Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World

The Empire experienced many literary trends, but among them, what currently dominated the serialized newspaper market was ‘horror fiction.’

Since “The Monkey’s Paw,” numerous short stories akin to ‘ghost tales’ were being serialized.

“Sigh, another horror novel? Creepy and all, but honestly, I’ve read so many of them now that they don’t feel that scary anymore.”

“Exactly, my friend!”

Naturally, readers’ fatigue toward these ‘ghost tales’ was also accumulating.

The short ghost stories published in newspapers offered strong momentary thrills, but they became dull and numbing as familiarity grew.

Amidst this situation…

“Herodotus—no, Homer has started a newspaper serialization?!”

“What genre is it? What kind of story?”

“They say it’s a horror novel.”

“Horror again?”

“Hmm…”

“But it seems to have a slightly different tone compared to the ghost stories we’ve seen so far.”

“Really?”

“What was it again… Cosmic horror? I think that’s what they called it.”

.

.

.

[In my opinion, the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.]

.

.

.

To be honest, literary evaluations of works categorized under the so-called ‘Cthulhu Mythos’ were quite ambiguous.

Some writers criticized Lovecraft’s dialogues, likening them to something written by a ‘recluse who’s never spoken to another human being.’

Others disparaged his works for being overly formulaic or for containing incorrect knowledge, leading to frequent criticism.

From a literary critical perspective, the ‘Cthulhu Mythos’ was closer to being a ‘poorly written novel’ with neither commercial appeal nor artistic value. ṛἈ₦Ｏ𝐛Êꞩ

Yet despite this, the mythos Lovecraft created consistently inspired numerous readers and creators, spawning countless homages over time.@@novelbin@@

Some attributed this to Lovecraft’s lack of awareness regarding copyright, which allowed his universe to be treated like public property, enabling various writers to expand and reproduce it actively.

However, external factors alone couldn’t fully explain the cult-like popularity of the ‘Cthulhu Mythos.’

Lovecraft’s true talent lay in his ability to ‘evoke an atmosphere.’

“Ugh… no, this is genuinely… fascinating yet… grotesque… bad for the heart…”

“Rather than feeling like just a ghost story, doesn’t it seem more like a record of actual events… from another world that isn’t ours? Maybe such beings… and such events also existed in this world…”

Lovecraft’s talent, to put it simply, was in drawing people in.

He profoundly understood the ‘fear of the unknown’ that ordinary people experience.

The overwhelming sensation one feels before immense nature, the awe that captures the soul before great art, the physical laws and destinies that govern and move this world, the massive celestial bodies that adhere to those laws, and the small, insignificant humans within them.

The sensation of ‘not being able to comprehend it.’

Lovecraft possessed a keen sensitivity to ‘things that cannot be understood by human knowledge alone.’

And this was particularly effective for writers or readers with a broad range of knowledge and an intense thirst for it—even if they weren’t experts.

Simply put…

“I… I want to write a novel like this too!”

“Horror, madness, the cosmos, the unknown, melodies… Each element is so fascinating that I can’t even fall asleep!”

It was enough to stimulate interest in subcultural niches.

The enjoyment of storytelling, literary completeness, coherence, or relevance—all of these could be surpassed.

It evoked a desire to ‘delve deeper’ into the work, which was precisely Lovecraft’s strongest appeal.

In the 21st century, this was akin to what was commonly called ‘SANS’—the ability to nurture enthusiasts obsessed with digging into lore!

However…

There were also those who held a negative view of this ‘subcultural’ appeal.

“Homer’s latest work is garbage!”

“The dialogue is terrible, the patterns are all the same in the end, and what on earth is the appeal of such a work?”

“Homer has finally become a washed-up has-been!”

“What.”

“That’s a bit much…”

These were the so-called ‘literary critics,’ a group with consistent and highly subjective standards for evaluating works.

Naturally, the followers of Homer could not agree with such evaluations by the ‘literary critics,’ which led to heated disputes.

“Literary critics, my foot! You people don’t write better than Homer, so what gives you the right to evaluate his work?!”

“One doesn’t necessarily have to write well to critique—”

“Then do you write better than Homer? What’s your masterpiece?”

“Eek! Readers who know nothing about critique or writing!”

And thus, the Empire began to blaze with fiery debates.

.

.

.

“Young master.”

“Yes? How’s the reaction?”

“The dispute between readers defending your new work and literary critics criticizing it has caused newspaper sales to skyrocket exponentially.”

“Newspapers?”

“Yes. Multiple newspapers are competitively publishing discussions and columns about it. In fact, it seems that more people are buying newspapers to watch the fight rather than to read your ‘novel.’”

“Well, there’s nothing more entertaining than watching a fight.”

Not everyone who loves novels reads every novel.

Some novels don’t match their taste.

Others feel too similar to works they’ve already read.

And some are avoided because they clash with their moral sensibilities.

Many light readers stick to a few well-known novels.

However, ‘debates’ about novels are something most people can read without much burden.

In that sense, the current controversies surrounding literary criticism could be called a golden age for it.

After all, most people wouldn’t bother reading such critiques unless controversy erupted.

Literary critics must feel quite desperate.

“Should we mobilize foundation members to mediate the situation?”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a good thing that people are showing interest in literature. Literary criticism is, after all, one of the components that make up literature.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Sion looked puzzled, as if it was difficult to understand.

However, this kind of debate was exactly what I had hoped for.

“I heard Isolette is starting a career as a literary critic this time.”

“Are you referring to the Duke’s niece?”

“Yes. She’s also an old friend of mine… and you know how you want to cheer on a friend when they try something new?”

“…….”

“So, that’s it.”

I smiled faintly and continued, recalling Isolette’s anxious expression.

“I’ve set up the perfect stage for her debut. The groundwork is all laid.”

“…Young master, you’re quite mischievous.”

“Hmm? Am I?”

“Yes. With so much attention focused on her… won’t she feel overwhelmed? It must be difficult for Lady Isolette.”

“…Haha.”

“Young master?”

Overwhelmed by too much attention, huh…

From the perspective of someone who remembered the literary world from my past life, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.

Thinking back on how art that lost public interest was treated, the attention literature received in this world was nothing but a delight.

“Sion.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, the influence of literature in this world has grown far too immense.”

“It’s all thanks to your achievements, young master.”

Well, could this really all be my achievement?

I was merely a plagiarist who had stolen the literature of my previous life.

All of this literature was rooted in the foundation that supported the literary world of my past life, etched into the history of classics.

Thus, the progress of literature was simply a product of the times.

An inevitable destiny driven by humanity’s innate craving for content.

What I had done was merely accelerate that destiny—purely out of a personal desire to enjoy more fascinating literature during my lifetime.

Even without me, this world’s literature would have eventually developed independently.

And yet…

Despite the existence of countless classics I had plagiarized, literature in my past life had been slowly dying.

This world’s literature would likely follow a similar path.

The numerous safety nets I had prepared were merely temporary measures to delay the countdown to ‘the collapse of literature.’

There was only one fundamental way to prevent the collapse of literature.

“…Sion.”

“Yes.”

“If you were given the chance to live forever, what would you think of it?”

“Forever… you mean?”

“Yes.”

As a transcendent being of literature, I could reign eternally over this world.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult goal.

I had money, power, influence, and the ‘Elixir of Immortality’ created by the ‘Transcendent of Alchemy.’

I had already surpassed the influence of the Empire alone.

If I wished, I could forever suppress all forms of content except for ‘literature.’

With those thoughts in mind, I posed the question to Sion.

And Sion’s response was simple.

“Hmm… I suppose I’d have to think about it a bit.”

“Think about it?”

“Yes. I’d have to discuss it with you, make preparations for my old age, and first, I’d need to live a bit longer to contemplate what ‘eternity’ really means.”

“…Pfft, you’re right.”

“Indeed.”

“Thanks. That helped.”

It was clear—there was no point in worrying about such things now.

For now, I would simply do what I could.

“Sion, I need you to prepare an announcement through the foundation.”

“Understood. What will the announcement be about?”

“Lovecraft… Sharing the copyright and licensing rights of the Cthulhu Mythos.”