46
Chapter 46 The Price of Silence
“At the 31st New Year Literary Contest hosted by Munseong Daily, children’s literature has, for the first time, won the grand prize. However, the winner has refused to accept the prize, stating they cannot agree to the lump-sum contract proposed by the organizers, and controversy is expected.”
“The rookie writer who rejected the Munseong Daily grand prize has been revealed to be nine-year-old genius Do Mino, who is receiving immense public attention.”
“Munseong Daily and Yedam Publishing have reportedly abandoned the lump-sum contract in order to sign Do Mino, but he still refused to sign.”
As Do Mino requested, PD Kang Jiseop contacted ABS News and broadcast the story nationwide.
Other networks, sensing a major scoop, began investigating and reporting on Mino’s rejection as well.
Public reaction exploded.
People first praised Mino for standing out even in the literary contest. Then, upon learning about lump-sum contracts, they nodded in agreement and applauded his decision.
Anyone who roughly understood Mino’s ability thought it was absurd to sell what could become a masterpiece for only 100 million won, including all rights.
“To be honest, this is ridiculous. A grand prize work sells at least 300,000 copies a year. At 7,000 won per book, that’s 2.1 billion won in sales. At least 20 percent profit remains. That’s 400 million. Normally, the author gets about 10 percent. That’s at least 40 million a year. And you’re telling him to take 100 million and walk away? Honestly, do you think Mino’s book would only sell 300,000 copies?”
An industry insider appeared on the news, openly criticizing lump-sum contracts and supporting Mino.
“Last year’s grand prize winner sold a million copies, but only received 70 million won. If Mino were a normal writer, he wouldn’t even get 100 million. But now they’re offering both a lump sum and a royalty contract. That’s special treatment. The excuse that this is necessary tradition is gone.”
Even active writers criticized publishers.
“But isn’t this becoming too much about money?”
Not everyone supported Mino.
“100 million is still a huge amount. If this continues, all writers might chase money instead of literature.”
“The worst case is publishers only printing what sells. Diversity dies.”
“That kid is smart. People borrow novels but buy children’s books.”
Just as Mino expected, he became a target not only for publishers but also for writers.
“But it’s obvious. Where did those recordings come from?”
After attacking the message came attacks on the messenger.
“A writer exists to write good stories, not for money. Rejecting the prize over money? His mindset is wrong.”
The backlash was stronger than expected.
“Too obsessed with money.”
“Such a waste of talent.”
“Does he even have talent? Maybe he won because of fame.”
“Everyone talks about sales, not the work.”
The criticism grew into a storm.
“He just wants to publish his own book.”
“I heard he might start his own publishing company.”
“He wants all the profit?”
“Is someone controlling him?”
“Maybe the orphanage director.”
Soon, criticism shifted from Mino to Director Lee Seunghoon.
Even the children at the orphanage became targets.
It was the price of challenging both publishers and media.
---
Mino and the orphanage family couldn’t fully grasp the scale of criticism.
It was the 20th century, and the internet wasn’t widespread.
They only noticed more reporters lingering in their town.
But at the airport—
The cold stares and whispers were unmistakable.
“Do Mino, when will your rejected work be published?”
Even polite questions carried sharp intent.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Still, Mino answered calmly.
“Are you delaying due to public criticism?”
“Rather, I want to verify whether my writing is truly worthy, or just popular because I’m on TV.”
“Verify?”
“I plan to submit it to the U.S. market.”
Reporters lowered their microphones.
‘Is he serious?’
It sounded like arrogance.
“So you want more money in a bigger market?”
“Yes. I want Korean literature recognized globally. Money will follow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been offered large sums for paintings, but I refused. I couldn’t do better than my previous work.”
People had forgotten how valuable his art was.
“I don’t enjoy painting that much. Writing makes me happy.”
“So you’re not interested in money?”
“I’ll draw what I enjoy. But I don’t chase money.”
“Then this trip is for entering the U.S. market?”
“If it were just work, I’d come alone. This is for my family. A small reward.”
Reporters felt no emotion.
They were more interested in his finances.
“Who manages your money?”
“I do.”
“What about the director?”
“I gave him money. He deserves it.”
“How much?”
“I won’t say. But I wouldn’t give someone like you even 10 won.”
Laughter broke out.
“Even as ABS staff, we’re going to America thanks to Mino. You’re not.”
PD Kang Jiseop lashed out.
“Be ashamed. You’re worse than those publishers.”
Public opinion shifted again.
“He’s right.”
“Of course he’s not writing for money.”
Before this, silence had hurt him.
Now—
His words changed everything.
‘They say speech is silver and silence is gold. That’s a lie.’
Mino had stayed silent for a reason.
For a bigger move.
And he would be in America for a month.
But advertisers reacted differently.
“Should we cancel the contract?”
“Come on, take this and relax.”
They handed him envelopes of money.
Mino smiled.
‘Silence can be profitable too.’