The British Empire's favourite mystery novelist, Arthur Conan Doyle, had been feeling utterly disenchanted with life recently.
"Damn it, why!! Why does no one appreciate the appeal of my historical novels!!"
Almost a year had passed since he killed off Holmes, yet the public's obsession had only intensified, never diminishing.
Strand Magazine was in a frenzy, begging for even a short story as their sales had plummeted to a tenth of what they used to be, and he received threatening letters daily, demanding, "Bring Holmes back or face death."
There was even a fool who had recently held a funeral for Sherlock Holmes right in front of his house...
It wasn't surprising that Arthur Conan Doyle, once again pleading with Herbert Greenhough Smith, the editor of Strand Magazine, who had come to persuade him, grabbed him by the collar.
"I wrote something, didn't I!? Just read that!!"
"Well, um... sir. It is enjoyable, but..."
"Then why!!"
"To be honest, compared to Sherlock..."
"Aaaargh!!"
Even someone as strong-willed and brilliant as Arthur Conan Doyle couldn't help but suffer daily mental anguish.
He had lost touch with the Royal Literary Society, but honestly, they had never been much help anyway.
The biggest problem was...
"Arthur, it's noisy. Come and eat."
"Mother! Please, tell me honestly. Is my writing really that boring!?"
"Arthur."
Mary Josephine Doyle, Arthur Conan Doyle's mother, looked at her eldest son with pity and said,
"So why did you kill off Sherlock?"
"Grrr...!!"
Even his own mother, who should have been his greatest ally, was not on his side.
Was his ambition to become a renowned author of historical novels, the Homer of the 19th century, destined to be thwarted?
"No! I won't let that happen!!"
What mattered was an unyielding spirit.
No matter what, he would try again to write historical novels.
And he would show the British Empire the true face of 'literature,' different from trivial toilet scribbles like detective stories!
"Arthur, if you're going out today, could you do some shopping? We're out of celery."
"... I'm off to Scotland Yard! I have an appointment!"
First, he needed to clear his head.
Watching her son's sulking figure, Mary Doyle chuckled and said,
"Honestly, he's so insincere."
Seriously.
The biggest problem with her proud eldest son was his inability to be honest with himself.
***
Although he had fled in a way, it wasn't a lie that Arthur had business at Scotland Yard.
Though it wasn't for his historical novels but those damned, thrice-damned detective stories, his brilliant intellect was genuinely recognised.
Annoyingly, not by historians but by criminologists.
Honestly, it didn't seem like something a historical novelist should be doing, but what could he do? As a respectable citizen of London, it was his duty to lend a hand for the peace and safety of his fellow citizens.
Of course, the fact that there was a modest reward was also a significant reason.
However,
"You, you there?"
"Doctor?"
"What are you doing in a place like this? No, really, it's been ages!!"
It was the young Korean man he had met at the pub, who had left such a fresh impression on him.
Seeing him standing idly at the London police headquarters, Arthur Conan Doyle's face lit up as he rushed over.
"Where on earth have you been? Did you vanish into thin air or fall into the ground? I thought you had returned to your homeland!!"
"No, I've just been in England. I've been staying with an employer in Devon."
"Devon? Devon, you say? Ha ha ha! That explains it. No wonder I couldn't find you."
Devon, along with Cornwall, forms the southwestern tip of England.
Although Conan Doyle had always meant to visit, he had never actually been there.
If he had been in such a remote area, it was only natural he couldn't be found.
"Now that you mention it, Devon still has quite a local flavour, doesn't it?"
"Oh, yes. The house I'm staying at is quite an old noble family's estate. They're local gentry, so you might not know them."
"Local gentry, an old noble family, and a rural land... fascinating, intriguing."
Arthur Conan Doyle nodded and muttered to himself.
"A long-established local aristocrat. And the surrounding farmland, due to underdeveloped transportation, is difficult for people to access. The aristocrats, who lived like kings of a small kingdom, could not withstand the tides of time and were left with only one descendant. However, a hidden branch plotted and schemed to take over the inheritance... Hmm! No, no."
"Sir?"
Was it because he was at Scotland Yard? He shuddered at the realisation that he was once again thinking of detective story plots instead of historical novels.
This wouldn't do.
He steadied himself with the determination to write more literary works that could inspire the historical consciousness of London's citizens.
"Sorry, my mind has been a bit cluttered lately as things haven't been going well."
"Oh, it's fine. It happens."
"So, how have you been? Come to think of it, if you've been in Devon, you probably wouldn't know that your homeland became a bit of a topic of conversation."
"My homeland?"
Seeing the young man's startled face, wondering if he was talking about Joseon, Arthur Conan Doyle felt as if the confusion in his mind was clearing.
Yes, it was refreshing encounters like these that motivated him.
"Indeed, was it last year? The Royal Geographical Society presented a research proposal by Isabella Bird Bishop titled, what was it? 'A Project to Study the Nations, Geography, and Ethnic Characteristics of the Mongolian Peoples.' It included mentions of that country you came from, Joseon or Korea."
"Korea or Joseon, it's the same. Goryeo was the country in that region before Joseon was established."
"Hmm, so did the Joseon people come from elsewhere and conquer Goryeo? Like how the Germanic tribes conquered Gaul?"
"No, towards the end of Goryeo, the royal family mismanaged things greatly. It's a long story, but due to various issues and, perhaps, the Black Death? It led to great public unrest, and a powerful figure from the north, something like a marquis, led a coup. That's how the country was renamed Joseon."
"The Black Death! How fascinating."
Arthur Conan Doyle's eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a treasure.
Yes, such historical secrets genuinely intrigued him.
Not the cheap pulp fiction!
"The Black Death caused great devastation in Europe too. Did it also affect your country? But isn't that country at the eastern end of the Asian continent? How could an epidemic that swept through Europe reach Asia?"
"Oh, that's simple."
The young man smiled. Arthur felt as though he was about to hear a brilliant answer, like a lightning bolt illuminating the sky.
"Goryeo was also invaded by the Mongols."
"Aha! The Mongols! Indeed, the Mongol Empire, which stretched from the eastern end to Russia and Eastern Europe in the west and India in the south, was the largest empire in the world before the British Empire!"
Wait, then...
Arthur Conan Doyle's rich imagination quickly pieced together fragments of 19th-century knowledge about Asia.
"Amazing. So, it wasn't internal strife or external invasion that brought down the great Mongol Empire, but divine retribution!"
Good, very good.
With such a captivating subject and fresh perspective, he felt he could write a historical novel that would resonate with the current British Empire, which ruled the largest territory in the world.
Arthur, elated as a child, shook the young Korean's hand vigorously.
"Thank you, young man! You are truly an excellent muse for me! Last time, you provided inspiration for London's peace, and now you've given me excellent material for my writing!"
"Well, it's a bit awkward for a man to hear that."
"I feel the same. But what does it matter! What's important is that I can finally write a historical novel that will move London!"
"A historical novel? Weren't you a doctor?"
Oh, right, hadn't he explained?
Arthur Conan Doyle scratched his head, embarrassed.
Last time, he had only talked about his career as a doctor, so they hadn't even exchanged names or professions.
"Sorry, I didn't explain well enough."
"Oh, no, it's fine."
"Well, yes. I was a doctor, but I've since closed my practice. As I mentioned before, there were no patients."
"Oh... I'm sorry."
"No, but my side job was doing well."
"Ah, so that side job was writing historical novels, I presume?"
"Well, yes. To be precise, I don't only write history... Anyway, I think I can create a true masterpiece this time. With the material you provided, I believe I can!"
Arthur Conan Doyle spoke confidently.
Of course, the fact that he couldn't honestly admit that his previous work had failed made his confidence somewhat hollow, but his attitude remained assertive.
The young Korean, Hanslow Jin, watched him with a warm smile and asked,
"I see. If you don't mind, could you tell me what books you've written? I have a bit of an interest in novels myself and would like to read them."
"Ah... hahaha! Sure, I'll let you know later... ah. Well."
He couldn't tell him.
Honestly, how could he talk about a book that had failed so spectacularly that most people didn't even know it existed?
Just as Arthur Conan Doyle was awkwardly averting his gaze, someone called out.
"Mr Conan Doyle! Are you here?"
"Ah, Detective Hopkins!"
"What are you doing here when you said you were coming?"
"Huh? Ah, is it that late already?"
There was no choice.
Arthur Conan Doyle nodded, quickly took out a notebook from his pocket, scribbled something, and handed it to the bewildered Hanslow Jin.
"Young man, I've had such a good time that I lost track of time. If you have the time, make sure to come here. Got it? You must come!"
"Uh? Ah, yes. Um, I understand."
"Sir, quickly now!"
"Ah, alright! Mister, remember! I'll be waiting!!"
Arthur Conan Doyle shouted as he was dragged away by Detective Hopkins.
Left alone, the young Korean, Hanslow Jin, shouted in shock in a language no one could understand.
"No way, it was him?!"