Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Reader II
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Shin Noah
4
I was immensely satisfied with the "Canned Hotel" I had built myself.
A pang of conscience? Nothing like that existed. These were writers who were doomed to die pathetic deaths in other rounds anyway. Even the Saintess, who could be called the incarnation of ethics, would give me a thumbs-up for my actions.
[...Undertaker.]
"Yes? What is it, Saintess?"
[...No. It's nothing.]
Above all, I was truly saving the writers' lives.
Remember when I mentioned the "Reincarnation Truck" monster earlier?
The Reincarnation Truck is a mysterious monster that probabilistically appears to readers of web novels, ramming into them with the promise of, "We'll transport you to a world where the settings of your favorite novel are fully realized!"
It's not bullshit—it's a real monster.
If you're a web novel enthusiast, one day while walking down the street,
-Bwaaaaaang!
You might hear a horn blaring. Turn your head, and you'll see an 11-ton cargo truck barreling toward you at full speed.
Its defining feature is that instead of numbers, the license plate is engraved with the name of a work.
Some might even think, "Ah! Finally, I can escape this monster hell apocalypse peninsula!" and joyfully rush to kiss the truck, but don't.
I tested it by getting hit three times, and there was no dimension shift or anything. It's complete bullshit, just like "Hero Syndrome."
Anyway, this Reincarnation Truck appears not only to readers but also to writers. Because writers are the first readers of their own novels, after all.
In other words?
-Bwaaaaaang!
-Bwang! Bwaang! Bwaaaaaang!
-Bwaaaaaang! Bwaang!
Cargo trucks began lining up and parking one after another in front of the "Canned Hotel" I had established.
"Eeeeek... Strange trucks are gathering in droves in front of our revolutionary hideout!"
Even the fairies, hardened by monsters, tilted their heads in curiosity at the bizarre sight.
You couldn't underestimate those trucks.
No matter where or when a protagonist from a creative work walks, the Reincarnation Truck uses shrinking-earth techniques to chase them down, hits and run, and vanishes without any legal repercussions.
Just listing the protagonists killed by Reincarnation Trucks throughout creative works—world saviors, heroes, destroyers, black curtains, gods, extra Hosoin (the strongest)—all of them were era-defining heroes who could toy with an entire world.
A monster with a resume that fully lives up to the moniker "God-Slayer"!
Unless it was the "Tutorial Fairy," who had slaughtered countless protagonists herself, no one could possibly handle that terrifying abomination.
"No problems with the barrier wall?"
"Nope, Comrade Manager! No matter how those reactionaries struggle against the tide of history, the dialectical progress of the revolution is an unadulterated truth! The evolutionary turn of history cannot be reversed by the ravages of those bourgeois mercenary thugs!"
Kwaaaaaang-!
As if to prove her words, one of the 11-ton trucks came charging from afar (suddenly appearing beyond the horizon) and slammed into the hotel's front gate.
But the hotel entrance, barricaded through my collaboration with the fairy, was unscathed. The truck merely crumpled like an aluminum can.
-Bwaaaaaang....
-Bwaang! Bwaang....
As if mourning the heroic death of their comrade, the Reincarnation Trucks parked in the lot blared their horns.
In contrast, the fairies on the balcony waved red flags printed with Che Guevara portraits with renewed vigor. Some were even shedding tears and sobbing.
"Ah, revolution! Revolution!"
"Die, you fucking imperialists! Petit bourgeois!"
"Communes of fairies of the world! Be eternal!"
I nodded in satisfaction.
"Yes, good. Revolutionary vanguard, continue the barricade defense operation. The success or failure of the revolution hangs on this battle. Everyone, good work."
"Yes, sir! Comrade Manager!"
"Viva la revolution!"
"Our dream won't end!"
The fairies saluted with a spirit that would have earned a standing ovation from the citizens of Paris in 1871.
See how much I value the writers' personal information and safety.
Without the Canned Hotel, where would those dozens of trucks have headed? I had saved not only the writers' lives but their readers' too. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say the entire Korean web novel industry owed me their lives.
In return for this dedication, I didn't ask much of the writers. Just write novels. Write novels, that's all.
If I refilled their empty rice bowls with fresh feed, I could guarantee blocking Reincarnation Trucks, feeding, clothing, and sheltering them for about ten years, no problem.
After patrolling the security team, I headed to the Secretariat (editorial department). The security team members were greeted by slightly more intellectual-looking fairies.
"Ah, Comrade Manager. Come on in."
"Yes. Everyone's working hard. It's been a month since we started canning, so the writers must have stockpiled enough installments by now."
I gave a gentle look to the editorial chief fairy.
"Clerk No. 264 Comrade. Bring the accumulated novels from this time."
"Got it!"
In this round, Fairy No. 264, who had seized the key position in the secretariat, brought printed new works from the printer.
I waited with swelling anticipation, received the new works, and...
Couldn't believe my own eyes.
"What is this?"
A scant stack of A4 paper, too thin even for hundreds of writers over a month—no, excessively so.
Not even enough for one novel book; you'd believe it was a generous joint doujinshi collection.
"...Why is this all there is?"
"But this really is all there is!"
Unbelievable.
Writers whom I asked only to write novels in exchange for food, shelter, clothing, and Reincarnation Truck protection weren't writing!
After finishing regressor duties for a month (awakening Seo-gyu, cooperating with the Saintess, closing gates, nurturing prospects, collaborating with guild leaders, etc.), I returned to the hotel today and was dumbfounded.
No, I endured the whole month waiting for today.
"I brought 335 writers, and less than 100 pieces...?"
Tremble.
The manuscript bundle in my hand vibrated. Anger and disappointment converted to a Richter scale magnitude 7 quake.
Writers who don't write? What's the difference from NEETs? At least NEETs feel anxious wasting time on movies or dramas, but these so-called writers self-praise with "I'm not playing," "experience," "learning," "infusing experience from movies and dramas."
If there's no difference between the two professions (or non-professions), why should I, as a regressor, expend precious resources to care for a bunch of NEETs?
"Who's gonna eat this shit!"
"Send them all to the Gulag?"
"This is already the Gulag... No, where would I send my precious writing slaves!"
I slammed the desk.
"Gather all the writers in the lobby now!"
A moment later.
The writers were summoned to the lobby.
But, huh?
'The writers... haven't they gained some weight?'
Waddle waddle.
They weren't in great health when kidnapped to the Canned Hotel, but over the past month, somehow their diets had made them plump up.
A bit more, and their faces would gleam with 24-hour luster.
"...Everyone. This reader is deeply disappointed."
I first vented my fury to the writers.
"If each person wrote just one piece a day, that's 335 pieces. A month is over 10,000. Got it? 10,000! But now! Look at the manuscript in this reader's hand."
"...."
"91 pieces! 91! Is this acceptable? And it's not even 91 writers—only 12 actually wrote! Out of 335, just 12 produced works!"
Swoosh, I scattered the A4 sheets from the podium. For the record, not real manuscripts—just blank paper. A kind of performance.
I couldn't actually scatter the pros' writings on the floor.
Anyway, my performance worked. The writers' faces changed.
"Even now, this reader is running around tirelessly for your safety and comfort! But this! If you have any excuses, tell this reader!"
"Erm...."
"Um...."
The writers averted their eyes.
"B-But... Reader, I hate to say it, but new works don't just pop out willy-nilly...."
"...Right. We brainstormed, walked, slept, tried everything, but nothing clicked."
"Reader! Works take longer to conceptualize than to write! Especially for new ones."
"I hate to say this freeloading, but objectively, demanding new ideas in just a month is unreasonable."
"Here here!"
"We really tried. We want to write, but it won't come. We're going crazy...!"
The writers continued like an a cappella group of original members with over ten years together, chiming in harmony.
Hearing their explanations, I paused.
'...Sounds plausible.'
Certainly... I'd heard creation is a chain of suffering.
Some writers take 3-4 years from finishing one work to starting a new one.
Maybe my demand for new works in a month was unreasonable.... Hmm?
"...Wait a minute. Only 126 of you needed to prepare new works; the rest were continuing existing series, right?"
The writers flinched.
"Why couldn't the rest write? You were fine serializing without missing deadlines before checking into the hotel."
"Environment adjustment...!"
The writers chorused.
"Serialization environments are delicate. Some write only at home, some only at cafes, some in separate studios."
"But no one writes in hotels...."
"It's a totally different story."
"My rhinitis flared up yesterday, couldn't sleep, sat at the monitor but brain fog—couldn't touch the keyboard."
"Ah, I know that feeling...!"
"I had so much time I got stuck in infinite Tsukuyomi of revisions and edits. Going insane."
"You have to rebuild writing habits from scratch in a new environment. Serialization is habit, after all?"
"As expected of writers—makes sense. Sigh. Non-writers who've never serialized long can't understand these details."
"Right. It's really not easy."
Is that so?
Certainly... I'd heard creation demands delicate sensitivity.
To provide the most comfortable communal living, I occupied a luxury hotel in Incheon.
Generous pocket money weekly too. In a ruined world, closed off with no outings, money seems useless, but surprisingly not.
'This hotel has a casino in the basement.'
Originally foreigners-only, now a paradise for writers.
They convert monthly currency to game money and enjoy the casino freely. The luxury mall in the hotel is purchasable too.
According to Fairy No. 264's reports, writers are extremely satisfied, with high casino usage.
Near-perfect welfare!
'But it's still an unfamiliar environment.'
I nodded.
How could a mere reader like me interfere with creators' deep anguish and delicate sensibilities?
I could use [Mind Reading] to peek into their minds, but that felt disrespectful to my beloved writers.
"Understood. Then I'll give you one more month."
"No, a month is a bit... At least three...."
"Tut. No matter how tough the work, self-whipping diligence is required in any profession. I believe in your sincerity."
"Yesss...."
"We'll do our best...."
A month passed.
75 installments were in my hand.
"Why fewer!"
I couldn't hide my shock. Why?
The fairy smiled brightly.
"But this is all there is!"
"No... Clerk. Does this make sense? 335 people. 335! One piece per person per week exceeds 1,000. Not 750—75?"
I gathered and pressed the writers again, but same responses.
When given two chances and same answers return, it's excuses.
Sadly, writers were no longer trustworthy. Maybe my eyes had rose-tinted filters from the start.
I needed an expert. Someone objective to analyze why.
Consulting the expert yielded an immediate answer.
"Are you dumb? The environment's too good, mister."