Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World

The cosmic being was more human-like than one could imagine.

In fact, it was natural.

After all, the one who created her was from Earth, the world I remembered from my previous life.

“Communication, huh….”

Even after shaking the laws and fate of an entire universe, the pursuit through it was something as humanly as communication, philosophy, and humanities.

This paradoxically felt terrifying.

The World Tree, nurtured over billions of years in a young universe, had given rise to the parasitic race called “elves.”

The transcendent library could peer into one’s past and future, and magic manipulated phenomena freely.

All of this was merely the consideration of a dying “humanity” for the benefit of a future “humanity.”

Continuity.

For one universe to flow into the next, one soul into a new soul, one history into a new history…

It only hoped to endure in the memory of people.

At least, that seemed to be the intent of humanity, who created that so-called “transcendence.”

That sentiment was something I could deeply empathize with, leaving me feeling somewhat stifled.

I had felt the same way.

I hoped literature would continue.

I wished for literature to be eternal.

Not for some grand influence, but just so people would read, remember, and talk about literature.

I wanted people to know that such literature existed and that its traces persisted into the current era.

The courage of Don Quixote, the love of The Little Prince, Scrooge’s Christmas, Werther’s sorrow….

I wanted people to understand that all of this shaped the present world, that all these works moved the hearts of people.

That there was a time when a single book could change a person’s destiny.

And.

Even now, we still live in such an era.

I hoped people would understand that innocent jest, or at least try to.

“Sigh…”

I had plagiarized countless novels in this world.

It was only possible because of the many works I loved.

In this world, there was only “knightly literature,” so I killed knightly literature with Don Quixote.

I broke the form of traditional literature with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

I made literature more accessible with the Conan Saga, and violated taboos with The Sorrows of Young Werther.

I spread the grammatical conventions of “mystery novels” and “romance novels.”

I expanded the worldview of literature with science fiction and adventure stories.

And.

Although all of this was for the development of literature.

None of it was truly mine.

I had stolen from others and used it for my purposes.

“…….”

This world had no Cervantes, no Saint-Exupéry, no Charles Dickens, no Conan Doyle.

But.

There were madmen who wove an entire universe for the sole purpose of passing on the past to the future.

“…Literature turns ignorance into scandal.”

Literature turns ignorance into scandal.

Even in an era where knights vanished into history, Don Quixote allows chivalry to be remembered.

Even in a time when monarchy is considered an outdated relic, Les Misérables lets us vividly recall monarchial France.

Adults who were once children can recall their innocence through The Little Prince.

Young people contemplating suicide can find solace in The Sorrows of Young Werther, realizing they are not alone.

Thus, literature, despite having no direct utility, is the most useful of disciplines.

Because literature is a discipline that tells stories about people.

It speaks to us of what we’ve forgotten, what we don’t want to forget, what we failed to notice, what we couldn’t possibly recall, and what’s been lost to time.

“…Sion.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Since the literature I plagiarized belonged to Earth.

The people reading that literature deserved to know about “Earth.”

Only then could they fully understand the “literature” they were reading.

From what kind of background these novels were written, under what circumstances their authors wrote them—everything.

Because that is the role of literature.

Literature encourages people… to try to understand one another.

“I should write an autobiography.”

“…Yes. I’ll prepare a pen and paper.”

I resolved to write about Earth.

And.

About myself.

“No. Hmm, I need to meet someone.”

“Excuse me?”

…

…

…

“How did I feel when I first met the author? Hmm, when the author brought in the manuscript for Don Quixote to the publishing house… It felt like winning the lottery!

Anyone who loves literature would have felt the same.

It was such an incredible and joyous surprise that imagining it was beyond anyone’s capacity.

When it came to gifts… it’s only natural for the heart to race uncontrollably, isn’t it?

And when he brought in the second part of Don Quixote… it felt like receiving a long-awaited Christmas present.

…

…

…

“Meeting the author for the first time? Hmm, it was fascinating!

Honestly, most ordinary people, even if they knew the prince in front of them was an impostor, would play along and pretend not to notice, right?

But the author explained his suspicions with unwavering confidence.

I thought, ‘This person is really unique.’

It was also quite amusing.

After that… well, I received a favor I could never repay in a lifetime….

Ah, it’s a bit embarrassing to say it myself.

Don’t you think the author is too cruel for making me talk about this?”

…

…

…

“First impressions?

Well, I don’t remember much because I was so young, but… I think it was delightful.

You wrote fairy tales for me, taught me cursive, and… all those moments we spent together were simply joyful because we were together, don’t you think?

For me, the time I spent with you was exactly that kind of time.

But to have to explain this… oh dear.

Well, it can’t be helped.

Our dear cousin is a bit slow to pick up on things.”

…

…

…

“I felt deeply indebted.

The Venerable spoke in such a calm voice, but…

his words were so transparent that I felt genuinely ashamed.

I reflected a lot on my way back to the Vatican in the carriage.

Garnier, do you truly deserve to be called a cardinal?

Are you really serving the words of the Lord and not just your own satisfaction?

I think I scolded myself like that.

Does that sound a bit excessive?”

…

…

…

I heard many, truly many stories.

President Dorling Kindersley, former Prince, Lady Es, my cousin and childhood friend Isolette, the beastman Grey, Cardinal Garnier, Lazy King Clement Lemang, Brother Eric, the illustrator Lucia Barton, the stuttering Rolls Camel, Ryan of Half and Half, Lionel Balzac who suffered a fairy’s prank, the alchemist Gallen Rennion, the talkative Chief Mage Millie Cléang, the duel-loving Hans and Johann, the Duke Andy Carpenter whom I met by chance, the mysterious Mary Jane, the Tower Masters of the White and Black Magic Towers, the Head Priest managing the orphanage and the weepy caretaker, the Fortunate King Abraham, Father Paolo, and White, the dyslexic writer.

So many people who knew me.

By the time I had heard all their stories, a month had passed.

I had met that many people and would continue to meet many more.

I wove their stories and my fragmented memories into a single piece of writing.

It was a story about a certain literature enthusiast reincarnated in another world.

[This world is trash.]

[I declare it.

This damned medieval fantasy world is absolute trash.]

That literature enthusiast was a rather flawed human being.

He was a half-formed person who felt no joy or pleasure outside of literature.

He often wasted his days idling like a slacker, doing crossword puzzles and the like.

No matter how I looked at it, he wasn’t a proper human being.

However, he was someone with an overwhelming love for literature.

So, he began to write with the goal of spreading the literature of his past life to this world.

He stole literature from his previous life and disseminated it in this world.

[There are many books to read.]

[And many books I’ve read.]

[From now on, I must read all those knightly literatures until I can memorize them without looking.]

[Only then can Don Quixote burn those books.]

Fortunately, these attempts were quite successful.

The novels he plagiarized became incredibly popular, and the man who copied Don Quixote was revered by people under the grand pen name “Homer.”

If he had been an ordinary person, he might have indulged in luxury, intoxicated by this success.

However.

The man was a half-formed human who felt no interest in anything other than “literature.”

Even after that, he continuously used the knowledge of his past life solely for the development of literature.

He stole works, laws, philosophies, and proverbs.

Thus, he transplanted the literature of his previous life into this world.

In the process, he met many people.

A young publishing house president who was about to give up his inheritance and move to the countryside.

An imperial prince born with a woman’s soul.

A stuttering aspiring writer who hated people.

A reclusive illustrator overwhelmed by attention.

Each of them was saved through literature in their own way.

Literature constantly proved its value, and the man was immensely satisfied.

That salvation was the one and only faith and miracle the man had believed in since his previous life.

And.

The story progressed little by little.

[“I should write an autobiography.”]

It reached the present.

The man—I—put down the pen and organized the manuscript.

Beside me stood my loyal attendant, as always.

“What is the title of your new work?”

“Well, let’s see…”

After a moment of thought, I smirked and replied.

“Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World.”

It was a slightly light novel-esque title.