Don Quixote - 1: This World is Trash
This world is trash. I declare it outright. This goddamn medieval fantasy world is a trash heap.
I'm not talking about the modern genius theory, paeans to civilization, or their abysmal hygiene standards. Quite the opposite—this world was one where magical civilization had flourished, and under its religious rationale, at least a baseline awareness of sanitation had spread. There were conveniences like Clean Magic that put real-world hand sanitizer to shame.
So what was the problem?
"This is so boring..."
There was no fun in it. Sure, there were flashy spectacles like monster circuses or magic shows, but those outdoor hobbies were ultimately amusements limited to specific times. What about more sedentary pursuits... content you could enjoy at home? This world was sorely lacking in that.
I'm not asking for YouTube or internet streaming. There's no internet here to begin with. As someone who'd prided himself on reading as a hobby in my previous life, I figured a handful of decent literary works would suffice.
"This kindling-level novel is what's trending in the capital right now?"
"Yes, Young Master Ed."
But this world couldn't even meet that bare minimum. Fuck, the so-called popular novels were either bizarrely descriptive erotic tales crammed with weird shit or mass-produced Knight Literature that felt like they rolled off a factory line. And if you sought something less populist? You'd stumble into pretentious scribbles that were impossible to parse—puzzles masquerading as poetry, or some shit.
"Burn this trash novel right now and bring me a crossword puzzle."
"Understood."
Yeah. I was suffering from severe novel desensitization. It had been far too long since I'd read anything enjoyable. Knight Literature had some charm at first, despite the verbosity, but after devouring dozens with the same plot and just swapped names, now even the first sentence made me want to puke.
"Sigh... Life is so fucking boring."
Born into a prestigious noble house dubbed one of the realm's finest, I'd enjoyed a pampered childhood without want. But man doesn't live by bread alone, and a reader starves when there's nothing worth reading—the soul withers away. And all I had were those repetitive Knight Literature clones. If Copyright Law existed here, they'd all be yanked from shelves.
The plots were so predictable, I could probably write them myself on the spot.
"Why not give it a shot?"
On a whim, I grabbed the pen from my crossword and scribbled away.
A noble knight protecting his lady and upholding religious duty. A special birth and destined fate. A wizard delivering prophecies to the hero, trials to overcome on the path to glory.
Writing it out left me hollow; I set the pen down. What was the point? It'd just be another log on the kindle pile.
"...No, wait—that's not it."
Leaning back in my armchair, chewing on the emptiness, a sudden idea struck. I kicked the chair aside and shot to my feet.
If this world only had copycat novels ripping off each other, then all I had to do was provide more references. I'd advance genre literature myself.
Of course, I lacked that kind of "creativity"...
"But if it's references worth referencing, I've got them all in my head."
I knew hundreds of masterpieces that didn't exist here. What if I "plagiarized" them and unleashed them on this world?
"That's the modern guy's cheat...!"
I alone in this world knew Earth's literature.
....
Even plagiarizing works from my original world, I wasn't some perfect recall savant who could replicate them verbatim. Most I only vaguely remembered the plots for.
But knock and the door shall open; seek and ye shall find.
Conveniently, this era was in the throes of the Knight Literature boom. And I knew one great masterpiece from that very period.
"...Young Master, I've brought the Knight Literature works you requested."
"Ah, just set them there."
"Weren't you sick of Knight Literature?"
"Sick of it? Yeah."
Don Quixote was a novel that satirized Knight Literature. Its core narrative structure followed Knight Literature to a T. The only twist? The protagonist was a batshit old geezer, and everyone around him viewed his antics as utterly ridiculous.
Unlike traditional Knight Literature exalting noble, chivalrous knights, this one portrayed a clownish, blustering fool.
"But you gotta know what you're cursing to curse it right."
"...I see."
In the mad world of Don Quixote, he was an honorable knight of chivalry. So to write this, I needed to master Knight Literature first.
That's why I'd sent Sion to buy every famous one from the capital. He looked baffled, but whatever.
Sion eyed me cautiously before speaking up.
"You've bought so many popular novels this time that Madam is a bit upset. Your allowance might be cut for a few months."
"So?"
"...Pardon?"
"I've already read everything worth reading. What's the point of an allowance now?"
"...True enough."
My allowance went straight to books. Maybe a bookmark or shelf at most. Books weren't cheap, but thanks to magic-engineering printing tech, not absurdly medieval prices either.
If anything, like a hardcover in Korea hit by fixed pricing and inflation...
"Plus, sell the books and you'll make a tidy sum."
"Not content with reading—you're going to publish now?"
"Finish writing it, and I'll show you too, Sancho."
"My name isn't Sancho; it's Sion."
"Read it all, and you'll want me to call you Sancho."
Sancho was as captivating as Don Quixote. If the knight brimmed with chivalry and courage as pure fantasy, Sancho the timid yet capable squire embodied reality. Reality made fantasy shine; fantasy gave reality weight. They completed each other.
"...If you're so confident, Young Master Ed, you've piqued my curiosity."
"Being first to read it will feel like the greatest luck."
"I'll look forward to it."
His words said one thing, but his eyes showed little expectation. Reading and writing were worlds apart; devouring Knight Literature didn't make you a master writer.
He probably figured it'd be no different from the kindling I scorned.
"...Well, kindling or not, they are fun. That's the fun part."
Mass-produced novels thrived on endless demand. Folks like me, hooked on Knight Literature, were the reason—they were the most avid readers.
In a way, hating it stemmed from loving it most. That was Don Quixote's theme too.
At first glance, it seemed a critique of Knight Literature's excesses, but it brimmed with affection for the genre more than any other.
Someone who could list a hundred flaws in detail? That's devotion.
So Don Quixote couldn't just trash Knight Literature. It had to appeal to its charms more earnestly than any Knight Literature ever had.
Like Don and Sancho completing each other, fantasy and reality completing each other.
Don Quixote had to complete Knight Literature itself.
"Let's see... time to read till my eyes bleed."
Plenty to read. Plenty already read. Now I had to memorize them all without looking.
Only then could Don Quixote burn them down.
....
One day, a novel began trending in the capital.
Don Quixote.
This Knight Literature tale, praised by critics who'd long savaged the genre, caught fire among diehard fans. Word spread, and soon no one in the capital hadn't heard of it.
One book alone spiked enrollment in the academy's knighthood department.
Folks saw the mad old coot Don Quixote and dreamed of "chivalry."
"That is the true duty and obligation of a knight—no! Not obligation, but privilege!"
And those most swayed? Naturally, the nobles who flaunted their refinement and wealth.
Even those who'd dismissed Knight Literature as shallow pulp showered Don Quixote with acclaim.
Social circles buzzed with trends: paper helmets mimicking Don, wandering knight costumes. Some even went full lunatic.
"The dreamer and the non-dreamer—who's truly mad?"
An iron-blooded old duke took up the knight's quest out of nowhere. His duchy ground to a halt; his son scrambled to proxy rule in the farce.
One novel reshaped society's vibe entirely.
And its author, Ed?
"This is driving me nuts."
He rubbed his temples, staring at the blatant knockoffs plagiarizing Don Quixote outright.