Chapter 193
Chapter 193
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 193
Chapter Title: Blue Ocean for Writers
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The tale I just shared about the cocktail bar 'Mori' was based entirely on a documentary true story.
While the customer was sleeping soundly and enjoying the cocktail bar in their dream.
"B, BGM—play the jazz version of the Studio Ghibli animation OST!"
At the bedside in reality, the promoter—in other words, the writer—was earnestly nagging the dream demon.
"This place is run by a Japanese person—that's the key feature we need to highlight! And the weather's too tame! Rain! Make it rain!"
"Hoeh. This human's slyly slipping into casual speech. Makes me want to check the adhesion between his head and neck...."
"Su, sure, we agreed to split the fees 50-50! Right!"
"I didn't realize it'd be this annoying. Hie, I resent my past self...."
The writer sat by the customer's bed all night, relentlessly prodding the dream demon.
The bartender's lines. Family relations. Backstory on what kind of life they'd lived so far. The shop's atmosphere. Sounds from outside the window. The mysterious customers who suddenly show up around 1 a.m. (National Intelligence Service agents), and so on....
In short, what the tutorial fairy had provided to people up until now was merely the game itself—the vanilla version, at best.
On top of that, the writer had started tuning and selling 'mods' for the game.
A famous engineer exploiter from Earth once said:
-People don't know what they want until you show it to them.
Indeed.
Even in this apocalypse where capitalist economies had been utterly destroyed, that famous quote rang true.
A single mod created and uploaded by one writer, 'Cocktail Bar Mori (森),' exploded in popularity on the real dream marketplace.
"I want to go to Mori too!"
"Expand the cocktail bar! With this many customers, how can you limit it to just 10 spots?"
"I'll pay 1,000 won per person! No, 3,000! Boss! Please invite me and my friend!"
Writer A was happy.
And the happy writer followed the usual route.
In other words, he bragged to the other writers about how awesome he was.
"Hey, what's up all of a sudden? You booked the whole barbecue place.... This'll be expensive."
"It's fine, it's fine! I'm doing great these days! Tonight's on me! I called the old writer buddies for a reunion drink! It's the bond between writers, bond! Normally more people would've come, but now it's just us in Busan."
Twitch-.
The ears of the former writers gathered in groups of twos and threes at the budae jjigae joint twitched.
Their outfits were all shabby.
Naturally so. Writers were inherently mentally fragile, socially inept, envious and jealous of their peers, prone to anonymous online slander, craving admiration, physically weak, with creaky spines and joints.
In a word, they had no redeeming qualities. In the apocalypse, they were the worst of the worst human specimens for survival.
The mere fact that they'd survived this long and settled in Busan made them first-rate.
Thus, no matter how long Writer A rambled in his speech, the only line that stuck in his colleagues' ears was one:
--I'm doing great these days--
That single phrase flashed through the former writers' minds in the font of Nas Kinoko.
"......"
"......"
They instantly exchanged silent glances (basic writer skill).
The writers started with small talk. Man, we used to make good money back in the day. We're lucky just to be alive. I heard from a Japanese writer friend—over there, whew—.
Once time's relentless flow had been stretched gooey by alcohol and chit-chat, one person finally opened fire.
"So, what exactly are you doing these days to be 'doing great'?"
"Huh?"
The host, Writer A, tilted his head.
At that loathsome act of feigning ignorance, the writers felt a flash of contempt.
What bond between writers? This drinking party was obviously just a bid for an audience to brag to—everyone knew it, the platform knew it—so why pretend to point at the sky!
But they endured the momentary contempt with alcohol's aid. And since even that alcohol came from the host's wallet, they could bear it a bit longer.
"You said it earlier. That you're doing great. What, did you suddenly awaken some ability and join a guild? Remember that guy, what was it, Pen-Scam Fraud? He turned his life around after awakening."
"Ugh, him? He's no writer—just some guy who switched from writing to awakening. I'm still making a living as a writer!"
Twitch twitch-.
The writers' ears were gradually transforming into elf appendages.
"Writer? You mean you're still writing? People still pay for your stuff these days?"
"No, not writing per se. Non-awakeners like us can't even access SG Net. No platform exists. But does that mean we stop creating? Even in wartime, writers create. For people like us, writing isn't a job—it's our heart. Heart. If the heart stops beating, you're dead right then."
They should be grateful the budae jjigae was damn tasty tonight. Back in the day, the whole industry would've been dragged into gossip by now.
"Anyway, what I've been up to lately is—."
Two hours into the drinking party, the main topic finally began.
"—So, I thought to myself! Ah! If I just sweet-talk the fairy from that tutorial dungeon I cleared, I could conquer this market! But what to do? I know cocktails well. And some Japanese too. Ah, let's go with a Japanese cocktail bar setup!"
"Ooooh...."
"Wow, impressive."
"But why a cocktail bar? I mean, it's good, but isn't the scale too small? Wouldn't it make more money starting with a fun world-building setup from the get-go?"
"Ugh, that's just thinking like a writer. Sure, we were big shots back then, but now? We're newbies! It's been over five years since we touched a keyboard, and this dream-creation method is totally new! New platform. New format. Gotta get used to it again!"
"Ooooh...."
"Wow, impressive."
"Listening to you, it kinda sounds like TRPG."
"Hm? Yeah, that's the writer problem. Get arrogant too easily. Stay humble, right? Mindset of learning. Yeah, that's a thing too. Alcohol lovers usually have groups. Booze buddy circles. Make one regular, and they'll bring more customers themselves. Approach it with a business mindset, y'know? Ugh."
"Ooooh...."
"Wow, impressive."
"What split do you get with that tutorial fairy brat? 8:2?"
"Hey, come on. You think? It's 5:5. Like those old webnovel contract rates. I'm pretty pissed about it, but without the fairies, I couldn't even run the shop, so—no choice—."
"Ooooh...."
"Wow, impressive."
The host should've noticed how his fellow writers' responses had turned utterly mechanical, while their questions were getting razor-sharp.
But he didn't notice. He was drunk.
The others were drunk too. But they had 'ideals' and 'reality' to overcome the buzz.
As mentioned earlier.
Writers lack social skills (omitted) and have creaky spines and joints.
But if that's true, isn't it bizarre? How have these scum survived this long?
Only one reason.
'I'm better off than that bastard!'
'Fuck, I write better than that guy!'
'That one's got no substance, that one's no commercial hit, that one's spineless, that one's stubborn—.'
Sheer infinite competition that would horrify even hell's depths!
That rivalry was the one true driving force for writers, no exaggeration.
Take Tolstoy: the nicest guy in literary history.
His novels were all about love, neighborly care, respect for nature.
Even he dissed Dostoevsky whenever he got the chance.
For some reason, 'love,' 'care,' and 'respect' never applied to fellow writers.
In short, Wall Street minus the money was a writers' community.
"Ooooh...."
"Wow, impressive."
In a sense, the host's goal for this drinking party was a success.
Everyone gathered here felt the 'bond' between old writers, without exception.
Thump-.
The 'serpent hearts' that end-of-century apocalypse had barely sealed away by destroying civilization began to writhe.
5
A few days later.
Busan's day-labor market lost about seven workers.
No one on-site cared—they were low-quality labor anyway.
Instead, seven new signs appeared at the Dream Casino entrance.
[Former webnovel writer! 100 million views on major platforms! Modern fantasy/fantasy specialist. Become the world's strongest Awakener☆ and explore medieval dungeons!]
[Chaebol/corporate specialist. 'Journey to Legend: Landing a Job at a Securities Firm!' - Just 1,000 won per night]
[Romance/bishoujo specialist. Drama adaptation history. Yonsei University Psychology grad. Details via consultation with writer. Absolute confidentiality]
[Former webnovel writer / 200 million views on major platforms / Multiple webtoon adaptations / Anime adaptations / Hire that guy everyone who read novels back then knew—as your personal writer! Custom world-building to your specs]
[Former webnovel writer / 29M, 30M, 50M views on major platforms / Never missed an update day / TRPG mastering: 8,500 hours on Roll20 / Promise of consistent quality]
"Wh-what the hell is this?"
That day, Writer A—the founder of Cocktail Bar Mori—arrived at work whistling lightly and froze in shock.
His old rivals from last week's budae jjigae feast were standing there, brazen-faced, holding signs!
Former writers... no.
'Comeback writers' said sheepishly.
"Hey, uh."
"We got inspired hearing your story."
"Yeah. It really hit us hard. Like you said, if we're writers, we should live off creation."
"Right, right!"
"The creative fire's been reignited after so long. Haha."
The writers smiled bashfully.
At that loathsome act implying they were purely inspired by his words, Writer A felt contempt.
Inspiration my ass. Plagiarism!
'But...!'
The pro writer who'd once lived off words bit his lip.
This was too ambiguous to call 'plagiarism'....!
If any had put up 'cocktail bar,' 'pub,' or 'izakaya,' he could've demanded a duel.
But they'd merely borrowed the business genre—cunningly altering the content entirely.
Just like back in the novel biz, when a genre like hunter or academy blew up, everyone swarmed in with 'creative' reinterpretations...!
'Th-this familiar feeling! No way!'
'Yes.'
The eyes of his smiling, 'pure' fellow writers gleamed darkly.
'Back to the serialization wars, rookie.'
'Ah, it's been ages. This chilling thrill. Feels like launch day, refreshing bestseller rankings every two minutes.'
'No, stop! Absolutely not! You forgot that hell, didn't you!'
'Yeah. Your hell looks more livable than our reality.'
'I always loved hellfire. Ran three serials at once.'
Exchanging silent glances was basic writer skill.
Finally, Writer A realized his mistake too late.
Why had he done something he'd regret forever for one night's pleasure?
(Because he's a writer, obviously.)
-Huh? What's with all the signs?
-Did Mori finally expand?
Murmur murmur.
But Writer A had no time for regrets.
Quitting time approached, and crowds were flooding the Dream Casino.
The inevitable fate of all writers—'serialization time'—drew near.
'N-no! Stop! My customers! My readers!'
Contrary to Writer A's fears, though, he didn't lose any customers.
"...Huh?"
Nor did the other writers fail to attract new ones.
There was some variance, but all eight writers, including A, drew plenty.
"Huh?"
The next day. The day after. The one after that.
Even as signs grew from one to eight, then eight to twenty, no writer lost customers.
Dream-selling boomed more than ever; expanding the cocktail bar from ten to twenty seats still left it perpetually full.
Then the writers realized.
"Ah."
A word everyone had forgotten, civilization's fall too long ago.
Blue Ocean.
This wasn't a blood-soaked sea where you survived by killing rivals.
The place these day-labor rollers had newly discovered was a golden El Dorado—
A bonanza market.