The Rough Draft
Showing an unrevised first draft to anyone else is a profoundly embarrassing thing for a writer.
If I had to compare it to something, it would be the mortification a woman who always presents herself in full makeup feels when her boyfriend accidentally catches her bare-faced. Of course, I have never possessed that mythical creature known as a girlfriend who always appears for me in full makeup, so I can only imagine her reaction.
“I’ll read it.”
“Is there really any need to?”
“Less talk. Hand it over.”
“Ugh.”
And what I was writing was smut with a martial-arts wrapper. The shame of showing a rough draft of that to my roommate—an opposite-sex roommate, no less—defied imagination. It felt about as dignified as letting her witness my morning physiological salute in full glory.
Every second I wrestled with whether I should hand it over, but what choice did I have? Dang Hwarin was demanding it with the expression of someone who would start a bloodbath if I didn’t surrender the draft peacefully. On top of that, she had promised to run interference if people from the Dang Clan came looking, and she would check the martial-arts accuracy for me as well.
Hwarin stared at the manuscript with surprising seriousness before opening her mouth.
“The poison-arts research is a complete mess.”
“Which part?”
“You can poison someone without them noticing using poison arts, sure. But it’s not omnipotent. You can use poison arts in open terrain, but the effect depends on wind, position, and the type of poison. You can’t just fling toxin into empty air and expect it to work.”
“Poisons are supposed to be used for surprise. That’s why I wrote it that way.”
The protagonist backed into a corner. The enemy sneering arrogantly. Then the hero suddenly wears a smile of triumph as execution-ground BGM starts playing. The secret trump card is revealed. The enemy screams. That was the effect I was going for with the poison arts.
“Unless it’s a closed space or extreme close range, you at least have to describe the surroundings as favorable for poison arts after using it. I refuse to accept such half-assed poison work.”
Hwarin was looking at my poison descriptions with the face of someone saying, “You claim to know poison arts? I will not tolerate this.”
If this were reality, she’d be leaving a wall-of-text research-correction comment under my chapter.
“I’ll add the description.”
“The hidden-weapon techniques are a problem too. Why is the protagonist aiming for the lust demon’s death points?”
“Shouldn’t you aim for the vital points that kill on hit? You targeted death points when you took out those bandits.”
“Those were low-level trash. This guy’s a lust demon. Anyone strong enough to earn that title will automatically guard their death points the moment a hidden weapon flies.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Paralysis points. If I were the protagonist I’d go for places like the Geogol, Biyu, and Gokji points—the ones that numb on impact. Then, depending on the opening, I’d follow up on a death point. Even a lust demon would have to choose between running or fighting to the death.”
So basically the MMA strategy of taking away mobility with low kicks before going for the finish. Even hidden-weapon arts get this deep once you’re at Sichuan Dang Clan level.
“Alright. I’ll rewrite it so he starts with paralysis points instead of death points.”
“Good. And—”
“There’s more?”
“Of course there’s more! What the hell is this technique you claim is a secret art of the Sichuan Dang Clan?!”
Hwarin pointed at my secret trump card with rising anger.
“Ah! Extreme Death Seven Nights! I made that one up.”
“You made it up?”
“A protagonist needs a cool secret finishing technique to look cool. I agonized between Seagal Fist and Extreme Death Seven Nights. The latter just sounded cooler.”
“I’ve never even heard of a martial art like this.”
Hwarin kept looking at the Dang Clan secret art I had invented and let out an incredulous little laugh.
“Listen. Rain of Ten Thousand Flowers is too high-level for the protagonist to use yet. So instead of that, he throws flying daggers and sprints at the exact same speed as the blades. The moment the enemy dodges the daggers—snap! He twists their neck. How’s that sound?”
I couldn’t keep writing the same old pattern: the Sichuan Dang Clan releases poison, it’s super effective; the Sichuan Dang Clan scatters hidden weapons, how underhanded; Rain of Ten Thousand Flowers is strong. That wouldn’t do.
“If he has footwork and lightness skill at that level, he could just scatter poison or hidden weapons near the enemy and win.”
This woman has no romance in her soul.
“Then how about this: the protagonist attaches a string to the flying dagger and—”
“I told you that doesn’t work! Why are you so obsessed with attaching strings to flying daggers?”
Anyone who’s lived in the Joseon martial-arts novel scene can’t help having that particular fantasy. Shame. Wonder if there’s any way to make it work.
I continued bouncing feedback with Dang Hwarin and steadily raised the quality of the martial arts.
“And then next is… Ah!”
I glanced over at the draft I had handed her at the sound of Hwarin’s startled voice. Once the smut-wrapped martial arts and chivalry appeared, the following scene was obvious.
“Hwarin. From here on I’ll handle it myself.”
If the atmosphere got awkward it would only become more embarrassing. I smiled casually and held out my hand for the manuscript.
“I-I know about this stuff too, okay? I can… give advice.”
Maybe the smile backfired. Seeing my easygoing face, Hwarin suddenly flared up.
“What advice could you give? Just hand it over.”
“Well, about that…”
Dang Hwarin fidgeted with her fingers, then hung her head and stared down at her own magnificent chest.
“Hm?”
“D-d-doing it with the chest… the skin rubs and it gets a little… y-you probably need lubricant.”
I’m sorry, what?
“Hwarin. How do you know that?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
With a mortified expression she sneaked a glance at the hard, long wooden rod by the bed and flushed crimson.
Good heavens. Sweet merciful heaven.
“Hwarin. From now on I’ll handle these parts alone. Stop experimenting with that.”
I wanted to die all over again. Why would you test that?
“I-I’m trying to help…”
“For the sake of my human dignity, no.”
Also for the sake of your healthy sexual concepts, no.
“Ssss… I worked up the courage to try it…”
Dang Hwarin glared at me with a flushed, dissatisfied face at my declaration.
Why would you work up the courage to experiment with that? Thank you for thinking of me. I’m extremely grateful. But no. Don’t. I could die of shame if you do that after reading my novel.
Despite her grumbling I firmly declared that I would revise these sections alone from now on.
Even if I wanted to live on writing alone, I still had to work during the day to eat.
Even after coming to this world, the tragedy of the dual-job novelist remains unchanged.
“Hwarin. I’ll teach you how to pull espresso.”
“Okay. I’ll work hard.”
Word of mouth about the bookstore was spreading and customers were increasing by the day.
The sad part was that the more people there were, the less Hwarin could stay on the first floor. She worked with a face veil, but some customers still found it unpleasant.
Originally she would quickly tidy books during quiet periods, but with more customers it was getting harder to do that even at lunchtime.
I took the hand of the dejected Hwarin from her corner and brought her to the second-floor counter. Making coffee while facing the wall meant almost no chance of running into customers.
If it were me I’d have shouted “This is free break time!” and dug myself into a corner. Yet this girl who works day and night still tries to dig a hole in the ground just because she can’t do that one thing.
Still, the division of labor was nice for me.
“Young master, one iced café latte, please.”
While I was diligently teaching Hwarin, an order came from a customer.
“Order’s here, Hwarin. You heard what I just said, right?”
“I know already! Just handle the payment.”
“Temper, temper. Fine.”
Having something to do seems to have perked her up. Good.
“Miss, that’ll be fifty copper for the café latte, fifty-five with the ice.”
“Hmm. Here. So is she your lover? Or your wife?”
The young lady asked me while side-eyeing Dang Hwarin making coffee with clear interest.
“Pardon? Ah! She’s a friend.”
Hwarin, keep making the coffee. Don’t look over here.
“Heh. Well, of course. That couldn’t be.”
When Hwarin glared this way the young lady brazenly met her eyes. Then she looked at the face half-hidden by Hwarin’s veil and lifted one corner of her mouth.
She’s openly mocking Hwarin. This is our landlady’s building. I can’t just let this slide.
“Hey—”
I started to speak but Hwarin suddenly threw something dull and heavy to stop me.
Why? You can’t just swallow this. This is our shop. I shot her a look of protest, but Dang Hwarin only gave a small shake of her head as if to say it was fine.
“Heh heh. Young master, after closing later, perhaps you and I could visit that lovely wine house just up the street—”
“Hey. Take your coffee.”
Hwarin strode over with quick steps and set the coffee down in front of the young lady with a chilly voice, practically throwing it.
“‘Hey’?!”
The young lady stared at Hwarin with an expression of utter disbelief at being addressed so rudely.
“Yeah. Hey. There’s customers behind you. Quit your bullshit and move.”
Hwarin and the young lady locked eyes without giving an inch. Hwarin, I was the one trying to stop a fight—why are you starting one?
“Hmm. What’s this? Acting like you own the place with that face? Know your place.”
The young lady looked between us, then smiled at Hwarin as if she had it all figured out.
“What?”
Hwarin raised axe-blade eyes at the sneer.
“Heh heh heh. Never mind. Young master, let’s meet again when there’s no obstacle around.”
Unable to hide her mockery, the young lady took her coffee and returned to her seat.
What is with people like that? Most of our customers are book readers so we rarely get troublemakers, but I guess the service industry is still the service industry.
“Hwarin, you held back well.”
“Held back? I didn’t hold back at all.”
Hwarin looked up at me with a smile that suggested she was hatching some suspicious scheme.
I have a bad feeling about this. I glanced toward the young lady who had just returned to her seat. Before she could even sit down after setting her coffee on the table, she suddenly clutched her stomach.
“Why does my stomach suddenly—”
Wearing the expression of someone enduring unspeakable agony, the young lady desperately searched for the bathroom.
Wrong direction. It’s the opposite way.
A wet, explosive sound rang out.
Ah… that sound.
“I don’t knoooow!”
That day I learned about Chilbofun, the Dang Clan poison known as Seven-Step Feces—so named because the lower belly reacts after only seven steps—and the young lady earned the nickname “Diaper Girl” for failing to make it to a toilet at her age.
Daseogak permanently lost one customer, but I wasn’t particularly sorry about it.
“It’s finished.”
I gazed at the completed Dangga Pungun with a face full of emotion.
The book I had written and Dang Hwarin had proofread. Should I stamp “Verified by the Sichuan Dang Clan” when we publish it?
“Yunho! I put the materials in the print room!”
Hwarin’s voice floated up from downstairs.
“Wait! I’ll bring the book!”
All that remained now was to print and release it.