The Great Storyteller

Chapter 392: Here Comes the Great Storyteller (1)

Translated by: ShawnSuh

Edited by: SootyOwl

Juho looked at the open notepad at the center of the table. Its pages were filled with scribbles, and it was clear even at a glance that it had been written in a hurry, which didn’t make it any easier for Juho to look at it. No matter how many times he forced himself to get used to being around it, he simply couldn’t accustom himself to it. The windows rattled from the gusts of the fall wind.

The writing process was quite different this time around. It almost felt as though the author was transcribing rather than writing a story. ‘When will this end?’ Juho asked himself, ready to give up at any moment, his mouth filled with a bitter taste. The towering stacks of manuscript paper in his room did little to help him feel better.

‘Is there another story as boring as this one?’ Juho thought to himself while still writing. In Juho’s eyes, the manuscript was filled with nothing but his embarrassing past. In the end, Juho drew a thick line across the page. When he lowered his pen five hours later, he heard the voice of a person who shouldn’t have been there.

“Mr. Woo?”

Since he had forgotten to lock the door, Crow had entered the apartment.

“If you’re gonna sneak in, you might not wanna make it so obvious.”

“Do you see what’s in my hand?”

When Juho looked back haphazardly, he saw a sharp-looking knife in the aspiring writer’s hand. At which point, Juho blinked slowly.

“That’s a dangerous thing you have there.”

“I will stab you.”

Looking down at the manuscript in his hands, Juho asked, “You mind explaining what you’re thinking?”

“You said it yourself, Mr. Woo: convince me,” Crow said, bringing up what Juho had told him recently in order to drive him out of the apartment. “So, I’m doing just that.”

After staring at him briefly, Juho said, “There’s a leaf on your head.”

Crow shook his head violently, and the leaf fell from his head. Seeing that he was dressed in thicker clothes and that his lips were chapped and crusty, Juho was reminded of how dry the weather was, which also meant they were in a season when people tended to be more emotional. Crow, in particular, had grown increasingly sentimental at the tail end of fall. Watching the leaf flutter down, Juho said, “Pick it up and put it in the trash can.”

“I think I’ve tried hard enough, Mr. Woo. The more time I spend trying to convince you, the more anxious I become. I only have so much time left and I can’t do this forever.”

“That’s none of my concern.”

“I will stab you if I have to.”

As Juho sighed, Crow came a step closer to the author, still wielding the knife, which looked quite elaborate. Then, Juho sprung up from his seat, reached for the knife and grabbed it by its blade. However, with an ice-cold expression on his face, which made Juho feel like he was looking into a mirror, Crow remained unfazed. As Juho applied pressure into the hand with which he was grabbing the knife, he felt a dull pain through it.

“Must be from Jenkins.”

“Look,” Crow said, pushing the tip of the knife into the handle, hiding the blade. Although it was a prop, it looked nearly indistinguishable from a real one.

“It’s still fake,” Juho said. Then, taking a stack of papers in his arms, Crow handed the manuscript over to the author with the prop knife.

“Would you take a look at this, Mr. Woo? I wrote about life this time.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

In response, Crow pretended to stab himself in the heart and fall to the floor. Although it was childish, Juho gave him a pitying smile. Then, after leaving the room, the aspiring write came back with a letter and a package, which was filled with all kinds of things. Whoever the sender was, they had sent things that Juho had never asked for. Nevertheless, it didn’t feel bad to receive unexpected gifts.

“It’s from Mr. Coin.”

Juho opened the envelope and took out Coin’s letter.

“You piece of shit.”

As Crow’s eyes widened, Juho explained, “That’s how he started the letter.”

“I mean, I heard the rumors, but wow.”

Juho read through the letter, which was filled with harsh, blunt words. After infiltrating into a religious cult in order to learn more about it, Coin released his first full-length novel in five years, which had placed him at yet another peak in his career. The content and quality of the novel made his fans completely forget about the author’s hiatus. What Coin was saying through the letter was quite simple: he was urging Juho to keep in touch. When Crow asked Juho about it, the author said, “He says he’ll punch the living hell out of me otherwise.”

“You might wanna watch your nose, Mr. Woo.”

Reminded that Coin could show up at his door without warning, Juho nodded quietly. While Crow was squatting and looking through the package, Juho warned him, “That reminds me. I don’t feel comfortable with you barging into my apartment just because the door isn’t locked.”

“C’mon, Mr. Woo. We both know that you don’t lock the door on purpose. Besides, I even did your chores. Cut me some slack! Oh, it’d be nice if you could take a look at my manuscript while you’re at it.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Juho said.

“I’m tactful. I can be quick to catch on.”

“Well, doesn’t mean much if you don’t listen to me, does it?”

The two had had that same conversation multiple times prior to that day. Crow refused to leave Juho alone, much like his bird counterpart. However, since the aspiring writer had helped Juho write in some ways, the author hadn’t kicked him out of the house. When looking at Crow, who was the polar opposite of him, Juho was reminded of his past life even more, and of when he had been a rookie author. Crows were smart and quick. Similarly, the aspiring writer had to have realized that Juho wasn’t going to drive him out.

“This is from Mr. Jenkins.”

“What’s this?” Juho asked as he took the box from Crow. Inside the paper wrapping, was a book.

“A biography?”

It was a biography written by Jenkins, which caught Juho by surprise since he hadn’t heard anything about it. Opening the book, Juho skimmed through it. The book contained the director’s childhood, how he came to dream of becoming a movie director, the turning points in his life, his failures and moments of bravery, stories about the film industry, the secret to his work, his values, stories about actors and actresses, interviews, his dreams and goals.

“The Life of a Master? I forgot how thick-skinned he was,” Juho said, chuckling.

In the back of the book, were a series of testimonials from various celebrities, and to Juho’s surprise, there was also a testimonial by Coin, which read: ‘The biggest waste of my time. I couldn’t fall asleep to this book even if I wanted to. A book that’s just like its author.’

“This isn’t a testimonial...?”

“That’s great! May I?”

Although the book was written in English, Juho handed it to Crow. Crows were quite smart. By the time Juho finished his meal, Crow peeked his head out from the study and asked, “Do you think I could borrow this, Mr. Woo?”

Without even bothering to look at the book in Crow’s hand, Juho said, “I told you, you can take it. I don’t care.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. These are your books!”

‘So much for threatening me with a knife,’ Juho thought. Glancing at the room, which was quite messy, Juho looked away.

“That’s Coin’s book.”

“Yep! The one that competed with your book,” Crow said, pointing toward a trophy. It was the novel about the very first murder in the history of mankind, written in its original language.

“I’d never seen a first edition copy of this book!” Crow said excitedly. “I love that your study’s full of rare books, Mr. Woo. It’s like a treasure trove in here!”

“There is some research data that I used to refer to when I wrote my stories. Feel free to look at them.”

“Oh! That’s what those boxes are?”

“The ones in that room, yes.”

“You don’t seem to take good care of them, Mr. Woo. You could sell a lot of these for an exorbitant amount of money!” Crow said. However, Juho didn’t bother to respond.

“Are you planning on cleaning the place sometime? I’d like to help!”

“I haven’t done much cleaning while living here and I haven’t had any problems,” Juho said with disinterest. There was something else that he needed to do. Checking the time, he added, “You can stick around. Show yourself out when you leave.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to stay quiet.”

“Make sure to answer my phone whenever it rings.”

“Of course!”

Juho hurried into his room. The sense of anxiety lingered even as he was writing. Taking a deep breath, Juho picked up his pen and looked down at the old, worn out notepad, which contained all of his past failures. Juho fully intended on making the protagonist of his story go through the same exact troubles, which also meant that the author knew the pain and despair of the character better than anyone.

Then, Juho started writing without hesitation. His hands were writing the narrative on their own, even without their owner thinking about what he was writing. There was a shift in the writing style. The hands of a child were different from those of an adult. The two types moved autonomously, staying within their boundaries, which they competed to expand. At times, Juho would find himself getting confused as to who was writing what. At some point, the moment of realization that had once drawn near faded away in no time. Juho swallowed nervously.

At that moment, Juho sensed a presence behind him, which felt quite familiar. It was Crow, peeking through the door crack like usual. Paying no attention to him, Juho moved his hands even faster, his mind filled with scenes he wanted to write. Depicting the inner thoughts of the protagonist made the author emotional. The character’s tragedy was directly correlated with that of the author. The more Juho wrote about the protagonist’s life, the more things became clear. He found himself getting closer to the truth that he had been trying to distance himself from. However, instead of a sense of reward or pride, there was nothing but pain, which left the author vulnerable to his cravings for alcohol, cigarettes, and gambling.

Looking out the window, Juho pictured a dark, night sky. He was looking more and more like his past self, and the desires he had killed were slowly coming back. As time passed and the closer the story came to its completion, the more anxious the author grew. It was going to be winter soon. Wol had passed away on a snowy winter day. Similarly, Juho found himself sinking, falling deeper into the abyss. At that moment...

“What the!?”

... Juho stopped writing upon hearing a thud. It was Crow.

“... I’m sorry,” the aspiring writer said, flabbergasted.

“What is it?” Juho asked calmly.

“Oh, it’s just that... I lost balance as I kept leaning forward.”

“I thought you said you were gonna stay quiet?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Woo.”

Seeing Crow tense up, Juho put the pen down.

“I’m so very sorry,” the Crow said, apologizing profusely. Without saying anything, Juho rubbed his mouth, bothered by the aspiring writer’s apology for an unknown reason.

“You’re Crow, right?”

“Yes, that was my nickname growing up.”

“And you said that I like birds, right?”

“I did.”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t recall ever telling you that.”

Apart from Crow’s nervous breathing, the room became silent.

“What’s one thing that you hate the most in this world?” Juho asked.

“... My skin.”

“Mine are crows,” Juho said, sitting up on his chair, which made a squeaking noise.

“May I ask why?”

“No, you may not,” Juho replied, rising from his seat and taking his worn out leather wallet out of his pocket.

“Do me a favor.”

“... Of course.”

“I need you to leave me alone for the next six hours. If you don’t want to, you’re more than welcome to go home, so make sure to take your belongings with you.”

The aspiring writer left the room quietly, closing the front door cautiously on his way out. Left alone, Juho picked up his pen once again. Although there was nobody around to distract him, Juho simply couldn’t make any progress. No matter what he wrote, he simply wasn’t happy with it. Thinking that he was wasting his time, Juho started to feel a weight in his stomach. The Sun had set long ago.

“Maybe I should eat something.”

As Juho was coming out of his room, he felt something on his foot, followed by a sharp sound and a wet sensation. When he looked down, he saw a cup of water and a simple meal prepared for him on the floor. There was only one person who would do something like that. Picking up the cup that was rolling around the floor, Juho let out a small sigh.

“So, you’re coming back, huh?”

Scooping the chunk of food on the plate, which had long turned cold, Juho put it in his mouth and ate it in a hurry. After which, he went back to his chair, thinking, ‘I might be having trouble accepting this story as my own, but I’m NOT letting anybody do my job for me. I’m getting this done before I die, no matter what.’

Getting past the crisis, the story proceeded to the climax.

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