Win-Win Strategy

After that, the contract went through without a hitch.

I opened the file.

I didn't recognize a single term on the first page.

"Hundred-Year Library."

So it wasn't a username. It was the name of the publishing house.

I turned to the next page.

It was a suspiciously normal contract.

There was no clause about quietly rewriting the contents behind the author's back. No clause locking the next three works into a slave contract. No predatory line declaring that terminating the agreement would bar you from working in the industry for the next ten years.

I had been a little worried, given that the other party was a dragon.

"They're not taking your soul, Oppa?"

"You're looking at the same section I am, right?"

Below that, the numbers were packed in tight. Caligos gold coins. Silver coins. Monthly settlement ratios. Currencies and systems I had never seen before, all tangled together into a single mess. I couldn't tell whether they were offering a fortune or a pittance.

A message arrived at just the right moment.

Sorry the split is so low.

When they came out of the gate like that, it was hard to even get angry. If anything, it felt like there might be room to squeeze something extra out of this.

I opened the rights section of the contract again.

I had no idea how advanced a world Caligos actually was. A place where food was preserved with magic and a dragon worked as an editor — that much alone put it well beyond anything I could guess at with common sense. But I did know what happened once a story got famous.

Derivative works. Illustrations. Merchandise. Cups stamped with the protagonist's face, plushies, clothes, replica swords, even those long character body pillows. Once readers fell for a story, they opened their wallets without a second thought, and a little shipping fee never made them hesitate. Before Earth went under, I had seen firsthand just how freely otaku spent their money on the things they loved.

Even if I claimed those rights now, I wouldn't be able to convert them into a single grain of rice. That was no reason to leave them on the table just because I couldn't use them yet. If I waited until the story actually succeeded and then asked, I would never get them on terms like these.

I sent the messages and waited.

Read.

A reply came up a moment later.

They didn't know what it was.

Good.

The hesitation didn't last long.

The answer came clean and fast. A new sentence appeared in the contract at once.

Done.

I hadn't managed to raise the advance. What I had gotten instead was a right that might, someday, be worth more than any advance. Of course, if the story flopped, it would be worth nothing. Of course, even if the story took off, that didn't mean I would succeed. As I was now, I couldn't make a single piece of merch.

"Then why did you take it, Oppa?"

Harin asked.

"You never know. I might be able to make something later."

"How?"

"I'll figure that out when the time comes."

"So you have no plan at all."

"That's how this works. You secure the rights first, and think later."

Technology and people could be found down the line. Rights belonged to whoever claimed them first.

The Keeper of the Hundred-Year Library was happy not to have to raise the advance. I was happy to have pocketed a right I couldn't even use yet. We were both satisfied, so that was that. Whether they would still feel the same way later was another matter.

We agreed that the advance would be paid in rice and groceries.

I hesitated a little as I typed that last line. The fact that the power was out came back to me a beat too late. Anything I received as a signing bonus would just rot. In a ruined world, letting food spoil was a fucking serious crime.

"What a world."

They had magic, and meat didn't spoil. With just those two things, that place called Caligos had already surpassed Earth's civilization. If I could go there, it would be well worth emigrating.

Information on the Hundred-Year Library had been attached at the bottom of the contract. Reader count. Number of serialized works. Recent popular titles. And one item I had never seen before.

"Tenth?"

Not a bad number. Three years ago, even the web novel platform I had used was a household name if it ranked in the top ten.

Thirty-seven. More than I had expected.

Thirty-seven web novel platforms. And it wasn't just the works inside them competing with each other. The libraries that had brought those works in were competing too.

This time, the reply didn't come right away. The read receipt was there. A short sentence arrived only after a long pause.

Tenth wasn't the tenth-highest seat. It was the seat you occupied right before you got shoved off the list entirely.

The numbers had been sliding steadily downhill. By ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠next month, even their name could vanish from the ranking board.

Had I boarded a sinking ship?

"Oppa. This place isn't going under, is it."

Harin asked.

"Not yet."

"Not yet means... soon?"

I didn't answer. I looked over the list of popular works the Keeper of the Hundred-Year Library had attached.

A swordsman defeating the Demon King. An exiled mage getting revenge. A mercenary obtaining a god's weapon. The titles alone told you the entire plot. The popular works at the other libraries weren't much different. The same material. Similar titles. Covers that varied just enough to tell them apart.

I had a feel for it now. These were stories you could pick up at any library and it wouldn't matter which. There was no reason to choose the Hundred-Year Library in particular.

This time, I didn't have to wait for a reply. The Keeper of the Hundred-Year Library had clearly seen the question coming.

Copying my story wouldn't help them. Writing something similar wouldn't replace it. If readers wanted to feel that again, they would have to come find my work, and nowhere else.

It was a nice thing to hear. But it wasn't only a nice thing to hear.

The library needed my work to survive. I needed the library's readers to eat. And a hundred thousand of them — to grow my ability, I would need even more than that.

What each of us wanted was perfectly clear.

I opened the last page of the contract.

I set my finger on the empty field.

Silence.

Two syllables carved themselves into the page.

I had become an author.

I had already posted to the gallery, so I had been a writer before this. Even so, an author who had signed a contract was a little different. Three years ago, I had prepared a synopsis and even a cover, and still never gotten that word.

Official.

I straightened my back a little.

Harin brought her hands together. No sound came out.

"Congratulations, Author."

"I was already an author."

Despite the words, the corners of my mouth turned up.

I could be eating meat as soon as this evening. Life as a full-time author had begun faster than I'd expected.

A request?

The Keeper of the Hundred-Year Library closed the conversation window with Silence, then slowly let out a breath.

The contract was done. From the first clause to the last, without a single mistake. For the editor-in-chief of the Hundred-Year Library, who had dealt with countless authors over hundreds of years, a single contract was nothing difficult.

If it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hadn't been today.

"You gave him everything he wanted?"

A voice came from behind her. The editor's back went rigid again. She was dragonkin, and she hadn't even sensed a presence. But she wasn't surprised. She had known for a very long time that the owner of that voice was stronger than she was.

"Yes, Lady El."

She rose from her seat and bowed her head.

An elf stood by the window. Long ears rising through golden hair. The last high elf remaining in a destroyed forest. The one who went by LastRemainingElf on the Loners' Gallery. And the one who, as of this morning, had become the owner of the Hundred-Year Library.

"I suppose I should call you boss now, rather than Guardian."

"Whatever."

El sat in the editor's chair. The chair was still too big for its new owner. When she leaned back, her toes lifted slightly off the floor. She pulled the contract toward herself as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

The editor watched quietly. She was one of the dragons who had known El for a long time, and so she knew: the more expressionless El's face became, the bigger the disaster she was cooking up inside.

It had been the same this morning. The previous owner of the Hundred-Year Library had been asked by a high elf who showed up out of nowhere whether he would sell. And before the sun had reached its peak, the owner had changed.

There was only one reason. To sign a contract with Silence.

El flipped through the contract quickly. Flutter. Pages turned. With each one, her ears gave a pleased little twitch.

"The food?"

"We are preparing the items you requested. Preservation Magic will be applied to the meat as well."

"Good."

A short answer. A little of the tension left the editor's shoulders.

El turned all the way to the last page, then stopped at the newly added clause.

"What's this?"

"A clause requested by Author Silence."

Caligos had derivative goods as well. Only at a basic level. To El, "merchandise" meant little more than pens or commemorative illustrations.

"Anyway, the author said he wanted it, right?"

"Yes."

"Then give it to him."

"It has already been assigned in full."

"Good work."

El didn't ask anything further. It wasn't that she was giving up a profitable right, nor that she had made some brilliant business decision. Silence had asked for it. So she gave it. That was all.

What she actually cared about was somewhere else.

"The manuscript?"

"Currently, only a single prologue has been registered."

El's ears stopped. The editor hurried on.

"I have requested that approximately ten chapters be prepared by next week."

"Approximately?"

"...I requested ten chapters."

"When did he say he'd deliver?"

"I have not yet received a reply."

El's fingers stilled on the contract.

"We cannot force an author into unreasonable writing demands."

"It's only nine chapters, though...?"

"Excluding the prologue, yes."

"That's why I gave him seven whole days."

The editor had a great deal to say, and said none of it. Rank was a tyrant. Whether it was easy or hard for a human to write nine chapters of a novel in a week mattered less to El than the problem she actually had.

To El, seven days was long. So long that she had just gone and bought an entire publishing house.

"You sent him food first, right?"

"We are preparing the contracted goods first."

"Water too?"

"Yes."

"And you're letting him sleep?"

"Of course."

"He can't get sick."

Only then did El nod, seemingly satisfied. If the author starved or fell ill, the next chapter would be delayed. What she wanted was, above all, a stable serialization. She wasn't trying to torment him.

As far as El knew, an author's happiness came from writing. Then the answer was simple. The longer the time spent writing, the longer the author could remain happy.

A day had twenty-four hours. Subtract the two hours of minimum sleep required, and twenty-two hours remained. If all twenty-two of those hours were spent writing? The author could spend most of the day happy. On top of that, readers would receive a stable supply of the next chapter.

The author was happy. The readers were satisfied. The serialization was stable.

A perfect structure in which no one lost.

Win-win.

El did not harbor the slightest doubt about her own calculations.

She opened the last page of the contract. The two syllables engraved in the author name field were waiting there.

Silence.

An author of the Hundred-Year Library. Her library's author.

The tips of her long ears slowly turned red.

The editor squeezed both eyes shut. The image of a Transcendent was plummeting into the abyss in real time.

Then her gaze met that of the elf, who had been giggling like a fool.

"I wasn't laughing."

"Lady El. There is nothing shameful about smiling."

"...I see a dragon's hearing goes first when they get old."

El clutched the contract to her chest with the most severe expression she could manage. No matter how she looked right now, she was still a Guardian. The kind who could erase an apocalypse-class monster with a single gesture. Even if, at this moment, she was hugging someone else's contract to her chest and swinging her feet.

The editor carefully held out a hand.

"More importantly, Lady El. I need to be the one to store that document."

"I'll keep it. I'm the boss."

"I am the one in charge of contracts."

"The library is mine."