The Outcast Writer of a Martial Arts Visual Novel

Hwang Se-saeng once again headed to Daseogak.

The Daseo Society’s boycott was having a far greater impact than expected.

Many people from all walks of life in Yichang bought books, but who, after all, buys the most?

The scholars, of course.

Hwang Se-saeng and the other members of Daseo Society went around persuading their fellow students and teachers not to use any bookstore except Daseogak.

A writer who had only just begun to bloom after years of obscurity was now being dragged down by the scheming of rogues and profiteers. But this was a situation they could fight—with something as simple as a boycott.

How could they not help?

All the bookstores sold books at about the same price anyway. In this kind of trade, reputation was everything. Even if it meant walking a little farther, scholars chose Daseogak over the others.

“I hope Ho-pil recovers soon...”

He’d reportedly collapsed and stopped eating. Hwang Se-saeng sincerely hoped the author would regain his strength as he opened the door to Daseogak.

Inside, a dozen Daseo Society members were standing at the entrance instead of heading up to the second floor.

“Why aren’t you going up?”

Hwang Se-saeng asked a fellow member with whom he was close.

“The manager says he’s going to put up a new letter from Ho-pil.”

“A new letter from the author? D-don’t tell me—it’s an announcement about Volume 2?”

“It might be Volume 2, or it might be a farewell. No one knows yet, so everyone’s just waiting.”

“I hope with all my heart it’s news of the second volume...”

“Look, here comes the manager.”

The black-haired manager of Daseogak gave a brief bow to the assembled members and began pinning a large placard with Ho-pil’s letter to the board.

“Let’s read it together!”

“Move your head!”

It looked just like those scenes of civil service exam results being posted. The members of Daseo Society couldn’t wait for the letter to be fully pinned—they read it line by line as it went up.

[This is Ho-pil....]

[I will stop writing. Faced with this despair, unable to do anything for those who helped me, how could I possibly go on? I stopped eating. I lost the will to live.]

“Good heavens. The manager wasn’t exaggerating. Ho-pil really was devastated.”

“Wouldn’t you be, if your own work was stolen?”

“Is... is this really the end?”

But their despair quickly shifted at the next line.

[At least, that was before I heard from my readers.]

[I had resolved to stop, but the news... it was overwhelming. And so, I broke my vow today—I shamefully lifted a spoonful of porridge. That single spoonful brought me back to life. I could feel the support from my readers.]

“Ho-pil has regained his strength!”

“He said it’s thanks to us! Maybe he’s finally writing again!”

[But at the same time, despair returned.]

[After this porridge... then what? I thought that if things went well, I might afford some wheat noodles. But now even lifting this spoon scares me. Daseogak says they’ll help, but what face do I have to accept their money now?]

[The idea that all my efforts are just fattening up a pack of thugs—my chest feels tight just thinking about it. I, Ho-pil, will turn my eyes away from the uncertain future, and for now... I’ll simply rest and wait to hear more from you, my readers.]

That was where the letter ended.

“Wheat noodles?! Ho-pil can’t even afford wheat noodles?!”

“What?! Such plain and tasteless food?! He should be eating Neapolitan spaghetti at the very least!”

“Neapolitan spaghetti? Recommending a food from the Japanese devils—have you no shame? Ho-pil deserves a rich, creamy carbonara!”

“Creamy carbonara?! Blasphemy! That’s not real pasta!”

“Blasphemy? Says the guy who eats Neapolitan spaghetti? Try some cream sauce and then talk!”

“Is now really the time to fight over food?!”

Hwang Se-saeng barely managed to stop two Daseo members from getting into a fistfight over what constituted authentic pasta.

“So he’s gained a little strength... but financially, nothing’s improved?”

One Daseo member sighed as he calmly reread the letter.

“Then today I’ll buy ten copies of Storm of the Tang Clan from Daseogak.”

“Ten?! I’ll buy over twenty!”

“Is he saying he’ll write again or not?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He won’t write unless the other bookstores stop selling it!”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“This is all those bookstores’ fault! We need to show them what for.”

“Ho-pil ate! That’s all the reason we need—let’s keep pushing!”

“Let’s strike back before he stops writing again!”

After discussing the new letter from Ho-pil, the Daseo Society members dispersed.

There was hope now. Ho-pil was recovering. All that was left was to get revenge on the bookstores.

And for Daseo Society, that meant stepping up their campaign to the next level.

----------

The next phase of direct action began with a strengthened boycott.

One scholar looked around cautiously before stepping into a bookstore.

“What are you doing in here?!”

As he browsed, a Daseo Society scholar approached, his voice calm but brimming with indignation.

“Y-you! What are you doing here?!”

The man flinched, his voice trembling in panic.

“That’s what I should be asking.”

“They’re selling books here at a 20% discount lately... I was just browsing.”

“I know your situation’s been tough. But what you’re doing now is selling your conscience for a discount.”

“What?! That’s going too far!”

“How many meals and drinks have I treated you to because of your situation? And now you betray your principles for a measly discount?”

The words struck deep. The man hung his head in shame. His classmates were boycotting, and yet he had been tempted by a small discount.

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Dear customer, we’re offering 20% off on all books today!”

The shopkeeper, happy to see a rare customer, blanched as the man put down the book he was holding.

“Let’s go. I’ll buy my books at Daseogak today.”

“Wait! Sir, please!”

The scholar ignored the pleading clerk and walked out.

“I have plans today, so I can’t go with you. But here—take this.”

The Daseo Society member handed him a book from his coat.

“What’s this?”

“Storm of the Tang Clan.”

“The famous novel? I’m ashamed to say I haven’t even thought of buying it—my finances are just too dire. A-are you really giving this to me?”

“I’ve already bought dozens for outreach. Don’t worry—just take it.”

“Thank you. I’ll head straight to Daseogak.”

The Daseo scholar watched his friend head toward the store before slipping into a narrow alley with a clear view of the offending bookstore.

“I’ll keep watch until the next shift comes.”

Daseo Society.

Boycott Enforcement in Progress.

------

“Again with this bullshit?!”

Bookstore owners across Yichang began every morning with the same scream.

“Who the hell’s dumping all this trash every night?!”

Lately, piles of garbage had appeared each night in front of the bookstores—everything from wrappers to rotting food waste.

The stench and grotesque appearance were so bad that early-morning pedestrians deliberately avoided the stores.

“Morning sales are ruined again. Just ruined.”

No customer wanted to wade through filth or risk stepping in something foul-smelling. Bookstore owners had no choice but to start their days by cleaning the mess.

If it had just been one person dumping the trash, they might have caught the culprit. But the worst {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} part? It wasn’t just one.

One person would throw garbage. Then someone else. Before long, the repeated actions turned the storefront into a dump.

One owner, furious, managed to grab someone in the act. But the man just sneered and said:

—I saw trash already there, so I thought it was a dump site. Maybe you should clean it up.

When the owner dragged him to the magistrate’s office, a group of scholars showed up to protest, saying, “How can you imprison someone over a little trash?!”

With all the fuss over such a petty offense, the magistrate merely patted the offender’s shoulder and let him go with a warning.

It was enough to drive a bookstore owner mad. They said to beware of academic ties, regional ties, and blood ties—but in this case, even crying out felt useless.

And so, each morning, bookstore owners cleaned their shops from beneath a mountain of garbage.

“If it were just one bastard, I could do something about it—ARGH! What the hell?!”

While cleaning, a rotten egg came flying out of nowhere.

“Bring Ho-pil back! Respect the Merchant’s Way!”

“That bastard!”

The owner chased the young man down, but youth always outruns age. Left with nothing but the stench dripping from his brow, the bookstore owner could only sigh.

“This is bad. Really bad. I need to gather the other owners and find a solution...”

At this rate, their businesses might collapse.

With a heavy heart and an uneasy feeling growing in his chest, the bookstore owner hurried off to find the others.