Rave Reviews
Alan thought, This isn't the development I had in mind. He braced himself for the scolding. A single reprimand, and it'd be over. He'd already steeled himself for that much.
His mother, who had always shielded him, was away now for recuperation. Whatever the Duke of Mueller—his father—had to say, he had no grounds to argue back.
But still, this is a bit much... The greatest literary giant on the continent? Sure, he was confident he could achieve some success. In a world where novels were little more than pretentious tomes reserved for nobles' edification. If he wrote like the webnovels from his past life, even those haughty aristocrats would be hooked...
Ah, right—I was a murim writer. He could already feel the curses bubbling up.
For sixteen years, he'd picked up and set down the pen over and over. Alan Edgar von Mueller wasn't a fantasy novelist. In this world, he specialized in the unfamiliar genre of murim.
Huh? As his expression soured at the realization of what kind of author he'd been, the Duke of Mueller's voice rang out again.
"If you're so confident, prove it. If you're skipping the Knight Faculty and refusing the path of the sword, then demonstrate your own talent. If you're choosing the pen over the blade, you've prepared for this much, haven't you?"
He'd been properly cornered. Alan forced down his uneasy expression and replied.
"Yes."
"Good. Give it a try. You no longer need to attend sword training."
The Duke of Mueller turned away. Staring at his father's massive back, Alan swallowed dryly. To the knights' eyes, his face probably looked ashen as death.
I'm screwed... Royally screwed.
Cold sweat trickled down Alan's cheek.
"Alan Mueller, you absolute idiot moron...!"
The moment he returned to his room, Alan flung himself onto the bed and rolled around like a ball. Boldly declaring he'd take up the pen? Fine, that gave him legitimate grounds to skip sword training.
The problem was the goal that had been forcibly set in its place.
"The greatest literary giant on the continent? That's overkill!"
He suddenly wanted to rewind time. Alan buried his face in the pillow and sighed.
"Damn it..."
His head was already starting to throb. But he knew wallowing like this wouldn't change a thing. If whining fixed problems, the world would've already turned upside down.
Bolting upright to sit on the edge of the bed, Alan began scribbling down every scrap of murim knowledge he could recall.
"Gotta blend it with Eastern continent culture to make it plausible."
The region corresponding to the East here was called Kun'Rung, but he had no details on whether it leaned Japanese or Chinese in flavor. First things first: catalog every bit of murim info he remembered. Only then could he start.
"But why does the pronunciation feel familiar...?"
Spelled as Kun'Rung. Comparing it to the notes he'd jotted, a strange doubt creased Alan's brow.
"Sounds a lot like Kunlun?"
He rolled the sound around in his mouth. Kun'Rung. Eerily similar to the Chinese pronunciation of Kunlun: Kunlun.
It was a subtle discovery he might not have caught if he hadn't been a writer in his past life.
"Why the similarity?"
The question lingered only briefly. Exhausted from sorting info, Alan set down his abused quill and tilted his head back. His neck cracked with a sharp pop.
"Ugh!" Groaning, he stretched. Bones creaked all over his body.
"...So, how should I write it?"
Picking up the ink-dipped quill again, Alan pondered. Keeping the imagery of murim sects intact but adapting terms for this world's people to grasp—that alone was a headache. But with the homework from his father, he couldn't just sit idle. It was also about proving his writing beat this world's stiff novels.
"Gotta nail down the setting first."
Ideas swirled in his mind. This was a full-blown fantasy world. Elves, dwarves, beastkin, demons—races straight out of fantasy tales existed here.
"Demons as an Evil Emperor Cult, elves, beastkin, and dwarves forming their own sects based on unique sword arts or other martial skills, passing them down generations and taking disciples... Yeah."
How to pull it off? Alan chewed the quill tip, lost in thought.
"Right—revenge saga, the ultimate cliché."
Alan set the quill moving. The epic begins with the protagonist, whose sect is utterly destroyed by a irredeemable villainess, losing his family-like senior brothers, washing up in a village by the sea.
"But start peaceful, though."
That way, the massacre hits harder. Joy sparked in Alan's eyes as his quill flew across the page.
"This is his first attempt...?"
A few days after Alan's bombshell declaration, the Duke of Mueller sat in his study, reading the manuscript draft brought by Alan's exclusive maid.
I knew he was always interested in this, but... it's beyond expectations.
The result, delivered as if he'd been waiting, exceeded imagination. Come to think of it, Alan had shown a particular aversion to the sword since childhood. Back then, he hadn't dwelled on it. No matter the stubbornness, House Mueller was a sword family. He'd assumed Alan would eventually yield and take the blade's path.
But reading it now, he understood.
He was never meant for the sword.
Holding a ducal title in the empire meant more than martial prowess. Though misunderstood as muscle-headed for forging his house with the sword, knights were mostly nobles. They cultivated refinement. To the duke's eye, Alan's novel would undoubtedly shake the empire's literary world to its core.
"Meia."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Have you read this?"
"I haven't received permission from Young Master Alan."
Meaning no. The duke propped his chin.
"Not as his father, but Alan will bring a massive storm to the empire with this alone. It's on a different trajectory from the stuffy, humanities-text-like novels so far. Shocking."
The duke had read many novels himself. Under the guise of self-cultivation, he'd spent no small time with books over swords. Otherwise, he'd be dismissed as uncultured in noble society. No fool would say it to the Sword King's face, but backbiters were everywhere.
The duke had heard the whispers dismissing him countless times.
"Shocking, you say..."
"Meia. What do you think a novel is?"
"A more accessible breakdown of edifying texts, I suppose..."
"In commoners' terms?"
"...Utterly boring."
Blunt. But rather than offend, the duke burst into laughter. He seemed genuinely amused.
"Exactly. Refined: stiff. Common tongue: utterly boring. Nobles use novels as tools to flaunt knowledge in debates."
Contempt laced his words, sincere disdain.
"Writer's a noble, reader's a noble. Endless florid nonsense—you hack through it for the core. Often, dozens of lines lead to one hollow conclusion. That's why I despise this nation's so-called literati."
Meia waited silently, lips sealed. As a maid, she knew her place: await her master's words.
The duke continued.
"Alan's is different."
"I haven't read Young Master Alan's work, so..."
"Imperial literature—from novels to fairy tales—is all moralizing. Lessons are fine, but inherently dull. Humans crave amusement from the smallest things. That's why literature's a noble preserve."
He tapped the bound manuscript with his index finger, then set it down.
"Alan's is revolutionary. It could cleave through the petrified heads of this nation's literati like a blade. Even I felt the shock."
A novel with a mysterious traveler from Kun'Rung as protagonist. Dwarves and elves not forming kingdoms but sects rooted in specific regions, inheriting sword arts or other martial skills, footwork techniques, generation after generation, accepting new disciples—thus history endures. Not bound by bloodlines, but by cultivated skills and bonds. Akin to knight-squire relations, yet strangely distinct.
"A Clan—not a guild for mutual interests..."
Unfamiliar concept. But that unfamiliarity was the massive hammer to shatter the rigid imperial literary scene.
"Alan's prose is easy to read. Sentences don't drag; descriptions are boldly omitted at times. Laughable compared to self-proclaimed literati padding lines for coin."
A cold sneer curled the duke's lips—a mockery aimed at the empire's literati.
"Those thick-headed literati will flip."
"May I relay that to Young Master exactly?"
"Do so. I'll keep this."
He slid the manuscript into a drawer. The white-haired, bespectacled beauty Meia bowed deeply.
He truly likes the youngest young master's writing...
The duke had a habit of stowing favorites in drawers. Unconscious on his part, but known to most Mueller servants. Putting Alan's novel there meant genuine approval.
"I shall withdraw."
The duke said nothing. The meaning was clear. Meia bowed properly and quietly exited.
Alone, the only sound in his study was the duke's fingers drumming the desk.