"A new project... you mean you'd write another piece?"
"Yes, that's right."
I said calmly, but surprisingly, Bentley's expression was lukewarm.
Why? If the monthly magazine felt burdened, wouldn't it be better for me to contribute another piece?
When I asked, Bentley nodded and said,
"Of course, if you submit a manuscript for the monthly magazine, we couldn't ask for more. Most of the subscribers to the weekly magazine are, to be honest, your fans. If you help out, those who might leave for the weekly magazine would likely buy both."
"Then why do you look so unenthusiastic?"
"Well, even though is at its peak popularity, it hasn't fully settled in the market yet. I think it needs to stabilize as a genre format a bit more..."
Ah, so that's his concern?
A hiatus.
' I absolutely don't mean to neglect "Peter Ferry and the Fairy Forest". '
I shook my head firmly.
Do you think I'm a fool? Just when a serial novel selling like this at just 3+α volumes?
I already felt that I couldn't finish a novel without writing at least eight volumes.
And.
"As you know, I write quite quickly."
"That's true."
"So, while I had some time, I wrote a new work."
As I said that, I handed over the first volume and plot notes of my next project, which I created while writing the third volume of this series.
Bentley's eyes widened in surprise.
"What, when did you...?"
"Haha, it's no big deal."
To be honest, it was a bit of a stretch, but there's no need to mention that.
I smiled as I watched Bentley skim through the manuscript.
The new manuscript was titled "Vincent Villiers".
It was a work inspired by the vivid sights of 19th-century London.
Since it was a children's novel, this time, I aimed for a slightly older audience.
This era was the late 19th century, and for adult genre literature at that time, it was definitely...
"This is... a revenge story."
"I used as a motif."
I said without missing a beat.
Of course, there were some elements borrowed from Alexandre Dumas, so it wasn't a complete lie.
The protagonist of this new work, Vincent, originally came from a labourer background in the East End and didn't even have a proper last name. He was just called Vincent.
Determined that he couldn't live like this, Vincent became a lawyer through sheer effort and succeeded to the point where he became the exclusive tax advisor and administrator for the fictional "Duke Villiers" family.
However, the Villiers family framed Vincent for tax evasion, slush funds, and smuggling, and killed him. Vincent died with a vow of revenge in his heart.
But lo and behold.
Vincent woke up to find himself as the youngest grandson, Vincent Villiers, who had been cast out by the Villiers family!
From then on, Vincent used all the knowledge he had about the Villiers family's corruption and his own abilities to take away the most precious things from those who killed him—their money, honour, and even the family name.
In other words, this wasn't just a simple revenge story.
To be precise, it was a type of revenge story mixed with the popular 'chaebol story' in the web novel industry.
The fundamental appeal of this genre was the vicarious satisfaction of social mobility and the refreshing comeuppance of an incompetent and immoral elite who monopolized power unjustly.
Therefore, the more impossible the social mobility, the better it sold, and the more incompetent the elite, the more satisfying it felt.
In Korea, where social mobility was somewhat possible through personal success, and where the elite appeared competent in a meritocracy society, this genre sold extremely well.
So, in the British Empire, where social mobility was even more blocked and the elite were even more incompetent.
In this society, where the lower classes resigned themselves to their birth limits, and the division between uptown and downtown was evident even in language.
Moreover, in a hierarchical society where inept aristocrats like Winston 'The Gallipoli' Churchill strutted around with pride, what would the reaction be?
I could confidently say that the vicarious satisfaction would be no smaller than in Korea, if not greater.
Well, of course...
"Author... this is dangerous."
There was that much danger, too.
I chuckled as I looked at Bentley.
"Is it shocking?"
"Of course! No matter how much realist novels and social criticism are in vogue these days, this is too much! If it goes wrong..."
"Mr. Bentley."
I interrupted him and asked.
"For now, set aside those trivial concerns."
"Trivial concerns, you say."
"So... is it interesting? Or not?"
Bentley's mouth clamped shut like it was glued.
It seemed he wanted to say something, but his resolve didn't materialize.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his nostrils flared. Anyone could see he was desperate.
In other words.
He couldn't refute my point.
"Is it interesting?"
"... Tsk. Author, you're a devil."
"It's okay, it's okay. I understand."
I chuckled as I said that.
"Don't worry. I assure you, nothing as bad as you fear will happen."
"But."
"Criticizing the elite is common in this era, isn't it?"
I spoke nonchalantly.
Although I had said something grandiose earlier, in this era, the values of the old generation—such as lineage or religion—were starting to give way to monetary power.
The rise of the bourgeoisie, the decline of royal authority. It was an era where glimpses of true materialism were emerging.
Even in the England I lived in, the Christian treatment in novels was abysmal for a reason.
Aristocrats were no different.
Being treated like a beggar just because they lacked money, and noble characters being depicted worse, showed that lineage didn't hold the same power as before.
In other words, although it seemed shocking, it wasn't laden with as profound ideology as one might think.
It was merely seeking literary fun with a touch of petty revenge.
Finding treasure and becoming a noble was a theme even in .
"So, Mr. Bentley, just think about this one thing."
I whispered to Bentley.
"Is it interesting or not? And... will it sell or not?"
"Author..."
"What do you think? Is this book interesting? Will it sell?"
"Honestly speaking."
Bentley, pale and trembling, yet managed to say calmly.
"It would be more stable for us if you focused on Peter Ferry and the Fairy Forest."
"Yes, I understand."
I nodded.
Peter Ferry and the Fairy Forest's sales were already a certainty. For the publisher, maintaining the certainty was much better. Variables are basically gambling.
"This work, too, has a high potential for polarization."
"That's true, indeed."
But I remained confident.
I had already seen in Bentley's eyes the look of a businessman sure of a gold mine, and the gaze of a reader who had found an exciting story.
"But... personally, I really want to see the manuscript of this."
"Look forward to it."
You will not be disappointed.
I grinned as I shook Bentley's hand.
***
Around the same time, in London.
Jingle, jingle.
"Jim, how have you been?"
"Welcome, Mr. Doyle."
Arthur Conan Doyle looked around as he entered the pub. It was something he had been doing for the past few months whenever he came to the pub.
Jim sighed and shook his head.
"Sir, he didn't come again today."
"…Really? That's a shame, a real shame."
Arthur Conan Doyle sighed sincerely.
A few months ago, he had met an enigmatic Oriental man at this very pub… Korean, was it? Anyway, a young man from that country.
As rumored, his skin had a yellowish tint typical of East Asians, but it was lighter than expected. He wasn't short; in fact, he was rather tall.
He spoke English fluently, and most notably, he possessed far superior intuition compared to average Europeans.
Indeed, eugenics or racial theories held no meaning.
Arthur Conan Doyle's belief in this notion grew stronger.
And he wanted to meet that young man again.
He wanted to meet him once more and stimulate his intellect further.
But… why hadn't he come?
Why hadn't he shown up? Jim's cooking was undoubtedly among the best in London. Once tasted, it would be unforgettable…
"Sigh, it can't be helped. Give me an ale first."
"Understood. But sir, are you sleeping well? You don't look well."
"Oh dear. You've become quite the detective yourself."
Arthur sighed deeply and shook his head. Jim was right.
"It's no fun."
"Hmm, what do you mean?"
"Life, life is no fun."
Arthur grumbled like a child, and Jim couldn't help but smile wryly.
Arthur was now famous as the author of a best-selling series, often compared to children's literature like .
But he was adamant.
─Detective novels have no literary value whatsoever! What I want to write are historical novels that will be remembered in literary history!
But what was the point?
Even his meticulously crafted historical novels didn't sell at all!
Jim wanted to ask, "Isn't it good enough that it sells well?" but Arthur Conan Doyle vehemently disagreed.
─Tell a lion to graze on fine grass. Give a deer the best meat! Do you think they'll appreciate it?!
He wasn't wrong.
Jim knew Arthur's temperament well, so he silently served the ale he ordered.
Arthur Conan Doyle sighed and slumped into his usual seat.
Normally, he would bring writing materials and parchment and write 3,000 words a day.
But today, he wasn't in the mood.
His mind was too dull. At this rate, it would be better to just get drunk and fall asleep.
Then, a familiar magazine caught his eye.
"Hmm, is it ?"
Arthur Conan Doyle reached out and opened it.
He was a popular novelist, albeit reluctantly, and his writing skills came from extensive reading.
Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, and… Hanslow Jin.
A new writer who appeared like a comet in the otherwise stagnant English literary scene, much like himself.
While his writing was too popular for Arthur's taste, he, now a father of two, thought he should read some children's literature, including "Peter Ferry and the Fairy Forest".
In his view, Hanslow Jin was a unique writer.
He paid little attention to rhythm or vocabulary, elements highly regarded in English literature.
His sentences were oddly short, and there was an unusual amount of dialogue. Yet, the grammar and plot were quite conventional and easy to follow.
This combination created writings that were suitable for preschoolers.
However, it wasn't devoid of depth.
His skill in controlling pace and technique made the brain and heart feel thrilling.
Yet recently, nothing he read seemed to move him, leading him to avoid books altogether.
Was this what a slump felt like? It was deeply depressing.
"Where did I leave off…"
Arthur sighed and slowly turned the pages of the magazine.
Jim, astutely, had stocked all the issues published over the past year, including Temple Bar and Weekly Temple.
And then.
"…Did they kill Peter?"
He couldn't believe it.
Arthur Conan Doyle murmured in awe.
Of course, killing the protagonist in a serialized novel was common. And there had been some foreshadowing in .
From the scene where Iluril was bitten by the black dog under the Beast King Barguest, to the subtle descriptions of 'erosion.'
He had suspected such a turn, but he never imagined they would actually do it!
After all, wasn't this fundamentally a children's book? To kill the protagonist, even momentarily, in such a book…
The words of the Oriental youth flashed through his mind.
'No, is it just our perception that it's a children's book?'
Hanslow Jin had never explicitly said it was a 'children's book.'
If that were the case, this death made sense.
Death was an inseparable element of literature. How it was used could turn it into great art.
Hanslow Jin must have thought the same and incorporated death… death, death…
"Wait a minute."
Arthur's body stiffened.
Could this be… usable?
His gray cells started crafting sentences furiously.
Moments later, Arthur clutched his forehead and burst into laughter.
"Hahaha! Yes, this is it. This! This will free me! Finally, I can sleep peacefully!"
It was a refreshing laugh he hadn't had since parting ways with the Korean youth and capturing Jack the Ripper.
Some time later.
The manuscript of Sherlock Holmes, a bit earlier than expected in history, arrived at Strand Magazine.