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“…What? What are you talking about?” The section chief looked at Min A-yeon in disbelief. “You’re saying he won’t attend a single one?”

“Yes. That’s what he said. His email was brief, too: ‘Due to personal circumstances, I will be unable to attend any of the award ceremonies. I will announce my acceptance speech personally through Gyeongseong Publishing’s social media. Please send the plaque and medal to Gyeongseong Publishing.’”

“…That’s it?”

“Yes. That’s all of it.”

“Hah.”

Thud. The section chief set a hand on his desk. Was this even a real thing? “Not one of the others, but the New Spring Literary Contest ceremony?” If he’d been an ordinary person, he would have shown up no matter what.

For established writers, it was just another yearly event.

But for newcomers, it was the moment their lives changed. And yet—

After winning in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seven different places,

without weighing a single option,

...he was going to skip them all?

It was so absurd he almost laughed. “Heh, hahah... Well, now I can’t even get mad about it.”

“I suppose he doesn’t want to get dragged into the newspapers’ turf war?”

“Probably. For now. And also....” He had refused the podium the newspapers had prepared for him.

Instead, he planned to post his remarks on social media. “That’s some confidence. Is that just how MZ people are?”

He wasn’t being sarcastic.

He was genuinely amazed.

Not even if the major outlets didn’t cover it,

he was still confident everyone would seek out his remarks.

Or perhaps it was simply a cool, unassuming indifference to the whole idea of acceptance speeches. The section chief’s scalp tingled.

But he couldn’t exactly curse the man out. What was he supposed to do?

If the fight was over factions and influence, Mok Hyunsun had simply chosen to step out of it altogether.

And then, at that moment, the chief’s born reporter instinct kicked in. “Min reporter, Min reporter. Get me a piece on this.”

“On what?”

“Critic Mok Hyunsun, the man who set the all-time record for debuts. He rejects every award ceremony! What do you think? Not bad, right?”

In the end, this was what it came to.

Change the angle.

Couldn’t put Mok Hyunsun on the podium? Then spotlight the fact that he’d refused it so spectacularly. That was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the idea.

A few days later, on the weekend, each newspaper held its award ceremony.

In every one of them, the critic’s seat was empty, creating an odd and almost eerie spectacle. But criticism was not the whole of the New Spring Literary Contest.

Over those two days, many novelists, poets, and children’s authors were born.

Where factional fighting had disappeared, genuine celebration remained. And then, on Sunday evening, after every award ceremony had finally ended, a fresh feed appeared on Gyeongseong Publishing’s Ensta.

A cleanly designed image, all crisp lettering.

It was Mok Hyunsun’s acceptance speech.

I am not a scholar who sells knowledge,

nor a novelist who sells stories,

nor a poet who sells emotion. I sell something no one else can ever sell:

“value.” That is probably the identity you were all curious about.

I will become someone who sells good value.

Just seven lines long.

And yet they were quoted and spread everywhere. Especially that phrase: “I sell value.”

Established critics showed their sympathy and support through social media.

And so on. People began attaching #I_Sell_Value as if it were some new trend. In response, various outlets proposed interviews with Mok Hyunsun.

But Mok Hyunsun refused every single one of them.

With the following reason: “Because I have a duty to return quickly to my daily life.”

To the older generation, it sounded commendably dutiful.

To the younger generation, it became a model to follow.

Of course, the truth was far simpler: If I give one interview, I’ll spend my entire break doing nothing but interviews. I can’t have that. It was a thoroughly personal reason.

In any case, that was how January, buzzing with New Spring Literary Contest fever, came to an end.

“Mok.” Senior Kim held out a parcel. “A package came in. Looked like it might be yours.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Even after my noisy debut,

there hadn’t been any major change in office life.

Especially not in our easy, comfortable relationships. The sender was the New Spring Literary Contest Commemorative Project Group.

When I opened it, sure enough, it contained the Commemorative Collection of New Spring Contest Works.

My seniors slid their chairs over toward me one by one. “Ooh—! It’s finally out?”

“Nice. A New Spring collection? So it’s all your work inside?”

“Yes. That’s more or less how it turned out.”

“Then, honestly, shouldn’t they publish a Mok Hyunsun criticism collection too? Look at this.” Senior Yang flipped through the book in a blur. “The structure’s really unusual. If it’s all written by you anyway, wouldn’t the winner introduction only need to appear once? Why do they repeat the winner profile every time a newspaper appears?”

Just as he said,

my introduction appeared seven times in the book.

“I guess that’s the standard format. Since it’s a national project, they probably can’t just change it however they like.”

“The state is a gangster. If they really do publish a Mok Hyunsun criticism collection later, just sign it for me.”

A Mok Hyunsun criticism collection... not bad at all, actually.

I hoped that day would come quickly. And a little while later, I was called into the editor-in-chief’s office.

“Sit.”

“Yes, sir.”

Editor Im and I sat across from one another on the sofa.

“What’s this about?”

“The editorial board has agreed to the proposal to run a special ‘Editorial Criticism Column’ in Gyeongseong Geul.”

“Ah. Thank you, Editor-in-Chief.” I was sincerely grateful to him.

The board members were mostly conservative old-timers, after all.

Editor Im must have done some persuading of his own.

“In exchange, your piece will have to go through the editorial meeting. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course. You’ll review the final manuscript before publication, correct?”

“Mm. Probably.”

“Yes. Understood.”

It was only natural.

No matter what the staff planned, no matter what the writer produced,

in the end everything had to pass the editorial meeting for final review.

That was why the editorial meeting existed in the first place.

“Have you been getting a lot of offers?”

The question came out of nowhere, personal and direct. “More than I can count.”

That was the truth.

Newspaper criticism, quarterly journal essays, literary commentary, and more.

Countless requests were piling up in my inbox. “Have you accepted any?”

“No. Not yet.”

It might have sounded arrogant, but I had refused them all. “Why not?”

“The works weren’t good enough.”

Editor Im let out a snort of laughter. “That’s what happens to rookie critics. At first, you end up writing critiques of authors who haven’t proved themselves either.”

“Being fellow rookies isn’t the issue. But that doesn’t mean there’s a pearl buried in every mud pit.”

I had no desire to evaluate work that fell below a certain standard.

Once criticism turns into condemnation, the line has already been crossed.

And if I tried to avoid condemnation, I’d end up lying.

I also thought it was a good thing I’d stayed at the publishing house.

If I’d quit,

I would have accepted the requests just because I needed the money.

“Good. Since you debuted so spectacularly, your first review matters a great deal. If you go after a major author or a minor one, people will have opinions either way.”

“That’s why I’m going to go after a proper major author from the start. If people are going to talk anyway.”

So I had decided to stake everything on the Editorial Criticism Column.

I would write about the author I wanted, and I would write the piece I wanted.

“Mm. Actually, a special offer has come in for you.” A special offer? He slid a stack of A4 pages toward me from one side of the table.

It was a full-length novel manuscript,

and when I saw the author’s name, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I couldn’t hide my surprise.

Son Yeong-han.

A senior giant of Korean literature, on par with my father.

And the title of the manuscript was... Gwae?

Gwae.

The same gwae as in “divination.”

“This is Son-sunbae’s new full-length novel. I hear he specifically asked whether you could write an interpretation of it. Directly to Representative Mun.”

My father had passed through several publishing houses, but Son Yeong-han had published most of his books with Gyeongseong Publishing.

In other words, he was one of the pillars holding the place up.

“So? Will you take it? It’s a bit of a burden, sure. But as a first piece after your debut, isn’t this more than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠good enough?”

More than good enough wasn’t even close.

In plain terms, there were almost no names in the Korean literary world above this one.

He was the kind of author most critics would receive with both hands cupped in reverence.

And yet, for some reason, I felt a strange distance from it.

An author’s name was only a name.

It did not guarantee the value of a new work.

Just because an earlier book was good, did that mean the next one would be too?

My job was to confirm that value first.

“I can’t promise an interpretation yet. I’ll need to read the novel first.”

“Why? Don’t you like Son-sunbae’s work?”

“No, I do. But I know nothing about this particular book. If I accept blindly and then have nothing to say, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?” I said breezily.

But he would have understood.

If the novel didn’t show any real value,

I didn’t particularly want the assignment.

“And if you can’t think of anything to write?”

If the book turned out to be ordinary? “Then, regrettably, I’d have to yield it to a critic more talented than I am.”

I wouldn’t write the commentary.

“Ha. That’s amusing.” Editor Im laughed, clearly entertained. “If you want, you can read it right here. The sooner you decide, the better.”

Read it in front of Editor Im?

That was a little burdensome... but there was no reason I couldn’t.

I also wanted to decide quickly.

“Yes. Then excuse me.”

And right there, I began reading Gwae.