Return - 3: Daddy-Long-Legs

Daddy-Long-Legs.

In the novel of the same name, it was what the orphaned heroine called the stranger who supported her financially, in secret. The book went on to become so famous that the word settled into the global lexicon as a byword for any anonymous benefactor.

When I was little, I read Daddy-Long-Legs as a short comic and a children's storybook, and came away believing it was a tale about becoming a kind adult who helps poor children.

Then my brain finished hardening, and I learned the truth: Daddy-Long-Legs was a romance between the protagonist and a patron more than a dozen years her senior.

It says everything that the novel is now held up as the definitive example of two of subculture's most notorious clichés — the "raise-and-claim," where a man waits for a young heroine to grow up before claiming her, and the "reverse raise-and-claim," where the grown heroine boldly pursues the older male lead herself.

Come to think of it, it was just like the tale of Jean Valjean and the silver candlesticks — as a child I knew only the opening, and the rest was a closed book to me. In any case, you could call it a work that ran far ahead of its time in more ways than one.

"Let's become the protagonist's Daddy-Long-Legs."

I murmured the plan over to myself once more.

Of course, I had no intention of raise-and-claiming the protagonist, nor of getting reverse-raise-and-claimed. What kind of raise-and-claim business is this between two grown men? I shudder just thinking about it.

What the original protagonist needs to catch once he's fully grown are Demonic Cultists and evildoers. My role is simply to be his anonymous benefactor.

Forget noblesse oblige — I'm in no position to think about anything beyond the debt collectors due the day after tomorrow. And yet sponsoring the original protagonist? That I could do gladly.

It's not as if I'd lie awake worrying that sponsoring a Somali child might raise a Pirate King firing Allah's magic wand — sponsoring the original protagonist would raise a chivalrous hero who saves this very world.

"Until the original story begins, I still have time to spare."

Plenty of time to build a real relationship with the protagonist through sponsorship.

"The problem is that sponsorship alone won't move him."

Bankrolling a penniless protagonist doesn't mean I get to order him around at will, bellowing, Go! Protagonist-mon! Fire Blast! Million-Volt Thunderbolt! Dragon Snot!

Sponsorship would buy me a favor or two, granted. I'd taken outside scholarships back in my student days in exchange for writing reviews, or shown up at events. But nodding along to a request to risk my life was another matter entirely.

What I want is to make the original protagonist unable to refuse my requests.

A tall order. But there is a way.

A way that only I could ever manage.

"Because no one in this world knows the protagonist better than I do."

I ground fresh ink in my inkstone and smiled quietly to myself.

I know everything about the protagonist. His past. His present. His future. I periodically recite the other characters' profiles to myself several times over — you can imagine how thoroughly I've memorized his.

His ailing master has fallen into disfavor with his own sect, the Mount Hua Sect. The protagonist, an orphan with no one outside to turn to, lives out a hidden, hand-to-mouth existence with him. Only after his master dies does the protagonist finally step into the world.

"I'll write every letter in advance, all at once, and ask them to deliver them at set intervals."

From Yichang, where I stand, to the Mount Hua Sect in Shaanxi Province is a journey of more than a month overland.

Just hearing confirmation that a letter arrived safely takes over two months. Better, then, to assume each letter arrives safely and draft the entire sequence ahead of time.

"Let's start simple — a message of support, and money."

I need to cultivate an air of mystery.

Be well. A greeting, nothing more — that much is enough. Enclosed, though, will be the money he needs.

Neither too much nor too little.

The first, second, and third letters all carry the same weight: warm regards, plus cash.

At first he'll wonder what the money is even for. When the second letter arrives hard on the first, he'll begin to suspect a steady benefactor.

From the third letter onward, he'll start spending it — all the while wondering whether he's truly allowed to.

"Once a man starts spending, his habits rarely find their way back."

Like a jobless bum scraping by on 50,000 won a month who finally lands a job and, swollen by his new spending, becomes a wage slave — too terrified of quitting to ever walk away.

At some point, the original protagonist will find he cannot live without my money.

And then, the next step.

"I cut the sponsorship off."

Just like that, the support stops.

Why have the letters stopped? Has something happened? Or was it only ever a temporary kindness?

Why did he squander a windfall without saving a single coin? By the time he's cursing himself, drowning in regret —

"I send double the money."

The prepared letter arrives, the sum doubled. He will realize the sweetness he'd been lapping up was the grace of another. He'll treasure it all the more, thank the heavens — and burn with curiosity.

Who on earth would pour such sums into him? He is nothing but an orphan.

"And at exactly this moment, I play the card of his past."

The original protagonist will know at once.

His childhood. The Joseon man who saved him. The benefactor who, for a boy with nowhere to go, cheerfully emptied his purse and helped him enter the sect as a lay disciple.

So it was you all along. You'll get the wrong idea, won't you?

His childhood savior — the very reason he dreams of becoming a hero — has not forgotten him, and is sponsoring him still.

Let the original protagonist misunderstand.

"It hardly matters anyway. The reunion with his benefactor never comes before the story ends."

To think I'd have to deceive another human being.

For Kang Yunho — sincerity given flesh — the conscience twinges as if caving in. But then again, isn't this simply stacking one good deed upon another?

Through letters, I will slowly touch his past, echo his heart, and steer him down the right path.

With two heroine routes already shattered, there are places he'd otherwise have no reason to visit — but when his savior and benefactor tells him to go, he'll hardly refuse.

All I have to do is set him down where I want, when I want, and the events scheduled for that moment will erupt right on cue.

Unless his personality has changed from the original, he'll move exactly as I intend without a single order from me.

The protagonist will grow strong along a story flow different from the original yet similar, and stand against the Demonic Cult.

"Justification and profit, in a single stroke."

He grows strong and pounds Demonic Cultists into the dirt; I write my books and rise in fame.

Perfect.

I wrote out months' worth of correspondence to lay the groundwork for the sponsorship.

The real problem is what happens if my identity is exposed — but there's a way around that too, when it comes. For now, let's just get the sponsorship letters written.

"I'm telling you, we leave today or we won't make it in time!"

"My goods are rotting as we speak! I'm begging you here!"

When I returned to the Seocheon Escort Agency with the letters finished, it was as raucous as ever.

"Please deliver these letters to the Mount Hua Sect in Shaanxi Province."

I laid the bundle of letters out one by one before the escort the branch manager had called over.

"You want the entire bundle delivered?"

The escort blinked at the sheer volume of correspondence.

"There's money as well."

I handed over the funds together with a document recording exactly how much was to be delivered, and in what order.

My hands were trembling. Call it a necessary expense all you like — for a debtor who'll have to hustle right back to Yichang and grind away at his debts, it could only feel like a burden.

This much money would have bought dinner with a woman at a fine restaurant, more than once — rounds of drinks poured for each other, maybe even a sly brush of the hand.

But every woman who could give me the courage to try is far, far away — so consider it a handsome donation to a fellow man.

"Money as well? Do you have family at Mount Hua, by any chance?"

"No. A friend."

No one alive knows the original protagonist better than I do — so a friend he shall be.

"Ah, a friend of yours. And his name?"

"His name, well..."

"Don't tell me you don't know your own friend's name?"

Seeing me hesitate, the escort asked again with a puzzled face.

Of course I didn't know.

When the game first started, I had actually run an experiment — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠perhaps he had a default name, like the taciturn hero waiting atop Silver Mountain — and the game returned one reply, and one reply only:

Don't tell me his name is actually Kang Yunho.

The game had asked me to name its protagonist, so naturally I entered my own name, loud and proud. It was a dating sim, after all. For immersion's sake, obviously you type in your own name — isn't that just how it's done?

"I knew him by his childhood name, so I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠imagine it may well have changed by now."

In some corners of the Central Plains, people believe that giving a child a pretty name will cut his life short.

Armed with that convenient excuse, I pulled my most troubled expression and explained that I remembered him by a replaceable childhood name — the Gaettongi, Sottongi sort.

"Then how are we to make the delivery? We need at least a name before we can carry anything anywhere."

"All I know is that he entered the sect as the sole disciple of a man called Jinmu, of the Mount Hua Sect."

I didn't know the original protagonist's name. His master's, however, would not have changed.

"Ah, that much is more than enough."

"There's no sender written on these. Shall I note that they come from a Young Master Kang Yunho?"

"No. Send them under a different name."

"Under what name, then?"

What name indeed.

Because — improbable as it sounded — the original protagonist's name might actually be Kang Yunho.

Kang Yunho, writing to Kang Yunho. It might pass for a prank at best, and stir up suspicion for no reason at worst.

Far better to send it under a name as good as anonymous.

I called out the name I had prepared.

"Zhiyu. It means 'paper friend.'"

"Sorry?"

"Say it was sent by Zhiyu."

"The ship has arrived."

The next day, the Seocheon Escort Agency sent a runner with word that the vessel had come in.

I set off with the others, luggage in hand, and there at the wharf sat a single great ship — unmistakably Seocheon's at one glance.

"She's bigger than I expected."

That's practically the size of a small cruise liner.

"The pride of the Seocheon Escort Agency. A fine enough ship to pull free of even the Yangtze's unforeseen rapids without a scratch."

The Escort Leader, doubling as our captain, spotted us and launched into his boast with a proud ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face.

"If you'll wait a moment, we'll finish loading the escorted cargo and clear a space for you."

The agency must have had a mountain of consignments to load — the laborers tramped back and forth with cargo without a moment's pause.

Almost there. The moment I set foot on that deck, it's farewell to Yichang. It really has been a long road.

"Everyone, halt!! We must inspect the cargo!"

I was staring blankly as the goods vanished into the hold when armed warriors appeared in the distance.

"And where exactly do you people come from, demanding to inspect escorted cargo?"

"There's a man our Sabomun Sect is looking for. A tip flew in saying he meant to stow away aboard this ship — so inspect it we shall!"

"This cargo is in Seocheon Escort's keeping! The seals on entrusted goods are not for just anyone to break!"

Exactly. A delivery package gets opened by the sender and the receiver, and nobody else. Who tries to pry it open somewhere in the middle?

Watching it all unfold from my corner of the dock, I nodded along to the Escort Leader's thundering voice.

"Seocheon Escort? Isn't that the agency run by the Tang Clan?"

"Elder brother..."

"This ship belongs to Seocheon Escort?"

At the mention of an agency run by the Sichuan Tang Clan — the hegemon house of Sichuan — the swagger of these warriors, who had appeared out of nowhere, deflated on the spot.

This is why they say even a servant's life is best spent in a great house.

"That's right! Would you dare lay a hand on the cargo of an agency operated by the great Sichuan Tang Clan?"

Convinced he had seized the upper hand, the Escort Leader bellowed with every ounce of confidence he had.

"Elder brother, we have to find him. We cannot simply let him slip away."

"If we needlessly provoke the Tang Clan's temper..."

"What's so hard about a simple inspection, that you'd raise such a fuss?"

The warriors jostled and grumbled among themselves, the argument rolling on.

"Unless you're hiding the boy yourselves, he'll have torn a seal and hidden among the goods. Just let us confirm whether any seals have come off!"

"No one outside this agency lays a finger on escorted cargo!"

"We only need to look!"

For an escort agency — the courier house of the Central Plains — trust was life itself. When a total stranger came demanding access to the cargo, refusal was the only possible answer.

The air between the Seocheon escorts and the warriors turned uglier by the minute.

They can't seriously mean to fight.

Sensing the mood turning ugly, the Tang Clan warriors around me began drifting toward the quarrel.

Sabomun? Sabotage? Never heard of the sect, so surely nothing catastrophic would break out — but I had no wish to catch a blind blade, and decided to keep my distance.

I settled myself beside a row of wine jars so large I couldn't have wrapped both arms around one.

Whoever they're hunting, they're certainly making a scene of it.

The cargo would be strictly managed, and the ship's security hardly lax — who could possibly have smuggled himself aboard...

"Huh?"

There, among the sprawled wine jars, I saw it — a single jar with its seal torn away.

No way.

Knock, knock.

Empty. I rapped the jar — no dense slosh of liquid, only a hollow resonance from within.

Knock, knock.

I knocked again.

"There's no one in here..."

Knock, knock.

"Th-there's no one inside, I said."

Knock, knock, knock.

"I told you, there's no one!"

I boldly pried the lid off the jar with the fallen seal.

Inside, instead of a nose-stinging wave of liquor fumes, I found the flustered face of a woman.

"There's someone in here..."

Which begs the question, ma'am — what are you doing in there?