The Booster Explodes
"They're releasing a Dangga Pungun side story?!"
"So the length of the side story is to be decided by the popularity of the Main Wife Sets."
"Popularity decides the length? As Dan, the finest courtesan of all Hubei, I cannot stand for this! To Daseogak, at once!"
The Main Wife Set you purchased would determine the one true bride of Dangga Pungun.
It was, without question, a seductive piece of commercial scheming. But with Dangga Pungun shaping up to run as a long-term serial, sprinting toward a finish line with no end in sight could feel like too daunting a road for some.
When that happens, you simply build a waypoint along the route — the orc chieftain of a fantasy epic, the Green Forest bandit lord of a wuxia saga, the convenience-store part-timer heroine of a gender-flip romance.
The waypoint I had dreamed up was the heroine side story.
The problem was that handled carelessly, the side story could just as easily come across as one more predatory cash grab.
"So I went to Author Hopil myself and requested the side story."
All it took was for me to wage the publicity campaign in person. Problem solved.
"You went yourself, Manager Kang?"
"As the manager of Daseogak, I found myself wondering whether there was some way to repay the Tea Book Club members who love Dangga Pungun so dearly. And then it occurred to me — how wonderful would it be to release a side story telling the tales of the women who have already graced its pages? So I paid a visit to Author Hopil."
"And what did Author Hopil say?"
"He was reluctant. He's pouring every last ounce of himself into plotting Volume 4 — ask him to write a story he never intended to write in the first place, and of course he'd balk."
Wearing, before the assembled Tea Book Club, the beleaguered expression I imagined Hopil must have worn, I walked them through the whole affair.
"But then how is a side story coming out at all?"
"Author Hopil said a side story was out of the question — that I should simply take the entirety of Volume 3's profits for myself instead. After all, he said, I was the one who had risked my life to protect Dangga Pungun, so I had every right to it."
"The entirety of Volume 3's profits?"
"Good heavens!"
Looking out past Daseogak's windows, the line of people still stretched on without end.
If you believed that Manager Kang Yunho stood to pocket every last coin of Volume 3's earnings for himself, their astonishment was hardly unjustified.
From any angle, this was a situation where refusing would have made him a fool.
"I refused. In one clean stroke."
With the serene countenance of a scholar standing unmoved before a mountain of gold, I declared it to the Tea Book Club.
"Why?!"
"What belongs to Author Hopil ought to go to Author Hopil, no? I decided that the members of the Tea Book Club mattered more to me than any such money."
Manager Kang was no wicked boss who believed money was always right. It was time to sell that image hard.
"For... us?"
"Had I been the sort to crumble at the sight of money, I'd never have allowed myself to be dragged off to the Sichuan Tang Clan in the first place. All I did was earnestly beg him for a story that could quench the burning thirst of Dangga Pungun's devoted readers. And in the end, Author Hopil gave his consent."
"Of course! Even Author Hopil could hardly ignore the fact that his friend had staked his life to protect his book!"
"To think Manager Kang held us in such high regard."
The Tea Book Club members gazed at me as though genuinely moved.
The Dangga Pungun side story was no merchant's trick — it was a gift to the devoted readers. The Tea Book Club would wage their First Wife War, and between battles they would spread the tale of what I had done.
Manager Kang had relinquished his claim to the entirety of Volume 3's profits, and had persuaded Author Hopil instead.
Author Hopil, stirred to his core by Manager Kang — his cherished soulmate-in-letters and patron — had resolved to release a side story he had never planned to write.
Whosoever heard it, it would make a beautifully heartwarming tale.
The only problem being that both of those men were me.
And however far along it went, the fact that it was all fan service would never change.
"Fifty Cheonghong Sets, if you would."
"Fifty?!"
"So the new recruits must have deep purses this time around!"
"I'm afraid that won't be possible."
I refused the new member then and there.
"And why ever not?"
"The Main Wife Sets are a measure of just how deeply Dangga Pungun's devoted readers cherish its cast of characters. I am firmly cracking down on indiscriminate bulk purchases made purely to farm votes."
Money-weighted voting was a righteous thing. But let it curdle into a contest among a moneyed few, and the broader ranks hoping to take part could be left feeling powerless.
The Main Wife Sets were products meant to anchor Daseogak's menu for years to come. Fine for squeezing out short-term profit, perhaps — but orders like this one were poison to business in the long run.
"Hmmph. Can't be helped, then. Just the one set."
"It seems I had misjudged you, Manager Kang."
"I was certain the Money God had latched onto your back!"
"You turned down every coin of Volume 3's profits, and now you refuse a man offering to buy Main Wife Sets in bulk."
What do you take me for? I am a merchant who deals only in sound and wholesome commerce.
"Say what you will — am I not Member Number One of the Tea Book Club? I wish only for Author Hopil's success, and for our devoted readers to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content."
Like a pure-hearted fan who simply happened to be running a shop, I put on an expression utterly devoid of self-interest and smiled upon the Tea Book Club.
"That's right! We truly did choose well when we picked our man!"
"Worthy of being the Tea Book Club's Member Number One, every bit!"
"Lies. This can't be real…"
Im Hayeon. Why are you muttering back there?
"One more Cheonghong Set, please."
"Did you not just place an order?"
You see, I was busy discussing the side story with the Tea Book Club — which was how the gentleman who had just been refused after attempting to order fifty sets had circled back for another try.
It had barely been any time at all since his last order.
"Finished it all. Another set, if you would."
The repeat customer handed back his spotlessly emptied teacup and plate as he spoke.
So because bulk orders in one go were forbidden, the man was speed-eating his tea and reordering, was he?
"Sir, did you not hear what Manager Kang said? If you keep ordering like that—"
"Miss Soso. The gentleman says he has finished, so take his order."
"Manager Kang?"
He did finish it, didn't he? Which means he's free to order again.
The news of the side story's release sent Daseogak's second-floor sales surging like a river in flood.
"Unnie Hayeon, another Cheonghong Set order!"
Thanks to that, the staff were living out days so frantic that from the moment they clocked in, they craned their necks longing for nothing but the lunch hour.
"Me… me, who am Dan, the finest courtesan of all Hubei… reduced to crafting Cheonghong Sets…"
The very vitality looked ready to drain right out through Im Hayeon's lips.
"Unnie?"
"To think I've become the vanguard of wicked commercial tactics…"
This was Im Hayeon, the slander-slinging courtesan who had once reviled me as a wicked merchant.
Now that she was personally manufacturing the very crystallization of those tactics, her feelings must have been running deep indeed.
"If you hate it that much, say the word. I'll do it in your place."
"In exchange, penalty points, of course," I said, savoring Im Hayeon's frankly hilarious display.
"Out of my way! If you make it, the tea goes sour!"
Oh. Now that was a practiced hand.
Just like that assistant manager who swears every single morning that she never wants to come to work, yet the moment she's in the office turns out work neater than anyone else's — the one whose years of service and years spent plotting her resignation are exactly the same number.
"All done! Hurry and take these over!"
"Unnie! Another order!"
"Nngh! Why on earth do the orders never stop coming?!"
"The Tea Book Club members aren't savoring their tea over the First Wife War — they're inhaling it!"
"Until the tally marks on the Cheonghong Set sales board overtake every other bride faction, our Cheonghong faction shall not rest!"
"Naturally!"
"Grrrrgh!"
Even amid Im Hayeon's pained screams, Daseogak's revenue marched ever upward, day after day.
Profits from Dangga Pungun sales, the earnings from Daseogak's second floor, and book sales swelling on the tide of new customers besides.
New records fell in Daseogak's ledgers with each passing day, and just as the sales figures detached their first-stage booster and reached to ignite the second—
"Manager!!! We have a crisis!!!"
"What is it?"
"The printing press has blown up!!!"
The booster had exploded.
"It's about time this old girl died."
The aged printing-press artisan I had hired so often before delivered the news of the machine's expiration date in a voice like a cold front.
"Repairs won't be possible?"
"The press is too old — no parts made for it exist anymore. I've rigged a stopgap, but it won't hold for long."
"There's truly no way to find the part?"
"Not here in Yichang. Send word to Wuhan, maybe they can dig one up. Best case, about a month."
"A whole month?"
"It's only lasted this long because you kept it maintained so well. There's nothing older than this old-timer anywhere in Yichang."
"I oiled it every single day and kept it spotless."
I had babied that press the way a man tends his first brand-new car, dreading that anything might ever go wrong with it. And now, a breakdown.
"One look and I can tell. And even if you do find the part in a month, that's not the end of your troubles. She's too old. Patch her up and something else will break somewhere else. And the part after that might not surface in half a year, let alone one month."
"There has to be some other way?"
When I pressed him stubbornly, the old artisan turned to look at the press and opened his mouth.
"You wretched thing! You were already here when I was still learning the trade! And now it seems you'll keep working until the day I die! Some green young pup will patch you and patch you until he gives up in disgust, and then he'll curse your name and toss you on the scrap heap!"
Then just tell me to buy a new one.
"And what would a new one run me?"
"If I built one from scratch it'd come a bit cheaper, but that would take an age, and hauling one in from Wuhan would be no small expense either. Let's say… roughly this much?"
"Gah."
For a moment there, I doubted the number of digits.
"Or… seeing as you're a regular, I'll tell you about one other way."
"And what might that be, elder?"
I asked with every courtesy, in the posture of a wide-eyed newbie coaxing tips from a crusty old veteran gamer — the kind who's none too friendly, but spills everything he knows if you ask him right.
"In a few days, word will go round that the government office is auctioning off a printing press it no longer uses. Place a bid and win the transfer, and you'll have yourself a press with solid performance at a reasonable price."
As expected of the artisan who maintained even the officials' presses — this was premium intel.
The fastest route to a press at a sensible price, was it? Decent news, beyond a doubt — except that the price was anything but sensible.
With my debts and every other coin already spoken for, I could hardly leap at the chance to bid on the spot.
"I'll think it over. Thank you. Here's the repair fee."
"Forget it. I'm not taking it."
The artisan waved his hands, refusing the envelope I held out.
Well, well. Had the sight of the old girl's expiring lifespan moved him to forgo even the repair fee, as a gesture of consolation? This is why regular customers are the best.
"Still, I can't very well put a master artisan to work for nothing."
Accept free labor and your reputation crumbles to pieces, as sure as anything. I spoke again, ready to slip the money into his breast pocket the instant he refused a second time.
"Who said anything about working for free?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Pay me in books. The complete Dangga Pungun. My grandson's been raising a fuss that he simply must read it."
Forgive my rudeness, but how old is your grandson, exactly?
This cursed life of mine — the moment I try to dodge, it weaves in with a two-way Dempsey Roll and beats me to a pulp.
"Parts for a press more than fifty years old? We don't have anything like that here."
"A print order for Dangga Pungun? I take it one press isn't keeping up, is it? Well, don't be like that — let us sell it in our own bookshops too. I'll quote you a fair price per volume."
"Unless you're willing to let us sell Volume 3 of Dangga Pungun, I doubt you'll find a soul willing to take your print order. Anyone with half an eye can see it's your press that's the trouble — and who in this world passes up an opening like that?"
Everyone in this world fought tooth and nail simply to survive. Another man's misfortune was always somebody else's opportunity. I made the rounds of my business partners at a frantic clip, but no brilliant solution presented itself.
I cannot give up the exclusive rights to Dangga Pungun.
These were publishing rights I had fought hard to keep exclusive. The merchants no longer trampled business ethics and printed bootlegs as they had in the old days, but every last one of them lay in wait for any chance to get their hands on Dangga Pungun.
To keep printing without surrendering the monopoly, I would have to cut the press's operating hours — but considering the volume that sold every single day, rationing the print runs was no easy call either.
I knew perfectly well that the best option was to buy a new press. But a press was an asset — the asset that, quite literally, printed money.
Its price tag was imposing enough to make me wonder whether everything I had so diligently earned until now even counted as earnings.
I had meant to pay down my debts first with what I'd worked so hard to save — only to find myself facing a monstrous expenditure instead.
"Neither choice is an easy one."
Keep patching the old girl while waiting on parts, or buy a brand-new press — some choice that was.
"Why such a weary face? Did your errands not go well?"
Evening, with closing time drawing near. Im Hayeon studied me — my face set like a funeral portrait — and asked.
"Nothing you need worry over."
An employee had no business shouldering the boss's worries. So I told her, letting my stiff expression ease.
"Wh-who said I was worried about you?! Here, have some coffee and pastries. Something sweet with your coffee and you'll feel your strength coming back."
Pouting her lips in displeasure, Im Hayeon set out coffee and refreshments with a practiced hand.
Had her opinion of me finally softened, then? Back in the day she'd been ready to eat me alive — now she was fussing over my tea and sweets.
"Thank you."
"Just take it already."
I nodded, then drained the coffee, feeling the caffeine seep back into my blood. Truly, the office worker's potion.
Watching me gulp the coffee down, Im Hayeon promptly made a mark on a blackboard to one side.
Hyang-ah Coffee Set
Du Eung-hyang — Tally: |
"Wasn't that a free one?"
"Every single vote is precious in times like these."
So even what I drank counted as a vote, did it? Give me back my touched heart, then.
"Your dinner is where I always leave it."
"Um… if dinner is too much of a burden on you, you don't have to keep making it."
Im Hayeon said it to me with a shadowed face.
"Why would you say that all of a sudden?"
"You have to buy a new press, don't you?"
"It's fine. Pinching pennies off dinner money — who knows how many years that would take… Huh?"
In that instant, a thought flashed through my mind.
"What is it?"
"Lock up whenever you like. I'm heading up to the attic."
Leaving Im Hayeon standing there in bewilderment, I climbed the stairs to the garret.
I've been thinking about this all wrong.
The world I lived in had changed, but the way I, Kang Yunho, thought at my foundations had not.
When a debt arose, you paid it down month by month with the money coming in, grinding the balance steadily toward zero.
Even a two-story house with a red roof, bought on a thirty-five-year mortgage, would one day be your own home — a fixture of a stable life — so long as you paid it off faithfully, brick by brick.
I'd been settling too comfortably.
A beggar. A street storyteller. A rookie writer. Two grueling years in which my life had swung back and forth at the edge of a blade.
The moment things eased up enough to breathe, my thinking had gone soft — caution thrown entirely to the wind.
Move only after the debts were slowly repaid?
In what century?
Even now, at this very moment, my women were fighting against fate itself.
"I have to keep moving."
I had not settled into a stable orbit. I had only just barely finished readying myself to step up to the starting line.
So what was it I had to do now?
"Expand the business."