The torn paper fluttered like autumn leaves, but instead of inspiring him, it only made him feel numb.
It was already the tenth time.
Despite having received a great idea, he was still struggling to write.
"Ughhh."
In hindsight, it made sense.
'The Mongol Empire, which once ruled the Old Continent, but fell due to the divine scourge of the Black Death.'
While it seemed like a good subject, the problem was… he knew almost nothing about the Mongol Empire.
Did they live in tents or buildings? What was their basic social structure? Did they drink mare's milk or wine?
One needed basic knowledge to picture it in their mind, then convert that picture into sentences, and arrange those sentences according to literary rules to form a novel.
'How could I have forgotten such basic things?'
Arthur Conan Doyle thought as he looked at the blank, white paper that seemed like a hellish void.
The blank space was small enough to cover with his two hands, yet it looked like the world's largest maze.
It was strange.
When he wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories he despised, he could effortlessly produce about 3,000 words a day with remarkable speed.
But now? He could barely write three words.
The ink of his fountain pen, which once flowed like a waterfall, was as dry as a drought in mythology, and his wrist, which used to move so fluidly, felt as heavy as if it were pressed by a stone. Even writing a single word seemed like an achievement.
"Phew..."
Why was this happening? He was writing a historical novel, something he truly loved. Why couldn't he write a single word?
"..."
No, to correct that, Arthur Conan Doyle already knew the reason.
It was fear.
'Even if I write this, can I surpass myself?'
Arthur Conan Doyle, the detective fiction writer.
He was the most formidable and detestable rival to Arthur Conan Doyle, the historical novelist.
Moreover, he had already been defeated four times.
Falling once and getting back up is called a challenge.
Falling twice and getting back up is called courage.
Falling three times and getting back up is called perseverance.
But what is it called when you fall four times and get back up?
Arthur Conan Doyle could only agonise.
Calling it an unbreakable spirit… was that just a delusion? Even though he knew the answer was stubbornness, was he merely turning a blind eye to the truth?
"Phew…! There's no helping it."
Arthur Conan Doyle took a deep breath and decided to take a break.
Sometimes, things just don't go well.
It was the same when he was studying medicine. At such times, it was best to step back and start over.
He needed to regain his beginner's mindset.
"Hmm, it's already this late."
The time he had written on the note he gave to that Korean young man was approaching.
He didn't know if the young man would come, but he should wait in advance.
Alright, since it's come to this, meeting the young man and refreshing his mind with the cool breeze of the East wouldn't be a bad idea.
With that thought, he stood up and noticed something placed in front of the locked door where he was writing.
"Huh? What's that…"
It was a magazine.
A very familiar titled and styled magazine.
Strand Magazine.
Even though the serialization contract had ended and there was no need to send it anymore, Newnes Publishing kept sending a copy as if to provoke him.
"Hmm."
Despite it being an object of love and hate, Arthur Conan Doyle, as a reader, couldn't give it up.
Moreover, the new cover suggested a new serial was starting.
And it seemed to be quite an anticipated work.
'There wasn't any hint of this in the last issue...'
His characteristic curiosity was piqued by the sense of an unknown conspiracy.
As he was about to flip through the magazine with interest, he saw it.
"...Hanslow Jin?"
Arthur Conan Doyle was bewildered by the unexpected pen name.
Of course, the concept of an exclusive magazine contract didn't exist at this time.
Arthur Conan Doyle himself occasionally sent a few short stories that weren't part of Sherlock Holmes to Temple Bar.
However, this work clearly deviated from such a trend. They had changed the cover, capturing attention with dark yet atmospheric illustrations, showing a significant transformation.
Yes, as if they were trying to change their flagship work...
With that suspicion in mind, he started reading Dawnbringer.
"This is...!"
Arthur Conan Doyle was astonished.
Although he had seen it before, Hanslow Jin had come up with a completely different type of work again.
"This time... is it a Gothic novel?"
No, it didn't seem quite gloomy enough to be a Gothic novel.
How should he put it... It felt like a mix of Gothic novel, detective fiction, and 12th-century chivalric literature.
It wasn't a fairy tale like Peter Perry, nor a book containing lessons or social criticism like Vincent Villiers.
"He really manages to create such different things one after another."
If there were any overlaps, he wouldn't have noticed, but each genre was groundbreaking. Even with such different elements, he maintained his own style and effortlessly presented them...
"In a way, it's enviable."
Suppressing the dark thoughts that had been quietly tormenting him, he began to check the contents.
"Hmm..."
It didn't take long for him to get lost in the sea of print.
It had an easy appeal like Peter Perry and a structure that allowed London citizens to immerse themselves like Vincent Villiers, yet it had a fresh dynamism as a full-fledged action novel that the other two lacked.
"... The mystery is somewhat ambiguous."
Of course, calling it a mystery was a stretch, as the development and process of the case were excessively brief and monotonous.
'He knew Mrs. Canis was a werewolf because he found a London pigeon feather on her collar? The process wasn't bad, but he could have spent some time with her to give more meaning and trickery to the feather...'
Without giving the reader a chance to guess the perpetrator, the answer was revealed as soon as curiosity peaked.
This killed the thrill of deducing the culprit.
Could it be that Hanslow Jin had never read a mystery novel?
'No, that's not it. He clearly grasped the basic stages of deduction and tension. He didn't miss out on using foreshadowing. These are difficult to achieve without an understanding of the genre.'
Simultaneously, a sentence in his mental notebook was revised.
─Hanslow Jin was likely someone who had read many mystery novels.
But if so, the question remained.
"Why did he write it like this?"
This work naturally broke the taboos of detective fiction.
Fundamentally, it used supernatural means to solve the case, and focused more on the reasoning (Why done it) rather than the means (How done it).
As if he originally considered mystery merely as a 'tool' to appeal to this world's setting or to provoke the readers' tension.
"If that's the case, then he saw it that way from the beginning... The approach is strange, the framework is completely broken. It's similar to that of a madman."
Breaking existing frameworks is not easy for anyone, no matter how brilliant they are.
Of course, humans view and think about the world based on their experiences.
Could a human understand how the feathers on the tip of a wing feel or how to move a tail?
That's impossible.
If it were possible, then such a person would either be a madman whose framework was broken or someone who had 'experienced' an entirely different framework.
What remains, no matter how unbelievable, is the truth... So, was Hanslow Jin a madman?
'No, that's not it either.'
His writings clearly followed certain rules. Sometimes, they proceeded as if solving a puzzle, following a kind of prescribed answer.
It wasn't just inspiration or a sudden flash that created his writings.
They didn't have the peculiar, distorted balance typical of the insane.
It was as if... he had really lived in another world.
"...I see. It wasn't impossible."
A man who gave him a similar but different refreshing feeling came to mind.
That Korean young man.
He conversed fluently in English, but fundamentally, the values underlying his thoughts were vastly different from those of a European like himself.
If so...
Another sentence was added to his mental notebook.
─Hanslow Jin was... a person who grew up in a different cultural sphere, not Europe.
He couldn't be certain. But likely, he hadn't grown up in Europe. He was too distinctly different for that.
Then he lowered his gaze to confirm the word written on the side of the cover.
A hero of London.
That seemed to be the identity of this work.
A hero... Honestly, it wasn't the type of character he liked.
Childish, unnecessarily serious, and full of pretence.
The transformation scenes were also puzzling. They struck poses, expending energy, and only changed outfits just before the fight. Why didn't they come dressed beforehand?
And why on earth did the enemy not attack in such a defenceless state?
Moreover, what was that strange pose they took just before finishing off the enemy?
It was the pinnacle of inefficiency, with not a trace of usefulness.
But.
'It did look... cool!'
The fact that it was a clumsy deduction, nearly failing as a detective novel, didn't matter much.
How often had he, while writing Sherlock Holmes, found himself concocting unrealistic deductions due to a lack of ideas, and how often did he want to kick himself for it?
The point was, it wasn't about whether it was genuinely realistic or not.
What mattered was how much that deduction made the detective appear 'impressive' and 'natural'.
And when Arthur Conan Doyle closed the short story, he had to admit that he had accepted 'Baron Edmund Ehrhardt' as a character.
"...Phew."
Arthur sighed deeply.
He had to admit, he thoroughly enjoyed Hanslow Jin's new novel.
And he was confused.
He was certain that he loathed works where someone with supernatural abilities played a prominent role, works that were childish and unnecessarily pretentious...
That stance was entirely opposite to what he had shown so far.
In an instant, he realised.
"Ha, so that was it."
The character 'Baron Edmund Ehrhardt' in DawnBringer. He realised why he felt a strange sensation when looking at him.
He resembled Sherlock Holmes, a creation of his own.
Of course, their actions and speech differed. A frivolous nobleman masking himself with debauchery and luxury was quite different from Sherlock's exterior.
But... their core was identical.
Yet, while he detested Sherlock to the point of wanting to kill him off, he felt affection and enjoyment for 'Baron Edmund Ehrhardt'. What a contradiction.
So did he really hate Sherlock Holmes?
No, before that.
'Why did I write Sherlock Holmes?'
Boredom was not the answer.
Of course, the dearth of customers that even the most tenacious tax collector would turn away from did play a part. He did have too much free time.
But if that were the case, he would have refined the historical novels he used to write instead of committing the 'deviation' of writing detective fiction.
Yet, he did commit the deviation.
The reason was.
'Yes, it was just one thing.'
It was because it was fun.
Out of the novels that alleviated his boredom, detective fiction was the most entertaining genre.
Fun is contagious.
He wanted to be a carrier of that contagion himself, and so he developed a desire to entertain people.
In the dreary London, with crimes happening every day, he wanted to give people hope.
In this harsh world, was there no salvation? Did God truly exist beyond the fog and dark clouds that obscured the blue sky?
Maybe not. No, there had to be.
Thus, he created a young consulting detective who would act as God's spokesperson, clarifying crimes and living as a close neighbour to the citizens of London.
Unable to tolerate injustice, but too honest to dress it up as 'fun'.
Able to do anything for a friend, but having to pretend to be cold to keep his intellect sharp.
Loving art and staying true to his emotions, but being as logical as a blade with his aquiline nose.
It could have been Arthur Conan Doyle himself or his respected mentor Joseph Bell.
Initially, he wrote the novel with an excited heart, but when did those feelings start to change...
Mechanically conjuring plots in his mind, mechanically working out devices, and mechanically writing.
He lost interest that way.
"Hero."
Arthur Conan Doyle, reflecting on himself, focused on a word that came to mind by chance.
Hero.
Yes, he wanted to create a hero.
Like a doctor treating a wound or a whaling ship targeting a whale lurking in the sea.
A hero who watched and dealt with the criminals lurking behind London's sea-like fog, targeting ordinary people.
A hero who, on one hand, would be a star of hope for people, and on the other, would whisper to someone that they could still stand by people's side.
He wanted to create such a hero.
"Ha, ha ha. Ha ha ha ha!!"
Arthur Conan Doyle was suddenly filled with exhilaration.
Yes. Come to think of it, the historical novel Ivanhoe and the great chivalric novel Don Quixote were, in different forms, stories about heroes.
"This is interesting. Truly, I couldn't see what was right under my nose."
It felt like the scales fell from his eyes. Like the worm gnawing at his brain vanished. Like a stone pressing down on his lower abdomen shattered.
His body felt light. Just picking up the pen made him feel good.
"Now, I'm not afraid of anything."
***
"He's late..."
The same pub where he first met Arthur Conan Doyle.
I was still grumbling as I watched the door, where only the wrong people kept coming and going.
Who was it that suggested we meet, only to be this late?