Uninvited Guest - 2
I always knew a day like this would come.
The protagonist of Dangga Pungun, the novel I had written, was a man of the Sichuan Dang Clan. Naturally, once people from the Sichuan Dang Clan laid eyes on it, there was bound to be some kind of reaction.
Of course, I had figured there was no need to worry right from the start.
I was in Yichang, Hubei Province. The Sichuan Dang Clan was based in Chengdu, Sichuan. Even if Sichuan sat right on Hubei’s western border, the distance was still considerable.
First I would use the Sichuan Dang Clan as material to snag the readers’ interest, weave in enough plausibility to make the story hold, and let the book grow famous.
Only when Dangga Pungun was famous enough to ring across the whole of Hubei would anyone from the Sichuan Dang Clan come looking. That had been my rather complacent assumption.
I never imagined the day would arrive this quickly.
“May I ask what brings you here?”
I put on a smiling face and asked the purple-haired man—someone who looked every inch a martial artist of the Sichuan Dang Clan.
“As a warrior of the Sichuan Dang Clan, I must know the author of this novel, Dangga Pungun.”
Just as I expected. Someone from the Sichuan Dang Clan.
He didn’t spit out casual speech right away like some unmannered martial artist, yet the way he spoke carried a distinctly commanding tone.
The face that asked the question was neither smiling nor angry—an ambiguous, rigid expression. I couldn’t tell whether he had come with good intentions or bad ones.
“I cannot reveal personal information.”
“You’re saying you cannot reveal the identity of the man who wrote a novel starring a member of the Sichuan Dang Clan?”
Would you reveal it if you were me? The moment he heard the refusal, the martial artist of the Sichuan Dang Clan let a peculiar energy leak out and dropped his voice low. This bastard—he starts pressuring me the second I say no. Judging by the attitude, he hadn’t come with good intentions.
If I had been an ordinary civilian instead of someone trained by a woman whose killing intent no one in the Central Plains could match, even this small bit of pressure would have left me cowering in terror.
It wasn’t as if I had committed some great crime. This felt excessive.
The protagonist of Dangga Pungun wasn’t some third-rate chaebol-heir villain from a drama; he was a righteous chivalrous warrior with an upright character. And I wasn’t even the first writer to use a Sichuan Dang Clan protagonist, either.
Of course, every previous novel that featured a Sichuan Dang Clan protagonist had made him sly and gloomy, and the stories themselves had been boring as hell.
So what exactly was wrong with a sturdy herbivore of a protagonist charging forward for the sake of chivalry that he felt the need to pressure me? Maybe he was annoyed that the protagonist used a python in the bedroom instead of a herbivore.
“The one publishing Dangga Pungun is Daseogak. If you have any complaint about the book, please address it to me rather than Author Hopil.”
“I already know all of that.”
The man looked me up and down with a smile that said he had investigated everything thoroughly.
Had I been found out?
I put on a face that said I had no idea what he was talking about, kept arranging books, and positioned myself closer to the exit. Worst case, I would just step outside and start yelling.
Dangga Pungun Volume 3 under threat of publication halt!
Daseohoe, assemble!
“What do you mean by that?”
“Author Hopil who wrote Dangga Pungun—he’s from the Sichuan Dang Clan, isn’t he?”
“Haha. From the Sichuan Dang Clan?”
I answered while breathing an inward sigh of relief. Thankfully he hadn’t come knowing my identity. You’re wrong, buddy. Though half of it was technically right.
“My eyes cannot be deceived. The book contains details of verification that no one but a person of the Sichuan Dang Clan would know.”
“Haha. Is that so?”
I replied in a way that suggested I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Are you really going to keep pretending ignorance?”
The man released his energy again, pressing me. What now? While I was briefly deliberating, I spotted Hwarin approaching from a distance with a stiff face.
Hey. Don’t come over.
I shot Hwarin a look at a level the martial artist wouldn’t notice. She flinched when she caught my eyes.
Hwarin, if you come here it really gets complicated. I rolled my eyes again, signaling her to hide behind a bookshelf.
“Why do you keep looking behind you?”
When I kept glancing back, the martial artist turned his head. Fortunately Dang Hwarin had already slipped behind a bookshelf and out of his line of sight before he looked.
“Book thieves are rather common, you see.”
“I see. Still—can you truly not tell me? This Hopil fellow is clearly a man of the Sichuan Dang Clan.”
He pointed at the characters for Hopil on the book and pressed me once more.
“As the manager of Daseogak, I bear full responsibility for every book printed here. If there is a problem with the novel’s content, do not think of hunting down Author Hopil to harm him—speak to me instead.”
I spoke as if I were a righteous merchant who sponsored and protected a pure-hearted writer.
What do you want with Hopil, you bastard? You’re not planning to drag him off saying someone like him is perfect for human experiments, are you?
Today let’s try pufferfish poison. How many pufferfish eggs can a person eat before they stop thinking it’s a thrilling flavor and actually die? Yesterday it was three eggs, so today let’s try five. Got it? Oops. He died.
I briefly imagined myself being subjected to human experiments by the Sichuan Dang Clan, then steeled my resolve never to reveal Hopil’s identity.
“Hahaha! Harm him? You make it sound as if Author Hopil has committed some crime. Hahaha.”
The martial artist’s laughter was followed by a completely unexpected answer.
What? He wasn’t here for human experiments?
“Then why are you looking for Author Hopil?”
“I happened to see this novel yesterday and was so moved that I came.”
“Is that so.”
“Do you know how long the Sichuan Dang Clan has suffered under false accusations? Whenever a Dang protagonist appears, he is always sly, scheming from the shadows. Is the Sichuan Dang Clan some evil sect?! It was so unjust I was furious, yet when I read this novel yesterday I shed tears of pure emotion…”
“It’s true that Dang protagonists in novels usually aren’t the nicest personalities.”
Apparently “if the righteous sects are plotting, the real mastermind is you, Sichuan Dang Clan again” was a cliché in this world too.
“But look at Dangga Pungun! Dang Jeong is a true righteous warrior. The story was endlessly entertaining. And from the contents it is obvious a person of the Sichuan Dang Clan wrote it. I was certain one of our own wrote it to smash the prejudice and slander heaped upon our clan, so I came to learn his identity and encourage him.”
“Haha. I see.”
“So now can you tell me who Author Hopil is?”
The man smiled and asked for Hopil’s identity again. But I still couldn’t reveal it. He might be packaging it as goodwill while harboring black intentions underneath.
“Author Hopil does not wish his identity to be known.”
“Hahaha. I understand. A novel that paints his own clan in gold—if word got out he was from the Sichuan Dang Clan he would be utterly embarrassed. Hahaha.”
Convinced his guess was correct, the man threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“Thank you for understanding.”
I answered with words that could be taken as either affirmation or denial.
“Truly, this novel is so fun and the protagonist so charming. How could a person of the Sichuan Dang Clan write something so… so unlike a person of the Sichuan Dang Clan—no, no—so like a true righteous warrior… Truly worthy of being one of our own…”
He had been so impressed by Dangga Pungun that he rambled on about the novel’s contents for quite a while. Looks like he genuinely loved the story.
“I need to head up to the second floor now.”
After listening for a while I made a show of being busy.
“Then I have just one last question.”
When I said I was going up, his expression hardened.
“Please go ahead.”
Was he going to lull me into dropping my guard and then ask for the identity again?
“Ahem. Well… my companions and I will soon be returning to Sichuan. Would it be possible to obtain Volume 3 a little early?”
He averted his eyes as if embarrassed.
“Ah. About that…”
I gave an awkward smile and informed him it was impossible.
“He’s one of our own, isn’t he? Even if it hasn’t been published yet, I’m sure he’d gladly—”
“I’m sorry. As far as I know Volume 3 is not yet finished.”
“What a shame. A real shame. To return to Sichuan without Volume 3… Well, nothing for it. It’s so good I’ll just buy a few more of Volumes 1 and 2. Please ring these up.”
He grabbed several copies of Dangga Pungun and held out one gold.
“Here’s your change.”
“Keep the change. I don’t know who Author Hopil is, but tell him to buy himself a fine drink with the leftover money. I’ll be going.”
The man who had stormed in like a tempest first thing in the morning left me with far more than the price of the books, smiled cheerfully, and departed.
“Haa… That took ten years off my life.”
After the day’s work was done, late in the evening, at a restaurant in Yichang. I ordered delicious food with the change the man had left—partly as an offering to ward off bad luck—and finally let out a long sigh of relief.
“You should’ve just called me.”
Hwarin spoke with a faintly dissatisfied look.
“Everything was fine if we just stayed quiet. Why would I call you?”
“It was dangerous.”
“It wasn’t dangerous. And just as I planned, the Hopil strategy worked.”
Hide the identity of Hopil, author of Dangga Pungun.
I didn’t keep Hopil’s identity secret simply because the situation was more entertaining that way. There were many advantages to be gained by keeping it hidden.
Even if my circumstances had improved, I was still a black-haired barbarian.
Some people would put on colored glasses and look askance at Dangga Pungun for the sole reason that a black-haired barbarian had written it.
A pen name could be Eggplant Mushroom or Hopil for all I cared—this world had plenty of ridiculous pen names—but the fact that a black-haired barbarian was actually writing was a different matter.
And the more famous Author Hopil became, the more likely I was to get dragged into troublesome affairs.
If I were some noble aristocrat or rich young master who wrote novels, it might be fine. But a black-haired barbarian who looked easy to push around was another story.
By keeping the identity hidden, Dangga Pungun could avoid today’s kind of threats and other bothersome entanglements.
“Still…”
“For the time being, just using Hopil and the manager is enough. I don’t like throwing you under the bus just because the other guy lowers his voice a little.”
Redirecting the arrow toward Hwarin was a last resort for the absolute worst case only.
Dang Hwarin was a victim of Dokin experiments. If word of her reached someone operating in the shadows within the Dang Clan, they might come looking. News of Hwarin must never reach the Sichuan Dang Clan.
If things ever escalated to the point of throwing Hwarin under the bus, not only she but I myself would be in danger as well.
“Hmm~ You’re thinking of me that much?”
Hwarin let out a strange nasal hum and smiled, as if she were genuinely moved by my words.
“Of course. I don’t sell out a friend just because I think I might be in danger.”
What I needed to pull out when I was in danger was my own judgment and wits—not the friend who cared about me.
“Yeah… Right. We’re friends.”
Hwarin’s smiling expression trembled oddly as she dragged the words out. Something seemed to be bothering her.
“Well, well! If it isn’t the manager of Daseogak!”
I was about to ask Hwarin what was wrong when familiar faces appeared beside us.
“Members of the Daseohoe? Here for a meal?”
“We gathered for a drink and some talk about Dangga Pungun.”
“I see.”
Drinking with like-minded people and talking about the same topic was always fun.
“Since we’ve met like this, why not share a drink with us? If you’re free after the meal we could even head over to a pleasure house together…”
That was a little tempting.
“Hey. Yunho.”
Hwarin’s low voice sounded sharper and more dangerous than the martial artist’s earlier.
“I have a companion.”
“Ah, the young lady of Daseogak is here too. Ngh… Then I’ll just bring a bottle and we can share a few cups!”
“Wait a moment! Hey!”
I couldn’t stop the Daseohoe member who was already hurrying off to fetch a bottle of wine.
At an inn in Yichang.
The martial artist of the Sichuan Dang Clan who had visited Daseogak that morning entered the inn where his companions were staying.
“This fellow. Where have you been without even eating, only to show up now?”
A different purple-haired man of the Sichuan Dang Clan looked at the one who had vanished without a meal.
“I had a small errand.”
“Our long schedule has already turned into a wasted trip and the mood is foul enough—what errand? Don’t tell me you went off drinking first thing in the morning?”
The man frowned and scolded him.
“Of course not. And… heh heh heh. It wasn’t a wasted trip after all.”
“Don’t tell me you found what we were looking for here in Yichang?”
“Not that. But I obtained something so wondrous and marvelous that you couldn’t find it even if you searched the entire Central Plains.”
“W-what on earth is it?”
The man who had visited Daseogak approached his companions, pulled something from his robes, and opened his mouth.
“My friend. Have you heard of the book that is currently shaking Yichang to its foundations—Dangga Pungun?”
Dangga Pungun. This was the moment the novel became known not merely to one martial artist of the Sichuan Dang Clan, but to the people of the Sichuan Dang Clan themselves.