Reader II
I was quite satisfied with the 'Canned Hotel' I had built.
Guilt? I felt none. After all, without my intervention, these writers would meet their untimely end in other cycles. Even the Saintess, the embodiment of morality, would give me a thumbs up.
[…Mr. Undertaker.]
"Yes? What is it, Saintess?"[…No, nothing.]
More importantly, I was genuinely saving the authors' lives.
Remember how I mentioned the 'Isekai Truck' earlier?
The Isekai Truck is a mysterious monster that can appear to readers of web novels, promising to transport them to a world where their favorite novel's setting is fully realized, but it does so by crashing into the reader.
No joke—it’s a real monster.
If you're an avid web novel reader, one day, as you’re walking down the street, you might suddenly hear a:
-Honkkk!And if you turn to look, you'll see an 11-ton truck charging straight at you.
Its unique feature is that instead of a license plate number, the truck has a novel title engraved on it.
Some people might be thrilled and attempt to kiss the truck's hood, thinking, "Finally, I can escape this monster-filled apocalypse on the Korean Peninsula!" But don't bother.
I tried getting hit three times as a test. Dimension travel? Nothing. It's a lying monster just like the 'Hero Syndrome.'
Anyway, this Isekai Truck targets not only readers but also writers, as they are the first to read their own stories.
In other words?
-Honkkkk!
-Beep! Honk! Honkkk!
-Honkkk! Honk!
One by one, cargo trucks lined up in front of the 'Canned Hotel,' which I had built.
"Hiiieee... Strange trucks have gathered outside our revolutionary hideout!"
Even the fairies, who were used to all sorts of monsters, were puzzled and tilted their heads at the sight.
Those trucks weren’t to be taken lightly.
The Isekai Truck can teleport wherever the protagonist is and will always catch up, hit-and-run, and then vanish without a trace.
It had racked up a history that earned it the moniker of 'God Slayer,' given how many protagonists it had taken down, be they world saviors, heroes, harbingers of doom, masterminds, gods, or even mere extra characters who claim they're the strongest.
No one but the 'Tutorial Fairy,' who had butchered many protagonists, could handle this terrifying anomaly.
"Is the barrier holding up?"
"Yes, Comrade Manager! No matter how those reactionaries struggle to turn back time, the dialectical progress of the revolution is a supreme truth! The evolutionary turn of history cannot be reversed by the futile efforts of those bourgeois thugs!"
Boom!
As if to prove the point, one of the 11-ton trucks (which had suddenly appeared on the horizon) came barreling toward the hotel entrance and crashed into it.
However, the hotel's main entrance, which I had barricaded with the fairies, remained intact. Only the truck was crumpled like an aluminum can.
-Honkkk...
-Honkk! Honk...
The Isekai Trucks in the parking lot honked, as if mourning their comrade’s valiant death.
Meanwhile, the fairies on the balcony waved red flags printed with portraits of Che Guevara and wept in defiance, some even shedding tears.
"Ah, revolution! Revolution!"
"Drop dead, you fucking imperialists! Petit bourgeois!"
"Commune of the fairies of all nations! May it last forever!"
I nodded with satisfaction.
"Hmm, good. Revolution vanguard, continue defending the barricades. The success of the revolution hinges on this mission. Everyone, good job."
"Yes, Comrade Manager!"
"Viva la Revolution!"
"Our dreams will never die!"
The fairies saluted with the kind of spirit that would have garnered a standing ovation from the citizens of Paris in 1871.
See? I truly cared about the authors' safety and wellbeing.
If not for the Canned Hotel, where would those trucks be heading? I wasn't just saving the authors' lives but also their readers'. The entire web novel industry of the Korean Peninsula owed its survival to me.
In return for this dedication, I didn't ask much from the authors. Just keep writing. If they filled my empty bowl with new fodder, I'd provide them with food, clothing, shelter, and protection from the Isekai Trucks for at least ten years.
After patrolling the guards, I headed to the Secretariat (Editorial Department), where fairies with a more intellectual vibe greeted me.
"Ah, Comrade Manager. Please, come in."
"Good. You're all doing well. Since it’s been a month since the canning began, the authors must have stocked up on enough chapters."
I cast a meaningful gaze at Secretary Agent No. 264.
"Comrade Secretary 264. Bring me the accumulated manuscripts."
"Yes, sir!"
In this cycle, Secretary Fairy 264, who managed to secure a high-ranking position, brought in the printed manuscripts.
I waited eagerly, filled with anticipation, and received the new works...
Only to find myself doubting my eyes.
"What is this?"
The A4 papers looked too thin, hardly fitting for the work of hundreds of authors for an entire month.
It was less than even a well-filled joint fanzine.
"Why is there so little?"
"But this really is all there is!"
This couldn’t be.
The authors I asked to write in exchange for food, shelter, and protection from the Isekai Trucks hadn’t even written!
After finishing my regressor duties (awakening Seo Gyu, cooperating with the Saintess, closing gates, training promising talents, collaborating with guild leaders, etc.) and finally returning to the hotel today, I was in utter disbelief.
I had waited all month for today.
"You mean I brought in 335 authors, and there aren’t even 100 manuscripts...?"
Trembling.
The pile of manuscripts in my hand quivered. My anger and disappointment translated into a magnitude 7 on the seismometer.
Authors who don't write? How is that different from bums? At least bums feel a twinge of guilt when they waste time watching movies and TV shows. But these so-called authors simply pat themselves on the back, calling it 'experience,' 'learning,' or 'getting inspiration from movies and shows.'
If there's no difference between the two groups (or non-groups), why should I, as a regressor, waste valuable resources supporting bums?
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Shall we send them all to the gulag?"
"This is already the gulag... But where could we send our precious writing slaves?"
I slammed the table.
"Gather all the authors in the lobby right now!"
A little later.
The authors were called to the lobby.
Wait, what?
'Have the authors put on some weight?'
Wobble wobble.
Even when I first kidnapped them to the Canned Hotel, they weren't in the best health on average. Now, after a month of who-knows-what diet, they were bloated with chubby cheeks.
If they stayed like this any longer, their faces would shine like waxed fruit.
"...Authors. I am deeply disappointed in you."
Overcome with fury, I addressed them.
"If each of you wrote just one chapter a day, that would be 335 chapters. Over a month, that's over 10,000 chapters. Do you understand? 10,000 chapters! But now, look at the manuscripts I’m holding."
"……."
"91 chapters! 91! Does that make any sense? And those 91 chapters were written by only 12 of you! Out of 335, only 12 wrote anything!"
Whoosh! I scattered the A4 papers from the platform. They weren’t actual manuscripts but just blank sheets—a kind of performance.
I couldn’t actually throw away the writing of these talented authors.
But my performance worked. The authors' faces paled.
"Even now, I’m running around day and night to ensure your safety and comfort! And this is what you give me in return? If you have any excuses, speak up!"
"Uhm..."
"Uhh..."
The authors glanced away.
"Well, you see… Mr. Reader, uh, we’re sorry, but a new story doesn’t just pop out easily..."
"Yeah, we tried brainstorming, walking, and sleeping, but nothing solid came to mind."
"Mr. Reader! Writing a story takes longer to plan than to write! Especially for new projects."
"I hate to say this since we’re freeloading, but honestly, demanding new ideas in just a month is unreasonable."
"Right!"
"We really tried writing, but we couldn’t. We want to write, but nothing comes out. It’s driving us crazy!"
The authors continued to chorus their explanations like a seasoned a cappella choir, passing the tune back and forth.
Hearing their reasoning made me pause.
'That’s plausible.'
Indeed, they say creation is a constant struggle.
After finishing one work, some authors take three to four years to start another.
Perhaps my demand for a new project in a month was too much... Hmm?
"Wait a moment. Only 126 of you should be working on a new project. The rest were already serializing existing works, weren't they?"
The authors flinched.
"So why couldn't they write? They didn't miss any deadlines before checking in."
"Adaptation!"
The authors sang in unison.
"Serializing requires a delicate environment. Some authors write only at home, others only in cafés, and some need their own studio."
"But none write in hotels..."
"It's a totally different story."
"My sinus was so bad yesterday I couldn't sleep. My head felt foggy, and I didn’t want to touch the keyboard."
"Oh, I know that feeling too!"
"I had so much free time that I got stuck editing endlessly, like an infinite loop."
"In an unfamiliar environment, you have to rebuild your writing habits from scratch. Serialization is all about routine."
"Just as I thought, writers understand each other. This is a subtle but crucial issue that outsiders who have never serialized wouldn’t understand."
"Exactly. It’s not easy."
Is that so?
Indeed, they say creation demands sensitive emotions.
To provide a comfortable collective living environment, I had taken over a luxury hotel in Incheon.
I even gave them a weekly allowance. Even in this collapsed world, with no way to leave and no use for currency, it still served a purpose.
'Because there’s a casino in the hotel's basement.'
It was originally a foreigner-only casino, but now it was a paradise just for the authors.
They could use their monthly stipend as game money and indulge to their heart’s content. The luxury shopping mall in the hotel was also open for business.
According to Secretary Fairy No. 264, the authors were highly satisfied with this setup and frequented the casino.
A near-perfect welfare system!
'But it's an unfamiliar environment.'
I nodded.
How could I, just a mere reader, meddle in the writers' deep anguish and delicate emotions?
I could use [Telepathy] to read their minds, but it felt disrespectful to the authors I cherished.
"Alright. Then I'll give you one more month."
"A month is too short... At least three months..."
"Well, no matter how difficult the job, every profession requires discipline. I trust in your diligence."
"Yes..."
"We will do our best..."
Another month passed.
This time, I received only 75 chapters.
"Why is it even less?"
I was appalled. How could this happen?
The fairy grinned brightly.
"But this really is all there is!"
"No… Secretary, does this make sense? There are 335 authors. If each wrote one chapter a week, that’s over a thousand chapters. But not even 750, just 75?"
I reconvened the authors and grilled them again, but their answers remained the same.
And if people give the same answer twice after being given two chances, that’s an excuse.
Unfortunately, I couldn't trust the authors any longer. In hindsight, I must have seen them through rose-colored glasses.
An expert. I needed an expert who could analyze why this was happening.
After consulting one, I got my answer immediately.
"Are you stupid? The environment's too good, old man."
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