If I Write It, I'm Dead
The power struggles of the Sichuan Dang Clan.
One day the young clan heir hears that his father and the elders who backed him have been ambushed and murdered by a mysterious group. While circulating his qi, a shadowy intruder strikes; before he can even shout “Who the hell are you?” every meridian in his body twists into catastrophic qi deviation.
The clan-head seat falls to his uncle. Despite the suspicion that he ordered the killings, the uncle takes the protagonist’s mother as his plaything and carries on as clan head. Reduced to a cripple, the protagonist dreams only of revenge—until one night with his aunt reveals a talent that has nothing to do with martial arts.
Every woman he sleeps with becomes unable to live without him. He resolves to wield that power for vengeance.
Dangga Pungun. Now it begins.
“If I write it, I’m dead.”
Have you seen that book? The whole clan is a sex village—literally a sex village. The entire Sichuan Dang Clan. Now I finally understand why there are so many people surnamed Dang. They screw their own family. The rumor that Westerners founded the Habsburgs after studying Sichuan Dang Clan culture turns out to be true.
Suspicious rumors will reach the ears of the Dang Clan, and they will hunt the source. Finding the black-haired barbarian who runs a thriving bookstore in Yichang will be easy. When they find me there will be no need for lawsuits or trials over defamation. Sichuan Dang Clan people will arrive with tears of emotion, claiming they have a gift for the author.
Would you prefer a knife thrust, a poison needle, or—if neither suits—we also have medicinal decoctions? They’ll make me choose.
“Even if I’m writing smut, I need safety measures in place.”
I can draw all the aggro I want from the Sichuan Dang Clan, but I must never cross the line. The instant I cross it, what flies won’t be an eraser—it’ll be my head.
Even in this world there were novels that used real sects and clans as their backdrop. Murim tales never sold well and languished as dead stock in fifty-year-old bookstores, yet they had always existed. The Wind and Cloud Chivalrous Heroes I once wrote was set against the Wudang Sect, wasn’t it? I’ve never heard of those authors being killed, so as long as I stay on the right side of the line I should be fine.
The real question is how to write smut without ever crossing that line.
“Martial-arts protagonist. Even if it’s pure smut, let’s make him a Dang Clan native overflowing with chivalrous spirit.”
A son of the Sichuan Dang Clan. Trained in assassination and poison arts, yet carrying a heart full of righteousness—an upright hero rare even in today’s martial-arts novels. When Dang Clan members read it they will think, “What a strange fellow. Completely unlike us—no persecution complex, no hysterics, no cowardly schemes behind people’s backs.”
With that hero I will write smut, not a orthodox martial-arts novel. And I will do it by using the main villain.
“The main villain in smut is always a Lust Demon.”
A Dang Clan protagonist who walks into the world with chivalry in his heart. One day he hears that a Lust Demon is raping women across the land to absorb their yin essence and grow stronger. He sets out to hunt the monster down. Dangga Pungun will be the story of that chase.
“An upright hero performing chivalrous deeds who just happens to stumble into extremely lewd situations.”
The skeleton follows ordinary martial-arts plotting, only with adult spice poured over it. The protagonist is simply doing righteous work, yet by pure coincidence pornographic things keep happening—exactly the way a rom-com lead never means to, yet still ends up grabbing a heroine’s chest and seeing her panties. The difference is that the hero of Dangga Pungun does not stop at grabbing; he also puts it in.
“Every villainous act is committed by the Lust Demon; the hero only drinks the honey. That way the Dang Clan will think twice before coming after me.”
Even in the modern world, when companies make dramas starring famous entrepreneurs the real executives smile and never sue. Some of them even launch peanut-cream snacks as tie-in merchandise. Same principle here. The protagonist is not the villain. He sweetly drinks the honey of the smut while becoming a famous chivalrous knight of the jianghu. Write Dangga Pungun well enough and the Sichuan Dang Clan might show up with tears of gratitude to present an award for promotional services. Perfect.
If they still come looking, I already have a contingency—but that can wait until the day I need it.
For now, I write.
“Ugh… this is rough.”
I was deep in the plot when Dang Hwarin pushed open the attic door and trudged in, shoulders slumped.
“Good work. Sorry I didn’t help with the cleanup.”
“It’s fine. You slave away all day; the least I can do is this.”
She answered weakly and collapsed straight onto the bed. I watched her lie motionless, completely spent. Because of her face she cannot stand behind the first-floor counter, so the retired former clerks have returned out of loyalty to the owner’s granddaughter. Hwarin handles the important ledgers and inventory, yet during peak hours she is undeniably free. She knows it, which is why she insists on doing every scrap of closing work herself. Still, guilt nags at me. The moment we have breathing room I will hire more hands.
“Want a massage?”
“No. Write your book.”
“All right. Tell me if you need anything.”
I turned back to the page and resumed Dangga Pungun. In real life such filthy coincidences never happen. That is exactly why smut is wonderful. I have to write prose you can hear.
“…Hey. Yunho.”
Absorbed in the manuscript, I only noticed her voice after a moment. She had been staring at me the whole time; no wonder I felt eyes on my back.
“Yeah?”
“J-just a little.”
Just a little of what? When I looked blank she fidgeted, embarrassed, then flipped onto her stomach. So she had been waiting for the massage all along. She should have taken it when I first offered.
I am tired too; the writing can stop here. I set down the brush, stood, and walked to the bed.
“Hard?”
The moment my hands touched her calves her whole body flinched.
“…Tenderly.”
Tenderly?
“Gentle it is.”
“Hnn! I told you not to touch my thighs.”
“But the thighs are the knottiest—”
Or maybe the shoulders.
“Hnnngh! Hey! Where do you think you’re—ahh!”
She really is high-maintenance.
The bookstore renovated in modern style, and Daseogak where anyone may read as long as they like. From the very day the doors opened, the place has been packed.
“Manager. Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m listening. Welcome.”
I kept one ear on Scholar Son—who had arrived the instant we unlocked—while greeting every customer who streamed through the entrance.
“I dislike that you force a stamp every time a book is sold. And three friends come together, one enters free? How is a man supposed to manage such a complicated rule? Simply let them in free once every three visits. Also the name Daseogak is a problem—too rustic. Instead of Daseogak, Bookc—”
“Welcome. Cafe latte?”
“Manager, are you even listening?”
Apparently he still had more to say.
“Look over there.”
He pointed at three young ladies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing a single volume.
“They’ve ordered drinks and pastries and seem to be having a fine time.”
Snacks supplied from outside, expensive coffee, and they keep exceeding the one-drink-one-snack rule. Ideal daily customers, if you ask me. I gave Scholar Son a look that said, You’re the man nursing a single americano until the ice melts—why the fuss?
“Ahem. Two cups a day and I cannot sleep… Anyway! Those young ladies are chattering while three of them read one book. This is a sacred space of study. As manager, should you not restrain such behavior?”
“I’ve been watching. They’re only whispering; they aren’t loud.”
“That is not the point. Flower-scented young ladies whispering beside me make concentration impossible.”
I cannot help it if the young ladies distract him. And if he wants to study he should go somewhere meant for studying. This place is for reading.
“We ourselves are talking right now.”
“Conversation between friends is no crime.”
“Haha. Friends, Customer? This is a reading space. If you wish to study, the place you normally use would be better.”
Long experience has taught me that customers who try to become “brothers” or “friends” with the owner never end well.
“Ugh. Perhaps we have not met enough times to become friends yet… Truthfully, the quiet of Daseogak helps me concentrate. If I study here I feel certain I can pass the next civil-service examination.”
“You’re a regular, and others may feel the same, so I’ll issue a warning this once. If it continues I’ll stamp your coupon for free—please bear with it.”
“Truly? Then skip the warning and just stamp.”
“All right. Done.”
“Hehehe. That’s ten stamps. One iced americano, please.”
Hey. You just said two cups a day keep you awake.
“Hwarin. Still not finished?”
I had finished the second-floor cleaning and found her still bustling about downstairs.
“If you’re done, go upstairs.”
She hoisted a bound stack of books from the corner.
“I’ll help. Wow—these are all smut. They’re really flying off the shelves.”
Together we laid the erotic volumes out on the empty display tables one by one.
“Yeah. Selling like crazy.”
“I wish my writing would sell this well.”
“Heh. Not that easy.”
“You’re laughing? If I put only my book on this table I’d sell out in a day.”
I casually hinted that once my novel appears I intend to claim an entire display for promotion.
“Heh. Sure. Write hard.”
She looked at me the way an older sister watches a little brother declare he will grow up to be a super robot. Suddenly I felt stubborn. Time to write seriously.
“Cleanup’s almost finished. Go rest. I’ll wrap up.”
“If we’re finishing, we finish together—”
“Rest. Rest. You’ve been complaining your shoulders are killing you lately.”
How exhausted must a martial artist with internal energy be to feel this drained? I caught her stiff shoulders and gently steered her toward the stairs.
“The shoulders aren’t stiff because of that—”
“Enough. Rest.”
I packed her off to the attic and began the final first-floor tidy. Good business is wonderful, but the cleanup takes forever. People: if you read a book, put it back where it belongs.
Put it back?
“I’m screwed!”
I abandoned the scattered volumes and sprinted up to the attic. Too late. Dang Hwarin stood there with a serious face, a thick sheaf of papers in her hand, staring straight at me.
“Hey. Yunho. This… what the hell is it?”