Novelist Running Through Time

TL: KSD

The publishing industries of Korea and Japan are beyond comparison.

Even without mentioning the revival and peak of the Japanese publishing industry after World War II or the government policies on reading culture and whatnot, there’s a difference in scale from the start.

Population of South Korea: 50 million.

Population of Japan: 120 million.

What does it matter that Japan has more than double the population?

Japan has more than twice as many people as Korea. This is a fact that many Koreans overlook. Actually, it’s the fault of the swollen pride of Koreans, who, despite being sandwiched between China, Japan, North Korea, and Russia, don’t fear any of their neighboring countries. It’s an inevitable ethnic hereditary disease.

In any case, unlike Koreans who have an innate chihuahua-like temperament, Yohei Iwamoto, who loves peace (though historically, this is slightly debatable), couldn’t help but utter ‘mattaku’ whenever he witnessed the ignorant attitude that failed to recognize the superiority of the Japanese publishing industry.

“Ma-takku (Really)……”

Really, Koreans don’t know their place. How could the Korean publishing industry be on the same level as the Japanese publishing industry?

Yohei could cite numerous reasons beyond ‘scale’ to explain the superiority of the Japanese publishing industry. But the most crucial reason would be this:

Authority!

The Korean publishing industry is on the periphery of the cultural industry.

Although bestsellers occasionally get adapted into movies, they remain on the sidelines and continue their insular battles within their own league.

In contrast, the Japanese publishing industry is at the heart of the cultural industry.

Every year, countless novels are turned into manga, dramas, animations, movies, and plays.

One Source Multi Use (OSMU).

It is the heart of media mix.

So, to Yohei Iwamoto, the Korean publishing industry, which lost the initiative of media mix to the web novel industry, was merely a half-finished product.

(The reason why the literary circle grinds their teeth whenever they see web novels is not for any other reason.)

In any case, from Yohei Iwamoto’s perspective, the Baekhak Publishing’s Lim Yang-wook or whatever his name was, couldn’t be considered in the same ‘class’ as himself.

Their positions might be similar, but the industry levels are different!

Moreover, Yohei Iwamoto is not only a senior editor at Kyosensha but also a translator. And among translators, he is one of the rare few who holds the esteemed title of <Booker International Nominee>.

So, it would have been appropriate for Baekhak Publishing’s division head Baek Seol, who holds the same title, to personally come to Tokyo for the meeting. How could they send some bald guy named Lim or whatever his name is?

Yohei Iwamoto was outraged and indignant at Baekhak Publishing’s serious breach of business manners.

It was absolutely not because he had any ulterior motive to meet Baek Seol again.

Anyway, a thoroughly enraged Yohei Iwamoto decided to show the Korean editor who had come to visit what bitter taste really was.

He would probably complain as soon as he arrived about why the distribution ratio of publishing profits was so low, right? He had initially planned to yield after a bit of a tussle, but now there would be no leniency.

He was fully prepared for battle.

However, it is often said that the first thing to collapse as soon as the battle starts is the battle plan.

The fearsome plan of vengeance by Yohei Iwamoto crumbled like a sandcastle in front of the variable called ‘Eisaku Siedehara’.

“Iwamoto-kun, may I join this meeting?”

In Yohei Iwamoto’s office, as he was fervently preparing for the meeting, Eisaku Siedehara suddenly barged in through the door and asked.

“Eh.”

Fail to respond within three seconds and you fail as a Japanese.

Fortunately, Yohei Iwamoto passed the Japanese test.

“……Of course! It would be an honor!”

“Haha, honor is a bit much…….”

EP 8–Dark Adaptation

There are various types of honorifics in Japanese. Among them, the honorifics attached to someone’s name are directly connected to speech level and generally signify ‘hierarchy’, making them quite important.

And Eisaku Siedehara did not call Iwamoto ‘-san’ but ‘-kun.’ In both Korea and Japan, ‘-kun’ is an expression used for someone of lower status.

That’s right. Eisaku Siedehara was in a position where he could casually call his editor in charge, Yohei Iwamoto, ‘-kun.’ If he felt like it, he could even use ‘-chan’.

What could Iwamoto do if Siedehara started calling him ‘Yohei-chan’ as an act of disrespect?

From that moment, Iwamoto would become Yohei-chan. And Yohei-chan would have no choice but to endure the pressure of hierarchy with teary eyes.

Fortunately, Siedehara wasn’t such an inconsiderate old man, so Iwamoto remained ‘Iwamoto-kun’ instead of ‘Yohei-chan’.

Still, Iwamoto didn’t only feel resentment towards the ‘-kun’ honorific. The fact that Siedehara freely treated Iwamoto as a subordinate indicated a certain level of familiarity, didn’t it?

On the contrary, if Siedehara suddenly started calling him ‘Iwamoto-san’ one day, Iwamoto would have to figure out what he did wrong from that day onwards. That’s the way it is.

But when he heard the following honorific, Yohei Iwamoto widened his eyes.

“Long time no see, In-seop-kun.”

“Author Siedehara-nim? How are you here…?”

“Haha, I just thought I’d drop by to see your face after a long time. If it startled you, I apologize.”

Iwamoto didn’t notice the surprised look on Moon In-seop’s face upon encountering author Siedehara at the meeting place.

A specific word had caught Iwamoto’s ear.

In-seop-kun!

The word was so shocking that Iwamoto felt a strange howling in his ears. The repeated sound gradually faded away. In-seop-kun, In-seop-kun, In-seop-kun…

Even though the same ‘-kun’ honorific was used, there was a vast difference between ‘Iwamoto-kun’ and ‘In-seop-kun’.

Iwamoto is a surname, and In-seop is a given name. Traditionally, calling someone by their given name signifies more familiarity.

In other words, author Siedehara was addressing Moon In-seop more familiarly than himself, whom he’d known for years!

“Ah, oh…”

Suddenly, he recalled an old lover from his university days. She had asked Iwamoto, who was kind to his female classmates,

‘Oppa, why do you call her by her name so affectionately?’

Iwamoto had considered it an insult. He was always kind to those around him, so why was this annoying woman interrogating him as if he had cheated on her?

So the two had a big fight and eventually broke up.

But now he understood. It wasn’t an interrogation; it was a plea for him to pay more attention to her than to other women.

She was embarrassed to say such a thing outright, so it came out harshly… Iwamoto now understood her feelings. Chihiro, are you doing well?

Of course, Iwamoto couldn’t ask Siedehara, ‘Why do you call that kid’s name more familiarly than mine?’ So, he silently soothed his aching heart.

However, whether fortunately or unfortunately, Iwamoto’s question was soon answered by the following conversation between the two.

Since Siedehara could speak Korean, Iwamoto could only watch their friendly conversation from the side.

“Still… It doesn’t seem like it’s been a long time. It’s my first time seeing you face to face since the Booker Prize, but it feels like we just parted yesterday.”

“Ah, does In-seop-kun feel that way too? So do I. It seems like I might have troubled you with too many emails.”

“Haha, not at all.”

Boom! It was as if lightning struck behind Iwamoto’s head. The shock came like lightning.

‘No way…!’

‘Have these two been in close contact since the Booker Prize?’

It was true.

Most of the exchanges were initiated by Eisaku Siedehara’s first message, no, first email, but Moon In also diligently replied with the feeling of being a fan.

And in the midst of that, they became familiar with each other’s names. Siedehara had started calling Moon In by his first name.

Yohei Iwamoto, being an experienced editor, could immediately infer the nuances of their relationship.

‘That must have been it…’

Both were novelists, and Moon In was not just any novelist but an unparalleled genius in the industry. He was certainly worthy of Siedehara’s attention.

How much literary exchange must have occurred outside of Iwamoto’s view? Moon In was definitely someone who could inspire Siedehara.

And that was something Iwamoto could never offer… because he wasn’t a novelist.

The only thing Yohei Iwamoto could offer Eisaku Siedehara was money.

Like a man who could only offer money, desperate and vulgar in his attempt to hold on to the departing heart, Iwamoto opened his mouth.

“Department head Lim! S-shall we start discussing business now?”

“What? Oh, yes. Let’s do that.”

“I’ve prepared some materials in case you have questions about the publishing revenue ratio with Baekhak Pu—”

At that moment, author Siedehara cleared his throat.

“Ahem, if it’s not too much trouble, could we postpone the business talk a bit longer? I still have a few things to convey to In-seop-kun…”

“What?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. But it’s really important…”

Iwamoto momentarily wore a blank expression. Then, with hollow eyes, he looked back and forth between Siedehara and Moon In before finally nodding.

That day, Yohei Iwamoto’s sincere emotions were (slightly) trampled.

* * *

“I didn’t know author Siedehara had invested in the movie.”

“Indeed. From what I’ve heard, the director is quite remarkable.”

“He’s going to introduce us, so we’ll probably meet him soon.”

“We might run into him by chance while following our schedule. You know we have a broadcast recording from early morning tomorrow, right? You need to go to bed early today. Got it?”

“Yes, yes.”

Lim Yang-wook made a gesture indicating he would keep an eye on things until the end and then left. The hotel room door locked automatically.

Only then did I erase the smile from my lips and jump onto the bed. The night sky had darkened, and Tokyo’s night view was sparkling, but I didn’t have the energy to admire it.

The bed was really soft. It embraced me deeply as if it would devour me, trying to lull me to sleep with its fluffy texture. But I felt a small discomfort there.

It was an unease residing not in my body but in my mind.

People’s spending habits don’t change easily.

No, no. How can one dare to generalize such a complex and multifaceted species as humans into one statement?

To be more precise, ‘my spending habits don’t change easily’.

In that sense, I would never come to such a hotel with my own money.

No matter how soft the bed, how bubbly the bathtub is, or how beautiful the night view of Tokyo beyond the window, it’s the same.

Ever since I learned the room rate for one night, a small discomfort had lodged in a corner of my heart.

Of course, I knew the accommodation fee was covered by the company.

And I knew that I had brought Baekhak far more profit than this petty lodging fee, so there was no problem in receiving such treatment from the company.

But the discomfort I felt stemmed from emotion, not reason.

Isn’t everything about how you set your mind to it?

Even when looking at the same luxury bag, people have completely different thoughts.

Some people see the value of the brand, observe the artisan’s touch, and predict that its scarcity will increase its resale value in a few years, thus the actual expenditure isn’t that significant.

But some people feel hatred when looking at a luxury bag.

Some people are evicted because they can’t pay rent and go hungry because they can’t afford food. They resent the existence of a single bag that they couldn’t buy even if they saved up their entire salary for several months.

The existence of that bag implies the existence of people who can easily afford to buy it, reminding them of the gap between themselves and the wealthy.

That’s why some people resent the bag.

And I was clearly among the latter.

I, too, resented the bag.

But what about now? I can now buy those bags that I once resented, and the people who make money off me readily open their wallets to put me in the finest hotels. And that money hasn’t just changed my standard of living; it’s also changed my social status.

I am now a genius writer, a celebrity, a role model, and an entertainer. People perceive me that way.

But is that the real me? Have I truly become someone entirely different from my old self?

No.

So it’s laughable. The way people see me is almost entirely based on preconceived notions.

They just wanted a young genius writer who brought honor to South Korea. And so, I became that, whether it was true or not.

This is the reality of admiration and envy.

I understand why Kim Byul is not mentally stable. Even with my brief involvement in the entertainment industry, I feel like I’m losing myself between the image seen on camera and the real me. How much worse must it be for Kim Byul?

Those in the spotlight are given roles that people want them to play. The truth doesn’t matter. People overlay their ideal image onto someone through admiration, expecting and then becoming disappointed.

Around midnight that day, I had to face another demand people had for me.

“In-In-seop! Are you in there?”

When I opened the door to my room at the urgent call of Lim Yang-wook, he immediately thrust his phone screen in my face.

“D-Do you know what’s going on here…?”

Written there was the wish of the Japanese people.

「Exclusive coverage: Novelist Moon In, actually a Japanese?」

They wanted me to be Japanese.

*****

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