Chapter 23 – 1894

"Hyah-ha! It's a raid!"

"Take anything that's worth money!"

The sky was shrouded in lament.

"Aaagh!"

"Help, somebody!"

"Mum! Mum!!"

The land where the village once stood was filled with fire and ash.

"Tch, what's this necklace? It's covered in jewels. Useless!"

"There's a chest on the ground! Smash it!"

"Oh, a rare card."

"Please, I'll do anything you say, just leave that alone!"

Even if one could survive, there were countless ways to make them wish for death.

"Oh, heavens!"

Just as the villagers were about to crumble under the intense fear.

Swaaash!!

Suddenly, sword energy surged from the sky. Spreading like the wings of thunder, the sword energy struck the bandits.

Krrrrack!!

"Aaagh!"

But the blessings of the god of play were the same for all living creatures.

Despite being struck by the sword energy, none of the bandits died. They merely lost consciousness.

"Who are you?!"

"If you're curious, it's only right to tell you."

The owner of the shrill, or rather young, voice approached with a steady pace.

Three knights. And one magician.

The swordsman who had unleashed the sword energy pointed his brilliantly flashing X-shaped sword at the bandits and said,

"You scoundrels. How dare you plunder and torment these innocent villagers...! Even if God forgives you, I, Arthur Pendragon, will not!"

In his other hand.

He held a Numbers Card drawn from his chest. The number 39 gleamed brightly.

"Hey, duel me!"

***

"Hoo, hoo."

David, a second-year literature student at Oxford University, gasped for breath as he leaned against a wall and glanced around.

His body, never particularly slender, was more swollen than usual.

No, to say it was swollen seemed a bit unnatural. No matter how much weight one gained, it shouldn't form sharp angles between the belly and the chest.

But he wrapped his arms around his belly and desperately kept his body low.

Moving cautiously as if carrying a basket of eggs, he finally escaped the dormitory and successfully snuck into the university pub called the 'Eagle and Child.'

In the pub's parlour, his comrades, already anxiously waiting for him, were gathered.

David, his face flushed, caught his breath. His comrades looked at him with tense eyes and asked,

"David, did you succeed?"

"I ran into Professor Jeraile on the way."

"Jeraile?! Damn it!"

"That bastard, really!?"

"Yes."

David grinned and pulled out a few books and magazines from beneath his school vest, damp but still legible.

"That dim-witted old man could never see through my disguise."

"We knew we could count on you, damn it!"

"Ah, really, David!! You're the best!!"

David spread his arms for a moment, basking in the cheers of his comrades. However, his comrades checked the books first.

They were copies of "Peter Ferry", "Alice's Adventures", and, above all, "Hanslow Jin".

These were items strictly forbidden in the current Oxford University Literature Department.

Oxbridge.

Known as the pinnacle of British intellect and elite universities.

A hotbed of aristocracy and elitism, the literature department had long rejected magazine serial novels for being too popular and sensational, as seen with Charles Dickens.

And now, Hanslow Jin!

Granted, the stories were interesting.

But the writing was simple, aesthetically incomplete, and full of indiscriminate adjectives meant to dazzle the readers!

Nevertheless, readers loved his books.

Even magazines following his style sprang up like mushrooms, prompting the professors to ban such magazines within the department.

Extremists like Professor Jeraile even went as far as calling it a 'joke and a consumption unworthy of being called literature.'

But the more one is forbidden, the more one desires to do it.

Especially when it comes from conservative adults, and the subjects are energetic students, the outcome is predictable.

"Henceforth, this is literature."

So, the new generation of students formed a secret literary society.

To save and reform the literature of the British Empire from oppressive antiquities.

David picked up "Alice's Adventures" with a look of rapture.

Like "Peter Ferry", it was an admirable novel.

Unlike "Alice's Adventures", which he struggled to understand as a child, he could now comprehend this book perfectly.

Some said the story was too simplistic and the narrative too easy, but this book wasn't written for university students, was it?

This was 'enlightenment.'

The effort to dispel the prejudice that knowledge is difficult and to spread easier knowledge.

This was what he felt from "Alice's Adventures".

David clenched his fists, trembling with ecstasy, and muttered.

"What's the point of writing that doesn't move people's hearts? How is writing that no one reads any different from graffiti on a wall? Let the old fogeys jerk themselves off. We write, read, and enjoy literature for everyone!"

"David, shut up and read."

"Stop ranting and pass it along quickly!!"

"Honestly, you're too much."

David clicked his tongue but opened the book as his comrades instructed.

After all, one had to read the book to start any revolution.

And soon, he began to smile, his expression softening.

Originally, it was hard to say Hanslow Jin's novels were good in terms of writing.

But now, in this collaboration with Lewis Carroll, that flaw was completely eliminated.

After all, he was a wizard of words, renowned by all.

Yet, the wit, clever dialogue, and above all, the gripping battle scenes and immersive characters still captivated him.

Indeed, these two were geniuses.

David genuinely thought so.

This was a sentiment shared not only by Oxford's literature department but also by readers in London.

***

1894

In the year 1894, well-known in Korean history for the Donghak Peasant Movement, many small yet significant events also occurred in Britain.

A military alliance was formed between the French Third Republic and the Russian Empire, which led to Gladstone of the Liberal Party retiring from his position as Prime Minister. He was succeeded by the Earl of Rosebery, Archibald Primrose, who became the 48th Prime Minister.

In the inland city of Manchester, a canal was opened, directly connecting it to the Irish Sea, and London saw the opening of the famous Tower Bridge this year as well.

In short, it was a busy year.

Therefore, even if a relatively famous mystery novelist worked hard on a historical novel, it did not attract much attention.

"Why on earth!!"

Hardinge Giffard shouted.

It was a shout that seemed to have discarded any semblance of marquis dignity long ago.

Why on earth? Why weren't things working out?

"Arthur Conan Doyle, that idiotic man!! Didn't he say it would be a masterpiece? He certainly claimed that everyone would forget about Sherlock Holmes!!"

"Well, he did write it well..."

"Of course, he did!! I acknowledge that!!"

Which made it all the more infuriating.

Hardinge Giffard could not understand it at all.

It was undoubtedly a somewhat enjoyable yet much more delicate and literary historical novel, a masterpiece that even he had to admit.

Our Royal Literary Society provided all the necessary support as requested, resulting in an incredibly detailed and educational novel.

Yet it failed.

Not just failed, it sold far fewer copies than his previous works.

Hanslow Jin's new collaboration with that pervert Lewis Carroll. Whatever it was, it created a bigger sensation among parents and students.

Even among the nobility, many bought the book without hesitation, believing it made teaching mathematics to their children easier, so there was no stopping its momentum.

Of course, there were internal problems in addition to external factors.

"They say fans boycotted it..."

"Bloody hell..."

Why on earth?

Hardinge Giffard could not comprehend it.

Weren't the masses supposed to just read whatever books the authors presented to them?

Even if not, shouldn't they naturally flock to better writing with superior skills?

Naturally, the noble Marquis of Halsbury couldn't grasp the concept of 'fandom.'

Failing to understand it was why they were struggling. Like all things in the world, there was no guarantee that a good product would necessarily be successful.

But had he realised his mistake, being a senior member of the judiciary still, he could have grasped his missteps.

As people age, they tend to focus more on their position than their mistakes, and Giffard was no exception, quickly catching the mood around him.

'This is the last chance.'

Fortunately, it wasn't Giffard himself who came up with this idea.

Had he been the one to propose bringing in Arthur Conan Doyle, he would have been ousted for the failure, including the responsibility of the proposal.

But luckily, he was not the proposer.

The literary society, more a gathering of authors without clear political affiliations, did not impeach Giffard for accepting the proposal, thus sharing the blame.

Hence, the Marquis of Halsbury managed to escape responsibility by scapegoating only the literary society member who suggested it.

But that too was only a reprieve.

'If I slip up one more time here...'

His position might truly be at risk.

His conservative influence within the literary society wouldn't disappear even without him. They would continue to attack Hanslow Jin and criticise Arthur Conan Doyle's failures to protect the purity of Anglo-American literature.

But if no one knew it was his accomplishment, what was the point?

Hardinge Giffard couldn't bear to see that happen.

That achievement had to be his. No matter what!

With that thought, he showcased his elderly vigour.

"This won't do."

"What do you mean, Chairman?"

"There's no such thing as a clean man under the heavens."

Hardinge Giffard's eyes glinted maliciously.

He was originally a notable figure in the legal world, and many of his acquaintances held positions more powerful than those in the literary field.

"I will accuse Bentley Publishers of tax evasion to the Treasury."

"Tax evasion?"

"Evidence? Do you have any evidence?"

"Evidence will appear once we dig! No one can be so clean that no dirt comes off when shaken!"

"Well, that's true, but..."

"I will say this clearly!!"

Unable to suppress his old fury, the aged former judge.

Hardinge Giffard shouted as if vomiting his last breath.

"Before I die, I will definitely erase these damned novels from the literary history of the British Empire!!"