were already serializing existing ones, weren't you?"

The authors flinched.

"Why couldn't those people write? People who were writing perfectly well without missing updates before moving into the hotel?"

"Adjusting to the environment...!"

The authors answered in chorus.

"A writing environment is an incredibly delicate thing. Some authors only write at home, some only write at cafés, and some rent separate studios to write in."

"But nobody writes in a hotel..."

"It's a totally different story."

"My rhinitis was so bad yesterday that I couldn't sleep. Even sitting in front of the monitor, my head was too foggy to write anything. You know that feeling when you don't even want to touch the keyboard?"

"Oh, I know exactly how that feels...!"

"I have so much time that I keep editing, revising, editing, revising. I'm trapped in the Infinite Tsukuyomi. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"In an unfamiliar working environment, you have to rebuild your writing habits from the ground up. Serialization is ultimately all about habit, you know?"

"As expected, fellow writers get it. Sigh. This is a very nuanced issue that outsiders who've never serialized something for a long time simply can't understand or relate to."

"Exactly. It really isn't easy."

Was that how it worked?

Certainly... I'd heard that creation required a delicate sensibility.

I'd taken over a luxury hotel in Incheon to provide communal living conditions as comfortable as possible.

They even received a generous allowance every week. You might wonder what use money was in a ruined world, especially in an enclosed environment they couldn't leave, but it was surprisingly useful.

'There's a casino in the hotel's basement, after all.'

Originally restricted to foreigners, it had now transformed into a paradise exclusively for authors.

The authors could use their monthly money as gaming funds and enjoy the casino to their hearts' content. Naturally, they could also spend money at the luxury shopping mall already housed in the hotel.

According to Fairy No. 264's report, the authors were extremely satisfied with these conditions and were making very frequent use of the casino.

Benefits bordering on perfection!

'But it is an unfamiliar environment.'

I nodded.

How could I, a mere reader, intrude upon the profound anguish and delicate emotions of creators?

I could read their minds using [Mind Reading], of course, but I felt that would fail to show my beloved authors the respect they deserved.

"Understood. Then I'll give you one more month."

"Well, a month is a little... At least three months..."

"Now, now. However difficult the work, every profession requires the diligence to push yourself. I believe in your diligence."

"Yeees..."

"We'll do our very best..."

A month passed.

I was handed seventy-five chapters.

"Why are there even fewer?!"

I couldn't contain my horror. How had this happened?

The fairy smiled brightly.

"But this is all there is!"

"No... Secretary. Does this make any sense? There are 335 of them. Three hundred thirty-five! Even if each wrote just one chapter a week, we'd have over a thousand chapters. But not even 750—seventy-five?"

I summoned the authors again and grilled them, but got the same answers.

And when you gave people two chances and got the same answers back, those answers were excuses.

Regrettably, I could no longer trust the authors. Come to think of it, perhaps I'd been looking at them through a filter of blind adoration from the start.

An expert. I needed an expert who could objectively analyze why this situation had occurred.

And when I sought one out for a consultation, I received an immediate answer.

"Are you an idiot? You've made things way too comfortable, mister."