The Birth of a Sensation
Pen name: Jiri.
James slowly turned the pages of the newspaper. As usual, the sheets were packed with dense type, but today, it felt unusually suffocating. Political gossip, tax issues, trade disputes. He was reading them for now, but his eyes were already growing weary. Rubbing his stiff, dry eyes from staring at the print for too long, he looked up. His concentration was beginning to slip.
"Sigh..."
Letting out a low sigh, he mindlessly flipped the page. That was when a tiny, boxed section tucked away in a corner caught his eye.
It was a pen name he had never seen before. The title was equally unfamiliar. James paused, his hand hovering over the page. He had already paid for the paper. There was no harm in reading it, and he wouldn't lose anything either way. Realizing he had intended to skim the whole thing anyway, he naturally let his gaze drift down to the novel section.
Yet, deep down, he didn't expect much. He knew enough about novels to have some reservations. Usually, they were bloated with grandiose settings and convoluted background explanations. Since such stories were mostly written as hobbies by the leisurely upper class, it was difficult for commoners to grasp their complex lore. High expectations only led to bitter disappointment. He knew from experience that it was better not to expect anything at all.
The novel began from the perspective of an ordinary boy in a rural village. He had an older half-brother, and like any other boy his age, his dream was to become a knight.
"You want to be a knight?"
"Yes."
It was cliché and predictable. He even sneered inwardly, wondering, Who on earth agreed to put this garbage in the paper?
But then, ten minutes passed, then twenty. The boy was growing. The dream he harbored was no mere vanity; it was grounded in reality, responsibility, and the heavy burden he had to carry. His relationships with the people around him were far from shallow clichés. They tangled and twisted in complex ways, bringing suppressed emotions and conflicts vividly to life.
Then came the scene where he clashed with his half-brother under the full moon.
"If you defeat me, I will acknowledge you, Arthur."
"Don't regret those words."
Their duel was no simple brawl. It was a collision of mutual feelings, pride, and a desperate yearning to be understood. It didn't feel like a scene painted in ink; it felt as if real people were leaping and fighting right before his eyes. He could feel the vivid motion of them running across the earth, clashing swords, and gasping for breath. Their wills clashed. And the one who stood tall in the end was Arthur, who was two years younger.
From that moment on, the half-brother became Arthur's sole ally.
James was utterly hooked. He was completely drawn into a world different from his own, yet far more intense. The surrounding circumstances grew increasingly dire. The world was fracturing, so violently that even Arthur, still tucked away in the countryside, could feel the tremors. Following the king's death, the kingdom was slowly but surely tearing itself apart. Endless foreign invasions, feuds between local factions and nobles, and the raw ambition of those who coveted the throne. Amidst this chaos, a single rumor began to spread: the holy sword, Excalibur. A legend foretelling that whoever drew the sword would become king.
As an apprentice knight, Arthur set off for a neighboring town. His motive was simple: he wanted to see the future king with his own eyes. And, if possible, to become his knight. But there, he realized something. He realized that true heroes did not exist in this world—and perhaps, neither did the person who could end this chaos.
Finally, when the "Sword of Selection"—Excalibur—made its appearance.
"By the will of God, only the chosen one may lift this sword."
The moment James read that sentence, a chill ran down his spine. His hands trembled as he gripped the newspaper. The scene where Arthur carefully placed his hand on the hilt. The suffocating tension as the sword vibrated minutely, making the very earth rumble. He couldn't even breathe. And then, at last. The moment Arthur drew the sword and hoisted it high into the sky, a violent shiver surged up James's spine. His entire body shook with pure ecstasy.
Clutching the newspaper tightly, James frantically searched for the next page. His heart hammered against his ribs. Arthur will surely declare it. He'll announce that he has become the King of Brittany... But will the other nobles accept it? Holding his breath, he flipped the page in eager anticipation of the next scene. But...
"...Huh?"
With blank eyes, he stared at the empty newspaper column. What did this mean? It was over? Biting his lip, he carefully turned the page back with trembling fingertips. Hoping, just hoping, that there might be a continuation, he flipped one page, then another, but there was nothing behind it but the usual dry articles on economics and current affairs. His anticipation was shattered in an instant. His heart sank.
James rested the newspaper on his lap and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time. The moment Arthur drew the holy sword was still vivid before his eyes. The boy's expression as he pulled the blade, the breathless gazes of the onlookers, even the silver moonlight of the full moon spilling across the night sky—everything was crystal clear. His chest churned with a tumultuous mix of emptiness and excitement. What choice would Arthur make after drawing the sword? How would the world change around him? He desperately wanted to know.
Every morning after that day was pure torture for James. His fingers trembled. With a mixture of hope and anxiety, he flipped to the first page. But...
"Politics," "Economics," "Taxes."
Only the familiar, tedious headlines met his eyes. The novel column he had been yearning for was nowhere to be found.
"Ah..."
Letting out a quiet sigh, James folded the newspaper back up. A profound sense of emptiness settled into his very fingertips.
At first, James thought he was the only one suffering from this hollow withdrawal. But he was wrong. The streets were no different. Most of the passersby wore the exact same expression. In the middle of the plaza, inside the taverns, even within rattling carriages—everywhere, people were whispering about the novel that had appeared in the paper.
"Did you see it? Arthur Pendragon."
"When is the next chapter coming out? Why is there still no news?"
"...The Sword of Selection...!"
It was spreading like wildfire. Swiftly, uncontrollably.
Even the children were no exception. Kids who used to just tear up the newspapers or fold them into paper airplanes stumbled upon the tiny novel column.
"What's this?"
As they began to read with eyes full of curiosity, their expressions shifted. A day or two later, packs of children wielding tree branches began appearing at the edge of town.
"I'm Arthur!"
"No, I'm the true king who will draw the Sword of Selection!"
The children shoved their sticks into the dirt, calling them the holy sword, and clamored over who would be the one to pull it out.
The shift transcended age and gender. People who used to walk past stacks of newspapers without a second glance now inspected them thoroughly, tossing a paper into their shopping baskets before even grabbing potatoes. The chatter was ceaseless.
"Did you see that story? The one about the knight."
"Of course I did, hmph. I'm not really interested, but my husband is obsessed."
"Me too. My kid is throwing a fit over it. I'll have to buy one."
Yet, despite this explosive reaction, the newspaper offices themselves were utterly helpless. When they had first signed the contract, they had merely viewed this novel as a "minor experiment" by the Prophet. After all, the whims of high-ranking figures were beyond the comprehension of ordinary folks. That night, when they had rushed over at the Prophet's summons and heard his request to publish the novel, they had assumed he was just another eccentric noble and readily complied. They hadn't harbored any grand expectations. Consequently, they printed the exact same volume as usual. Just their standard run. That proved to be their fatal mistake. The outcome was predictable: a severe, catastrophic shortage of newspapers. Crowds swarmed every single newsstand to buy a copy.
"Do you have any copies left from two days ago?"
"None. They just sold out."
"What?! It's barely morning!"
"Tell me about it. *Sigh.* I couldn't even get one for myself."
An issue published two days ago was recording higher sales than today's paper. Lacus could hardly believe it. It felt as though his entire understanding of the industry was crumbling. What terrified him even more was that this phenomenon did not look like a temporary spike. The momentum was only accelerating; this was not a craze that would fizzle out in a day or two.
Near one of the stands, someone was screaming at the top of their lungs.
"How does a newspaper office run out of newspapers, you bastards?!"
Shouts of mingled rage and despair echoed through the streets. The crowd was growing increasingly hostile. There was no clear solution. The print run for the newspapers had already been finalized a week in advance. They couldn't just churn out extra copies on a whim; they lacked both paper and manpower. In the end, to resolve this crisis, they would have to wait at least five days. Until they could adjust next week's order, they had to somehow weather this storm. The problem was, the newspaper office seemed likely to collapse before then.
To make matters worse, the novel had stopped updating at the absolute peak of its climax. Until now, despite the shortage, people hadn't gone so far as to storm the newspaper offices. But now, driven mad with anticipation, they were flooding into the editorial department's corridors, demanding the paper. The moment Lacus realized the gravity of the situation, he quickly threw on his coat. As an editor, he could not sit idly by while his readers suffered. Since they clamored for the next chapter so desperately, he would beg for it if he had to.
"Shall I go?" Anna asked.
Lacus shook his head firmly. More than anything...
"No, I will go myself."
He, too, could no longer endure the suspense. So, what happens to Arthur after he grabs the holy sword?!
***
When a storm like this hits, any normal novelist would quickly write the next chapter. Out of basic human decency, that is. It was only common sense. If you catch a wave, you row; you don't capsize your own boat.
"So. What about the next chapter?"
Jiri is currently undergoing updates, human.
Staring blankly at the text, I slowly folded the newspaper in my hands. Then, I let out a breath far deeper than before.
"I guess you reap what you sow."
The story had climbed to its absolute peak. And right there, Jiri had stopped the serialization.
"Prophet?"
Along with a knock on the door, a voice echoed in my ears. "We have received urgent requests for an audience from twelve different publications, including Daily Elium, 24 Fact, and Weekly. How should we handle them?"
I pondered briefly before reaching a decision.
"...Tell them I am currently unwell and not in the right state of mind to write."
This wasn't my choice. Really, it wasn't.