Outcast.
East of the medieval wall of the City of London, northeast of the Thames, Eastend of London.
This name always followed the slums, including Whitechapel.
A street abandoned by the country and forsaken by God, a street of betrayal, poverty, gloom, and sin.
Even if Jack the Ripper, Aaron Kosminski, had been executed, nothing would have changed. It only meant one barbershop with no customers closed its doors.
Even without murder, prostitutes were killed. The only difference was that the killer wasn't Jack.
The killer was sometimes disease, sometimes starvation, and sometimes drugs.
Unlike Jack, these killers had no tangible form, making them even crueler and more common.
Day laborers were no exception. Workers were no exception.
Even age didn't matter... though elderly deaths were rare since they usually died before reaching old age.
By rough estimate, about one million. Twenty percent of London's five million population lived like that. It was an idyllic society within the venomous solitude.
However, within that solitude, a completely different breeze had been blowing for just a few years.
Walter, who ran a general store on Old Street at the eastern edge of Whitechapel, felt it clearly.
*Ding ding*
Walter lowered his newspaper at the familiar voice that rang out with the bell on the door.
There, a man, wrapped in a dark, dirty, ragged coat, approached while pulling down his hat.
"Walter, did 'it' arrive?"
"Back again, Dick?"
The thick cigarette smoke under the dim light obscured their faces, but they didn't care.
After all, they were used to each other's rough faces.
"If it's what you want, it's here. Luckily, there's only one left."
"Oh!"
Dick extended his hand eagerly. Walter stubbed out his cigarette and pulled out what Dick wanted from under the counter.
The latest issue.
It was a rare gem in Whitechapel.
The reason was simple. The poor of the East End, regardless of age or gender, were too poor, too busy, and most importantly, too ignorant to enjoy high-class cultural activities like reading books.
No demand meant no supply, and no bookstores meant no books to buy. The invisible hand that the great economists praised had done its job.
Old Street was close to East London College, so Walter, who ran the general store, also handled books and magazines.
He did so to buy and sell old books for poor students.
Recently, however, he started purchasing magazines himself. It was all thanks to a certain book.
Look at Dick, who came now, staring at it with engrossed eyes. No, he was already immersed.
Walter smiled at the sight. It wasn't just the smile of a merchant selling books.
The old Dick wouldn't have given a second glance to this bundle of words.
But lately, Dick had been spending more money on these words than on Sally, the pretty redhead, or the lukewarm beer he lived on daily.
Well, maybe "wasting" is a bit harsh. After all, it only cost a shilling (about ten thousand won).
Anyway, he had cut back on other expenditures and focused on buying and reading a book once a month.
Thanks to that, he was probably saving money and his life was becoming more stable.
As a neighbor and friend, Walter naturally smiled and said, "I never thought a drunkard like you would get so into books."
"I had dreams too, Walter."
Dick spoke with a bitter voice. Walter nodded.
In this city where even the sky wasn't allowed, there wasn't a single person who hadn't longed for the blue sky that occasionally appeared.
It didn't matter if it was day or night. By day, it was enough to let a piece of one's worn-out heart drift into the endlessly blue sky. By night, it was enough to let it drift into the yellow sea of stars.
And *The Fairyland* was such a novel.
Even an illiterate like Dick, who didn't know an "a" from a snail shell, could read it with some effort. And the more you read, the clearer your mind became.
Scenes of Peter and Posher playing with innocent, pure fairies felt like regaining lost innocence.
When the paradise of fairies was attacked by dark fairies, Fiends, memories of homes overturned by debt collectors or gangsters were revived.
And when Peter finally saved the fairies and the school... one could only wish for such an opportunity.
It was a futile and painful, but at least in that moment, a warm and fulfilling feeling.
Much more wholesome than pleasures like opium, alcohol, or prostitution.
Walter hadn't smelled alcohol or opium on Dick for quite some time.
So Walter supported Dick.
"By the way... Walter, have you read the new issue?"
"Me? I haven't had a chance. My daughter always comes first and takes it."
"Oh dear."
Watching Dick's pitying expression, Walter felt a strange sensation. Could that guy make such an expression? That rascal Dick?
And Walter was truly surprised by Dick's next words.
"Then, would you like to read it with me?"
"... Would that be alright?"
"I should repay you for setting aside my copy."
"Ha."
He really had become a person.
Walter realized that the Dick who got drunk and almost killed someone no longer existed.
"Can people really be reformed?" Walter thought as he approached Dick. Separate from Dick's rehabilitation, he himself was also an avid reader, so there was no reason to refuse the offer.
Thus, the two middle-aged men at the corner and bottom of East End huddled together and opened the book.
Under the usual yellow sky, they longed for the blue sky that soothed their hearts.
And then,
"Huh, huh?"
"What, what is this?!"
A meteor fell from the sky.
Peter panted heavily.
It had been a tough fight. All his strength was drained from his body.
Bargest, the Beast King.
The third king of the dark fairies was strong. The Black Dogs that made up "him"... no, "them" were also formidable.
But now it should be okay. He had defeated them all. He was completely exhausted, but it wouldn't matter.
He had defeated every last one.
At that moment, he thought,
*Stab.*
─ Why, why?
Peter's eyes, filled with shock, turned behind him.
Irruril.
His first fairy friend, whom he had met, was stabbing a knife into Peter's chest.
─ I'm sorry.
─ ...
─ I'm sorry, Peter.
Peter couldn't respond to her words.
A stopped heart cannot speak.
Now, let's turn history forward by about 100 years, and across the globe to South Korea.
In the early 21st century, the literary world of this country was strictly divided into two classes.
Pure literature, represented by the literary establishment, and genre literature, which emerged from PC communication in the 1990s with works like *Goodbye Telephone*, and had since entered its fourth generation. This was the so-called web novel market.
Of course, within this division, there existed the science fiction market, which had zero presence. It was in a worse state than pure literature, which had neither honor nor money and was withering away while consuming taxes, so we'll skip over that.
In the genre literature market, there was only one way to survive since *Necromancer* by Gaepo Joe.
Entertainment.
It could be as provocative as needed for the sake of fun. It could be as shocking as needed.
Under the protection of the Publishing and Communication Act and the publishing cartel, pure literature writers were rotting away like flowers in a greenhouse. Meanwhile, web novel writers were honing their skills, focusing solely on the theme of entertainment in the hellish and endless competition.
They studied writing techniques that were banned in pure literature to attract more readers and control their emotions.
Thus, countless unique techniques were born in the world of genre literature.
Despite being mocked for their cringe-worthy lines, they produced 'wind escape mouth techniques' with definite impact.
There was the 'continuous slicing divine skill,' where writers broke the unspoken rule of one chapter a day, posting two to three chapters, and sometimes even up to five.
There was the 'soda pass,' which boldly omitted dull and boring development, opting for fast-paced and powerful narratives.
There was the 'morning star over the fireplace,' which delivered a metaphorical sledgehammer to the back of the head after lulling the reader into a warm atmosphere.
Each technique aimed to stimulate the peripheral nerves and addict readers, making them seem like the dark arts designed to corrupt minds.
Most of these techniques were borrowed from foreign novels or related media like comics, but that wasn't all. Some were derived from ancient methods passed down and developed into dark arts.
One such method was the supreme black magic created by Charles Dickens and established by Thomas Hardy, the cliffhanger.
This evolved into the 'severance dark art,' a technique that cleverly cut off at a suspenseful climax, tempting readers to pay eagerly for the next installment. Victims experienced dizziness and an insatiable craving for the next chapter.
It was an essential skill for a high-earning master writer.
Thus, Jin Han-sol, when writing web novels under the pen name Hanslow Jin, used this ultimate dark art as naturally as breathing, and his internal energy was profound.
If Charles Dickens, the black magician who had died 20 years earlier in a fit of madness, were to return and observe, he would have been impressed by the depth of his successor's technique.
However.
Only those who had mastered the dark arts themselves could appreciate the pure brilliance of these techniques.
There were many reasons why these techniques were called dark arts, but the reason the severance dark art was black magic from its inception was simple.
It was a dark art that invoked deep-seated sins within a person's heart!
And wrath was one of the seven deadly sins designated by Christianity long ago.
In other words,
"Hey, you bastards!!"
"What the hell is this situation?!"
"You filthy devil's spawn!!"
Crash!!
The glass window, made as narrow as possible to avoid window tax, shattered easily. And with the fist-sized stone, burning smoke rushed in.
Such an excellent pitcher, why wasn't he playing cricket instead of doing this?
Before resolving this question, Bentley Publishing's editors frantically extinguished the fire on the floor and blocked the door.
"What, what do we do?!"
"First, the manuscript! We must protect the manuscript!!"
"Someone was supposed to come from the printing house today!!"
"Block them! We must end this here! We cannot let it go to the printing house!!"
They thought, where exactly are we? Charing Cross Road in London, or the battlefield in the Crimean Peninsula?
No, the battlefield would be better. At least soldiers had reliable Martini-Henry rifles against enemies, but what could editors use against angry readers? Fountain pens?
With no way to stop it, the situation descended into uncontrollable chaos. It was hellfire itself.
Amidst the chaos, Richard Bentley Jr., vice president of Bentley Publishing, editor-in-charge of Hanslow Jin, and practically the third president, shouted valiantly,
"Hang in there! We must protect the manuscript at all costs!"
"Vice President, are we important, or is the manuscript?!"
"Of course, the manuscript!!"
At that moment, Bentley thought it was strange.
The building was burning, so why did it suddenly feel so cold?