Debt Cleared, Painter Ignites
Just pay it off, right? Even if the sky falls, there's always a hole to crawl out through. I no longer had to push myself writing novels to pay off the loan shark's debt. With the royalties I'd earned and the 70 million won in donations, I could wipe out every penny we owed him. It was money meant for moving and eating well, but it didn't matter. Honestly, seeing Dad on his knees, begging that man, was far worse. Sure, we'd borrowed from the shark, but the way he hounded us for it was pure loathsomeness. Completely obsessed with money, wasn't he? I was obsessed too, but at least I didn't humiliate people like that.
In the end, we scraped together 100 million won and paid him off. I wanted to hurl the cash in his face like tossing a card at a convenience store clerk, but I held back. Money could always be earned again anyway. And I had the talent for it. I didn't know exactly what Dad said to the shark after taking the money—I'd told him to go in strong. After tormenting our home like that, it was time for the guy to take a beating like a sandbag. Thankfully, Dad came home beaming after settling it. He must've vented all the pent-up frustration.
Curious, I asked him lightly.
"Dad, did you sort it out refreshingly?"
"Yeah, Sora. To put it in perspective, I basically threw money right in his face."
"Hahaha!"
Seeing Dad's confident face after so long lifted my spirits. With the leftover scraps, our family could finally eat out. It was a far cry from the hopeless days when no light was in sight. Now we could glimpse hope, I suppose. Sure, other debts lingered, but no more shark visits meant a huge relief. With the money paid, he'd never show up again. Sharks like him weren't that idle.
Sunlight Painter was trending. Thanks to that TV spot on Stuff Like This Happens in the World, I guess. But even before the broadcast, it had been selling decently—not blockbuster numbers, but solid for a game fantasy novel. Naturally, reviews had popped up. Genre novel circles were niche, but better than total subculture obscurity with zero info.
Reviewers, of course, assumed an adult wrote it. The prose reeked of maturity; nitpick all you want, it screamed grown-up. Tell them a first-grader penned it, and they'd call you insane.
Sunlight Painter kicked off the game fantasy boom but wasn't literary gold. Obvious for genre fiction. Still, positive reviews existed.
Where there were raves, though, were pans. Tastes vary wildly—one person's page-turner is another's trash.
Fair game for a novel—reviews are subjective. The issue? The author was a first-grade elementary kid from a rough home. Post-broadcast, hate reviews got swarmed with replies. Not kind ones.
Hate posts on Sunlight Painter got shredded. They couldn't withstand the firepower. Critics watched in quiet relief—if they'd written them, they'd be eating way more flak. These folks weren't paid; pros like them were.
In one internet corner, fans chatted eagerly.
Seyon University—one of the nation's top-three prestige schools. Even elite spots buzzed with life: dating, breakups, fun clubs, even anime ones. Genre novel clubs too.
"Hey, Min-gyu! Catch last week's Stuff Like This Happens in the World?"
"Saw it, hyung. Bought up all the Sunlight Painter copies here for the club room."
"That's my Min-gyu—set up before I even ask. Dude, don't read in front of Professor Yi. Caught, you're toast."
Choi Min-gyu devoured Sunlight Painter. Impossible to believe a first-grader wrote it—addictively fun, all-nighter material. Minus his Korean Lit major, that is. Their young prof despised genre trash. Pure lit purist.
But Min-gyu slipped. Caught reading by the prof.
Not in class or hall—campus lounge, so he got lax.
"Min-gyu? Whatcha reading?"
Familiar from lectures, no awkwardness. Fatal mistake—drew her interest. Unknown prof? Ignored.
Even prof-student bonds faded without classes—no hellos, no face recall.
"Ah, Professor!"
Min-gyu hid the book. She snatched it first.
Genre novel obvious—pure lit covers screamed different.
"Min-gyu... reading this lowbrow genre slop?"
Yi Yeon-ji, pure lit zealot, brooked no "heretical" acts. Shameful for upright Korean Lit students to touch degenerate genre filth.
"N-no, Professor..."
Min-gyu cursed his folly. Cornered rat.
"Ready for judgment?"
"Professor! This is unfair!"
"Unfair how?"
"The author’s a kid—an elementary student! Wasn’t reading for fun, just curiosity. Wanted to see how good a kid could write. Not because it's enjoyable!"
"An elementary kid wrote this..?"
"Yes! Didn't you see last week's show?"
"I don't watch that junk."
"Please watch—it said a first-grader wrote it."
"Not fibbing to dodge punishment?"
"No! Production verified it."
Yi Yeon-ji eyed him sharply, returned the book.
"Fact or fiction aside... disappointing."
"Gaaah!"
Min-gyu crumpled under her "pressure point" strike. Penalty: "demonic cult" behavior. Upright literati reading cult trash.
Post-lecture, in her book-stuffed office, Yi Yeon-ji recalled the "heretic's" words.
[This is really by a first-grade elementary kid.]
How could a first-grader produce publishable quality? Lie, obviously. But curiosity nagged.
She booted her computer, hunting the show her student mentioned.