A Publishing Offer

A publishing offer had arrived.

From an editor in another world, addressed to a debut author.

Looking at just that much, this was the birth of a genius writer who'd snagged an editor after a single chapter.

Harin stared at the message with a hollow look and had her verdict ready in three seconds.

"It's a scam."

"Why so certain?"

"It's one prologue."

"With good writing, you can size it up from the first sentence."

Despite what I'd said, I reread the message from the beginning.

A scam?

No matter how many times I read it, this wasn't an insurance pitch or a flooring sales call. It was a genuine publishing offer.

The problem was that Harin wasn't wrong either.

No work introduction. No serialization schedule. No next chapter. And of course, no writing credits to speak of.

If you had to put a number on it, this was a day-one author.

All I had was a single prologue and a pile of people cursing me out for the next chapter.

And someone saw that and came looking to sign a contract?

That's fucking suspicious.

That said, there was no reason to ignore it completely. Checking the terms didn't cost a thing.

I opened the reply box, raised my fingers, then paused.

Silence was an author who spoke only through his work. A lofty genius who never left a single comment.

Did I really need to break that?

No. Mystery was an asset too.

Keep it short.

Perfect. Short, cold, and all about the money.

"That doesn't sound like a lofty genius. Sounds like a guy in debt."

"The terms include serialization schedule and editorial direction too."

"And the money?"

"That's included."

"Figures."

The reply didn't come right away.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

With every passing second, the needle tipped further toward scammer. I'd asked about the terms and they'd run?

Don't kill a man. I'm still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠alive.

Dragonkin. Another new race had shown up.

Never mind that.

"Oppa. This person seems pretty desperate."

I'd felt it too. They were pouring out words like a storm, as if they couldn't afford to miss this chance to talk.

I still hadn't heard about the split, but the rest of the terms weren't bad. They were actually too good.

Translation. Proofreading. Promotion. Reader correspondence. They'd handle every annoying part of it, and all I had to do was upload the writing.

A publisher like this existed? Well — in another world, maybe. It was a place where dragons got jobs as editors. Good benefits shouldn't have been that weird.

But one thing snagged.

Working as an editor meant there was a workplace, and that meant they weren't alone, didn't it?

The Loners' Gallery only opened to those who were alone. If they had a publishing house and colleagues, they didn't even meet the basic requirement.

As if they'd read my mind, a chat came through immediately.

Slept a hundred ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠years and woke up to find everyone they knew was dead.

I checked the window first thing when I woke up after three hours, just in case the world had ended. That was a different level of rough.

A race that lived so long they ended up alone over and over. I felt a brief solemnity.

But a contract was a contract. A sad backstory didn't mean I stamped the seal first.

What mattered most was something else entirely.

"Oppa. You really just went straight for it."

"It's important."

"Weren't you being all solemn a second ago?"

"Solemnity doesn't fill a stomach. Besides, this dragon could still be a scammer."

Food.

I sat up straighter.

"What a good person."

"You were just calling them a scammer."

"You get to know people through conversation."

"Because they're offering food?"

"That's part of the conversation too."

Write, and food comes out. And it wasn't a one-time thing, either. As long as people took an interest in my writing and kept reading, the money would keep coming in.

It was a slightly different shape from the full-time author I'd dreamed of becoming three years ago. Back then I'd wanted to pay rent with royalties. Now I wanted to pay for tonight's dinner with royalties.

The direction was the same. The scale had just gotten a little more modest.

My heart was leaning. A lot.

But if you signed based only on what was sitting in front of you, things went wrong with a high probability. That went for food and contracts both. I needed to check what needed checking.

Another elf.

My first reader hadn't even spent half a day with the work before racking up over sixty victims, and now they'd even dragged in an editor. The promotion, at least, was solid. It was just that the purpose was assembling people like they were recruiting for a final boss fight to threaten the author.

After sending it, I looked at the chat window. Silence's loftiness seemed a little cracked.

No. A genius who observed courtesy with a contract partner. This looked even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠better.

"Watch your face, Oppa."

"I am."

"The corners of your mouth are hooked to your ears."

"They've always sat a little high."

"First I'm hearing of it."

Harin pressed the corners of my mouth down with her finger.

Then another message came up.

"An apology?"

Did dragons not fall under copyright law as written by humans?

Before I could reply, messages came in one after another.

Ah. That tracked.

The replies were polite and deferential. They were skilled at correcting a misunderstanding before it had time to form. This really did seem like an actual editor.

I accepted the apology.

I opened the document. My writing was in there from start to finish, exactly as I'd written it. Every word. Every period. Even the places where the paragraphs broke were the same.

So what was the problem?

I pulled the two versions up side by side. And I saw it immediately.

There was no light.

My original was so bright it was hard to keep your eyes on it for long. The transcription didn't have that. The content was the same. The sentences were the same. And it was dead. An ordinary document with well-written prose copied onto it, word for word.

It was my writing, and it wasn't my writing.

"Oppa, your ability isn't in it."

The playfulness had gone out of Harin's voice.

"Yeah."

I'd thought the ability stayed in the sentences. More precisely, in the story I wrote. But even copying it exactly didn't carry it over.

Even if someone stole my writing. Even if they copied it without a single character out of place. They couldn't take the emotion I put into it?

This was pretty important.

That was when I understood why they'd brought this up so carefully.

To publish, you had to make a book. To make a book, you had to transfer the manuscript somehow. And the moment you transferred it, my ability vanished.

No matter how much the Keeper of the Hundred-Year Library liked my writing, if this problem wasn't solved, publishing itself was meaningless.

That was asking me, in a roundabout way, whether I had a method.

Except I didn't know either.

"Got a method?"

"No."

"Pretty firm."

"If I pretend I know something I don't, that's a scam."

More than that, there really was no method. At least not within anything I knew. I'd have to have sent my writing to another world before to have a clue.

So give up?

No.

If it didn't work, it just ended with no publishing. If it did, I could eat from writing.

And was that all? If the Hundred-Year Library spread books across the entire continent, the reader count would change too.

A hundred thousand.

Earlier that had been an insane number. Now it was a number I might actually reach.

That was enough to make it worth looking for a method that didn't exist.

Conclusion. Find it.

I minimized the message window. I'd said I'd find a method — but where was I supposed to look?

The gallery settings?

No. This wasn't a gallery function. The document the Keeper had transcribed had also come through the gallery. The channel had been open. What had vanished was my ability.

I opened the prologue I'd posted. Dazzling light still sat on the sentences. Next to it, the transcription. No light.

I looked back and forth between them and thought.

Couldn't I make this writing readable as-is in the Keeper's world too? Even translated. Even printed. Couldn't it remain the story I wrote?

The inside of my chest itched.

Ugh—

"What now?"

"Hold on."

It was similar to when the reader count had passed ten, not long ago. Something scraped along the inside of my ribs. This time I wasn't startled. It just pissed me off a little.

Why did the ability always talk by crawling around inside me? Would it kill it to just ping me with a normal notification?

Heat passed through my heart and spread to my fingertips. The light of the prologue wavered beneath my fingers.

And I understood.

The story I created could reach as far as I permitted.

Until now, that had been this world. Only those reading the original text inside the Loners' Gallery. But if there was a channel — whether it was a translated sentence or a book printed in the thousands — if I recognized that writing as my work and personally permitted it?

Letters surfaced before my eyes. They weren't in the gallery window. Even when I closed the prologue and turned my head, they followed, sitting dead-center in my vision. Information my ability was showing me.

And below that, a new sentence took shape.

I knew it.

What mattered wasn't the original text. It wasn't how the work had been transferred, either. Whether I recognized it as my work. And how far I permitted that work to reach.

I was the one who decided that.

The last sentence floated before my eyes.