Rude? Nah, It's Chivalry (2)
The Belpheloze Empire had three publishing houses.
One was a noble-dominated outfit directly under the imperial family, holding the monopoly on newspaper compilation. Another belonged to the Mage Tower, handling biology and magic.
Genre fiction and literature were effectively monopolized by a single house.
That was Edelin Publishing House, the one Kyle had visited. It was located in Crowley Territory, too.
Damn, it's huge.
It was hard to believe this was a publishing house in impoverished Crowley Territory. The building was intimidatingly massive—more like a national library than anything else.
Gold-embossed hardcovers lined the towering shelves densely, climbing to lofty ceilings.
The air hummed with the click-clack of typewriters, the constant whir of printing presses, and a faint ink scent. The atmosphere was solemn, profound.
And what was I doing here?
"Please wait here."
"How long...?"
"You got a good seal on your submission, so it won't be too bad. Hmm... about ten hours, I'd say!"
At the first-floor lobby desk, a bubbly blonde receptionist with a bright smile placed one hand on her stomach and gestured gracefully around the room.
In one corner, anxious-looking people crammed onto chairs, packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Every one of them had that tragic "I'm a writer" vibe.
"Can't it be any faster? This one's really fun."
"Being published by Edelin means etching your name into a page of imperial literary history. It's only natural for all these esteemed authors to gather."
Translation: No dice, hit the road.
I let my eyes droop and hung my head low, playing along. Like there was any other choice?
"Sigh... Fine, leave the manuscript with me, and I'll deliver it for you. It's not usually allowed, but you look so pitiful, so I'll make an exception."
"Yes! Thank you!"
Ten hours? No way I could wait that out. Pretty soon I'd have to go dig potatoes with Ellie and fetch salt from the neighbors. Dodged a scolding from her by a hair. Whistling cheerfully, I strolled out of the bookstore.
Edwin Hubble, chief editor at Edelin, was a man who loved literature.
He adored the philosophy conveyed to the masses through the medium of "writing," and delighted in unpacking its profound messages.
To Edwin, books were a gateway to commune with the narrator—a feast for the eyes, heart, and mind. A culture that transcended race and nation.
But...
Lamentably, the empire's current literature was marred by utter simplicity.
No original creations, no fragments of anguish—just bland combinations of printed characters.
Today's submissions were no different. Edwin pushed up his glasses perched on his nose and irritably flipped through one of the manuscript piles towering like a mountain.
[The sky is blue. Like paint spilled out, or the sea transplanted whole...]
A throbbing pain pierced his skull.
Agh. Edwin pressed his temple firmly.
"Utter nonsense. This author hasn't a clue about the aesthetics of metaphor. What makes this fool think he can write...?"
All direct, literal comparisons.
The azure jewel born of the gods' tears scatters beyond the celestial curtain, dyeing the heavens blue. Something like that would give readers pause for thought, no?
"Tsk, tsk..."
Descriptions should be an intellectual game, forcing readers to reread sentences three times to grasp the intent.
Compress it into straightforward words, and what's the point of literature? No meaning in obvious metaphors. Might as well draw a picture and show it.
"Sigh... No message either? Why fight for love? Why seize it? At least show tragedy through it, or stage its beauty."
Like The Woman with the Sword.
The empire needs literature like that.
A tale glorifying a woman's "loyalty to her lord," a knightly virtue. Lines like [The gleam of that armor shone as brilliantly as His Majesty's grace, as if to dye the world beautiful with the Lord's benevolence] were masterful.
This was writing. This was a novel.
Such works hadn't appeared lately. Edwin lamented the fact deeply. The world advanced day by day—why was imperial literature regressing?
In Belpheloze, writing was "culture."
Dwarves forged theirs in flame and steel. Elves in beasts and the World Tree. Even demons carved theirs in blood and duels. And all had evolved over time.
Dwarves who once made simple tools now led nations of master smiths for all races. Elves ruled forests that tamed dragons. Even filthy demons had progressed.
"Imperial culture always lags... Maybe it's time to quit this job."
With that, he opened the final submission of the day.
Strange title.
The Reincarnated Holy Knight Decided to Pretend to be Crazy / Yangpanso
What brazen audacity. Slapping "holy knight"—pillar of the empire's church—right in the title showed the author's boldness.
Pen name... Yangpanso? Odd.
A newfangled slang from the youth, no doubt. Was this youthful bravado, or a generational shift in literature? Time would tell.
Reading would reveal it. The moment Edwin turned to the first page...
"...Who the hell is this author?"
Shock swept over him. The story started unconventionally.
Holy knight Don Quixote dies battling demons.
As a demon spear pierces his heart, his goddess Dulcinea reaches out, reviving him. In exchange, she loses all memories and becomes human.
Awakening as an old man in the rural village of La Mancha, Don Quixote realizes.
The windmills looming at the village edge.
Those aren't windmills.
They're the petrified remains of demon giants fallen centuries ago, now mundane tools for grinding grain.
No one knows. The demonic aura seeping into the earth. That someday they'll awaken.
Only Don Quixote—Alonso Quijano—knows.
[Fuck off. You blind? Move. Windmills everywhere.]
His speech and manners were utterly un-knightly, vulgar.
[Sancho! Man, why so short? Eat more, damn it.]
Not above personal attacks, a total thug.
Yet...
[My lord, aren't those just windmills?]
[Yeah. Just windmills. Know why I fight? 'Cause it's fun, punk.]
Don Quixote lies. Noble, sublime sacrifice—a knight expecting no reward.
The final page.
[I don't care if the world calls me mad. As long as this world knows peace. As long as my goddess Dulcinea can smile.
I—
Forever, forever, a hundred times over.
Will play the mad knight.]
On the night the demon seals weaken, Don Quixote charges the windmills alone, that soliloquy ringing. All truths revealed. Sancho weeps, clutching Quijano.
[Don Quixote—! I cannot understand your life. A life filled with irrationality and dishonor—I just can't comprehend it!]
Don Quixote replies without turning.
[Irrational? Dishonor?
Rude. It's chivalry.]
"Different."
A completely different way of seeing writing.
Page by page, Edwin's face shifted from shock and ecstasy to tear-streaked emotion.
Even spaced paragraphs conveyed clear meaning.
Little room for interpretation, yet the bond with Dulcinea—from goddess to human—exploded at the climax.
Like watching a meticulously built edifice complete itself.
Sancho, questioning Don Quixote's life, voiced the doubts of all finger-pointing onlookers at the end.
Don Quixote, the vulgar yet noble man, bared his heart before his second death.
[Irrational? Dishonor?
Rude. It's chivalry.]
That line birthed the work's theme. A glimpse of the author's "knightly philosophy."
"...What are knights in the empire, anyway."
Beings who die for their lord. Who persecute threats to their lord with the sword.
Not noble, not beautiful. Just ties of loyalty and coin. Sacrifice glorified as virtue, messages applauded.
"All noble culture. Selfish nobles demanding sacrifice for themselves."
But Don Quixote differed. The narrator of The Reincarnated Holy Knight Decided to Pretend to be Crazy envisioned knights differently.
「Dreaming impossible dreams. Fighting unwinnable foes. Enduring unbearable sorrow. Reaching for stars too distant. That is the knight's privilege.」
How beautiful.
Nobility absent from lord-vassal bonds of profit and loss.
The narrator delivered all this lightly yet clearly through Don Quixote.
"A star. A comet slashing across this dismal imperial literary scene."
Edwin's hands trembled faintly. And above all...
"Ridiculously fun."
Too fun.
No preaching to readers. Delight first, philosophy second. That was this author versus all prior imperial literature.
"This works. This one works."
Edwin Hubble was convinced.
Imperial literature would leap hundreds of steps forward thanks to Yangpanso.
Crash-bang!
Madness gleamed in Edwin's eyes behind his glasses. Unable to hold back, he shot up from his chair. It toppled backward with a racket, but he ignored it.
"Lisa! Lisa, come in here now!"
The heavy editor-in-chief office door burst open. The blonde receptionist rushed in, flustered.
"Y-yes! Chief Editor? What's wrong?"
"This manuscript! The one you specially took from the lobby earlier! Where's the guy who brought it? Still in the lobby? Find that author! Bring him now—!"
Edwin gripped Lisa's shoulders tightly.
Lisa blinked in fear, mumbling.
"Um... he left right after handing it over..."
"What? Chase him! Mobilize the knights if you have to—search the whole territory! No, I'll go myself!"
Edwin bolted into the hallway, arms barely in his coat. The empire's top literary critic, Edelin's beating heart.
Clatter-clatter.
He dashed across the lobby, oblivious to one shoe slipping off.
Kyle was...
Whistling a jaunty tune, light on his feet.
"Oh, right. Salt."
He'd told Ellie he'd grab some on the way back. Nearly forgot—would've meant potato mush for dinner. He glanced back at the distant publishing house.
"Eh, dumped it there, so they'll read it themselves. If they reject it, try somewhere else."
But rejection? This fun?
Chuckling carefree, he kept walking. Salt from the neighbors worried him more than the publisher.
"Ma'am, some salt, please..."
"Scram!"
"Hey, ma'am! Forgot how I fixed your cart wheel last time?!"
"You think salt's cheap enough to just hand out?!"
Bang!
The stingy door slammed shut.
Man, that's harsh. Salt's pricier than potatoes, sure, but neighborly spirit? Pfft.
Damn romance fantasy—