Chapter 28 – Alexandrina (2)

What was happening?

I couldn't understand the situation at all.

I had just left the reading session (disguised as a play-cum-concert) for the charity fund.

But then I was suddenly dragged out by some old lady and an officer, and found myself in a carriage. And then... and then...

Hmm...

'Am I being kidnapped?'

As I was thinking this, the kidnapper—an old lady who looked like a dwarf chieftain—Alexandrina, spoke to me.

"Hmm, you seem quite tense."

"Uh, yes."

"Well, there's nothing to worry about. This old hag may have a foul temper, but she doesn't harm innocent people."

"Um..."

What was this? Why did it feel like she was subtly angry at me?

While I was pondering this, Alexandrina leaned towards me and spoke softly.

"So, why did you kill Peter, Mr. Hanslow Jin?"

... What?

"Cough, cough!"

"Oh dear. Fetch some water."

The man, whom I had thought was an officer, quickly poured some clear water, but I was too shocked to drink it.

Wait, did they kidnap me because I killed Peter? And how did they know I was Hanslow Jin?

'Is this what Arthur Conan Doyle experienced?'

Wow, I never imagined I would experience something like this...

But didn't I resurrect him properly? He wasn't even dead, just on the brink of death and then saved. Isn't that enough?

"In case you were thinking of using the excuse that he barely survived, don't bother. The shock you gave this old body is unforgettable."

"Hiccup."

"And I should add that my granddaughter-in-law cried for a long time. She's a simple but stubborn girl, and it was quite a task to console her."

"I am deeply sorry..."

"Do you really think that would suffice? Why did you have to do such a foolish thing when it would have been fine as it was?"

The old lady's scoffing words made me slowly lift my head. The intimidation I felt from her remained.

However, I realised... I couldn't back down here.

This was something I needed to say.

Seeing my determined gaze, the old lady's eyes also sparkled with interest.

"Hmm? Do you have something to say?"

"Yes, I do."

"Despite having no excuse?"

"..."

"Alright. Let's hear it then."

"Alright then."

Now what... I examined my kidnapper's appearance.

I may not be a detective, but I prided myself on having developed a good sense from interacting with the upper class for a long time.

And from what I could see... this old lady wasn't just any upper-class person.

Even in this situation, she spoke naturally, and the ego evident in each of her words was quite strong.

Moreover, though not rude, she was adept at condescension... It was clear she was from a very high-ranking family, likely sitting in the back room like a deity, overseeing everything.

In other words, she was a very stubborn, very high-ranking person who wouldn't listen to others.

There was no point in using professional jargon with this type. They wouldn't listen anyway.

So, just go straight to the point.

The best approach was to bluntly say what I wanted to.

"I wrote it that way because I thought it was the most interesting."

"Hmm."

Good.

Even though she snorted, she didn't interrupt, which meant she was willing to listen.

Calmly, I adjusted my clothes.

"As you said, I apologise for shocking the readers by killing off the protagonist. However, even if I could go back to before writing that manuscript, I would write it the same way."

"Quite confident. Why is that?"

"As I said, because I believe it makes my story the most interesting."

Alexandrina frowned.

Seeing her hands, which seemed ready to grab a cane, turn red, I continued my story.

"I am aware that my writing is light and easy. Such stories... though it's odd for me to say, have a very high volatility."

"Volatility?"

"Simply put, they are easily forgotten."

"Wait, that's..."

The old lady seemed ready to argue but quickly fell silent. I nodded at her.

She probably wanted to quote a scene or line from my book.

But she couldn't recall it immediately.

She could remember Peter's personality and actions in certain scenes, but recalling exact lines or sentences was difficult.

It couldn't be helped. It was a law of equivalent exchange.

What enters the mind easily exits the mind easily.

What enters the mind with difficulty exits the mind with difficulty.

This is a principle that applies even when studying.

This is why people are advised to solve problems slightly harder than their level.

Even I can't remember every sentence of the web novels I found deeply moving.

They might say it's not pure literature, but pure literature leaves a lasting impression. Think of phrases that have gone down in history, like "A genius that became a stuffed specimen" or "Time, stop. You are so beautiful!"

It's not simply because they are famous lines from famous scenes, but because each sentence is crafted with care, like chiselling granite. That's why they linger in the mind.

The term 'revision' exists for a reason.

However, web novels don't have the time to craft such sentences or to imprint them.

Therefore, in web novels, scenes and characters are chiselled instead. And they are imprinted.

"Killing the protagonist is part of that."

A shocking scene is unforgettable.

It's like the magical girl who died in episode three and became a legend.

That magical girl continues to appear afterwards, in flashbacks or different timelines.

But because she died so shockingly in episode three, people remember her as 'the girl who died in episode three'. That's the impact of a well-crafted scene.

Of course, there are web novelists who can make scenes, lines, and characters memorable... Unfortunately, I'm not at that level.

Fortunately, Alexandrina seemed to roughly understand what I was saying.

"So, you're saying that if you write in the usual way, it will soon be forgotten?"

"Yes. That's why I killed him."

So as not to be forgotten.

It's ironic that death makes something immortal, but that's the reality.

"... You speak proudly. Are you not just admitting your incompetence?"

"Yes, that's right."

"What..."

"But, shouldn't incompetent people be allowed to live?"

I said confidently.

"Ultimately, writing is a job that fundamentally sells fantasies. Especially in cases like mine, which deal with fictional creations like fairies."

"... So?"

"My choice to abandon sophisticated prose and opt for a faster pace may be a form of fiction to some. But if the job of selling fantasies includes hiding one's incompetence as a skill, isn't that also a form of talent?"

"Hah!"

"Above all... did you find my story unenjoyable?"

Seemingly at a loss for words, Alexandrina shook her head.

I know this is nonsense.

But isn't it sales that turn this nonsense into truth?

I was already selling hundreds of thousands of copies in weekly and monthly magazines, proving my ability through sales.

The public acknowledged my method.

Knowing this, the old lady just stared at me in silence.

She sighed deeply and leaned back against the carriage, asking tiredly.

"... Then, that Arthur Conan Doyle, or whatever his name is, does he think like you?"

"Well, no. I haven't met him personally, but he probably killed his character because he genuinely wanted to. After all, he was someone who wanted to write historical novels and hated the masterpiece he created, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hmm, I don't understand. I don't get it... Artists, tsk."

Well, it's not because he's an artist that you don't understand, but because you're old.

What people nowadays call a... (T/N : A Boomer lol)

Of course, I didn't say this out loud, knowing it would truly anger her.

I felt my head heating up as I spouted off, but for some reason, I had a feeling that crossing this old lady would really be dangerous.

"Then, let me ask you one thing."

"Yes, go ahead."

"Your intense focus on 'selling methods' implies you want to earn a lot of money."

"Well... yes."

"Then why did you establish this charity foundation? And why spend so much money on it?"

"Oh, that."

"You've worked hard to earn that money, so isn't it a waste to spend it on beggars in a completely different country whom you've never even met?"

Wow, that's harsh.

I looked at the old lady in disbelief. No wonder, wealthy people in the Anglo-American world are often called monsters of capitalism.

I couldn't tolerate this. I frowned and answered.

"Your words are excessive. It's obvious."

"Excessive...?"

"Of course, it's because they are readers who like my work."

Isn't that obvious enough to need any further explanation?

Moreover.

"Writers are inherently greedy beings. And my greed is overflowing."

"Greed?"

"Have you ever been to the East End?"

At my contextless remark, the old lady furrowed her brows.

"Judging by your noble appearance, it seems you've never been there..."

"Indeed. Why would I go to such a filthy place?"

"That's precisely why I'm telling you this."

I closed my eyes gently as I spoke.

The person before me wasn't the English old lady, Alexandrina.

It was someone who laughed and kicked my legs.

Someone who told me to solve one more problem instead of wasting time.

An ordinary civil servant who couldn't hide their annoyance and only gave me a wry smile.

At that time, it was novels that comforted me.

So, I wanted to create one.

A story that people could say, even for a moment, is fun, intriguing, and makes them want to read more tomorrow. A story like that.

And.

"I want to show it to more people."

I said.

"To those who can't read, to those who don't have time to read... If I can make money while doing that, I'd ask for nothing more."

"...Do you love the public?"

"I believe loving the place where one was born and raised is natural for a person."

I calmly explained my philosophy of the public.

For a popular writer to care about the public and to help the public grow and thrive is ultimately a way to help oneself.

Having listened to my story, the old lady nodded seriously with a different expression than before.

"So, you want to increase the number of people who will buy your books."

The old lady looked straight at me.

"And after growing, they might abandon you?"

"That's my problem."

I spoke confidently. No, I spoke so strongly that I felt arrogant.

"I won't be abandoned. I'll write stories so interesting that they can't abandon me. Even if I am abandoned... I'll crawl my way back up and succeed somehow."

"Haha, hahaha, hahahaha!"

The old lady laughed heartily as if a thunderstorm had erupted.

It was a laugh that seemed to come from seeing something very amusing or gaining certainty.

It was a very refreshing and unrestrained laugh, leaving no trace of doubt.

After laughing for a while, the old lady finally wiped her eyes with a gold-embroidered handkerchief, looked at me slowly, and replied.

"Well, that's the first thing you've said that I like."

What was this? Her tone had changed.

She had always had charisma, but now it seemed she had discarded even what she had been hiding.

I gulped.

"Th-thank you..."

"Why are you trembling all of a sudden? You already said everything you wanted to say, shouting and all."

Well... that was because I got a bit heated. I am capable of regret, you know?

At that moment.

"Stop."

"Yes!"

As soon as the old lady spoke, the carriage stopped as if by magic.

In front of me... Oh? The Savoy Theatre? So, what, we just went around in circles?

"It was a very interesting fan meeting, Mr. Hanslow Jin."

"Oh, um. Yes. I also found it very interesting..."

"Don't flatter me."

As she spoke, the old lady pulled out a white piece of paper from her bosom. She scribbled something on it with a fountain pen and handed it to me.

"Take it."

"Pardon?"

"I said take it. And do your best."

What is this...?

Just as I was thinking that, the navy officer who had thrown me into the carriage earlier dragged me out.

And then.

"Well, I look forward to seeing you again. Let's go."

"Yes!"

They vanished like the wind.

What on earth... I felt like I had been bewitched.

Just then, someone very familiar approached me.

"Mr. Author! Are you alright?"

"Bentley?"

"Oh, yes! I am Richard Bentley Jr.! I was terribly shocked when you suddenly disappeared!"

Disappeared... well, I suppose I did disappear.

I was kidnapped by a fan for a while, after all.

Wait, was I in real danger? Could I have experienced a 'Misery' situation?

"By the way, Mr. Author, what is that in your hand?"

"Uh... well?"

Was it a fan letter? As soon as I opened it,

"... Bank of England?"

"Mr. Author! Th-this!"

"Surely not..."

I was speechless. And I couldn't close my mouth.

It was understandable, as it was a cheque.

A cheque with an amount far too large to complain about being kidnapped.