Chapter 119: Publication (1)

Printing.

I typed out my novel in a word processor and pressed the print button.

It took only a few seconds for my words to be printed onto A4 sheets.

Punching holes in the stack and loosely binding them together completed the process of making a book.

In this world, though, it all started with finding a lead type.

Thousands of neatly arranged printing type blocks sat in a corner of the print shop.

As I meticulously searched for each individual character needed for the novel in the typesetting process, I couldn’t help but think about how advanced modern printing technology was.

Every time I did this, I felt like my eyes were going to pop out.

If I didn’t look closely, all the characters started to look the same.

“Hwarin, I’ve finished setting up one page’s worth of type. Can you handle the typesetting?”

“…Okay.”

Why did she sound so drained?

With slightly slumped shoulders, Hwarin began arranging the type blocks I had gathered, forming the plate for printing.

Is she exhausted?

She was already handling book organization, bookkeeping, cleaning, and every other odd job.

Even though the elderly employees and I helped, the workload was still heavy.

If she was that tired, she should at least get some sleep.

But for some reason, she had been staying up until I finished writing every night.

It wasn’t like she had to proofread and check for typos every day.

The Rising Tempest of Tang Clan was set to go on sale tomorrow, but I should send Hwarin to bed once we were done here.

“Hwarin, we’re short on type. Do we have any spares?”

“There’s a box over there with more.”

“Got it.”

I pulled out a bundle of commonly used types from the corner. At least I didn’t have to cast the type myself.

Casting was the process of melting lead alloys and forming type with a mold.

Printing traditionally started with casting, but since it involved creating the type itself, it required delicate skill.

I never thought anything could be harder than replacing toner in a printer.

Thankfully, one of the retired staff members, who still did occasional work, used his personal type-casting equipment to produce any characters we were missing, only charging for the materials.

Hwarin’s grandfather must have been an incredibly well-respected man.

As I retrieved the type, I was once again reminded of how crucial connections were in this world.

Just revealing that Hwarin was the granddaughter of the head of the Baek Family was enough to make most people in Yichang fall over themselves to help.

Of course, money problems were a different story.

“Hwarin, I’m done with typesetting, so I’ll help you now.”

Is it because she was tired?

Today, her hands seemed slower than usual.

I moved next to her and began assisting with the typesetting.

“…Okay.”

Looking at her up close, she didn’t seem exhausted—she looked troubled.

Is something bothering her?

She seemed fine earlier today, laughing about the Seven-Step Shits incident.

“Hwarin, is something wrong with me?”

I sniffed my sleeve dramatically in front of her.

“No, why?”

“Haha, I thought maybe I smelled bad after what happened earlier.”

I tried bringing up the funniest moment from today, hoping to lighten her gloomy expression.

“You don’t smell.”

Her face darkened even more as she answered listlessly.

Why?

Isn’t she the one who enjoyed it the most?

That young lady’s face had turned bright red while I was cleaning up the aftermath.

Of course, I had casually scolded Hwarin afterward, telling her to be mindful of the other customers next time.

Maybe that was what was bothering her.

“Well, that’s good! But seriously, wasn’t that absolutely hilarious?”

I laughed exaggeratedly, making it clear that I wasn’t dwelling on it.

Let’s just talk about fun things today and shake off the bad mood, okay?

But instead of laughing along, Hwarin quietly looked up at me and carefully spoke, “…Do a lot of customers like that come here?”

Does she mean women who strike up conversations with an odd smile?

“Of course not. To these people, I’m just some black-haired barbarian. I’m lucky if they don’t mock me behind my back. Just the other day, a group of young ladies came in, pointed at me, and giggled among themselves. If they weren’t customers, I swear—”

I made a genuinely frustrated face at her.

I didn’t even have to hear what they were saying to know.

It was all too familiar.

— Hey, there goes your boyfriend.

— Huh? Where? Bitch, that’s YOUR boyfriend.

At least whisper if you’re going to say crap like that.

Just because the guy you’re mocking isn’t your type doesn’t mean he isn’t a human being with feelings.

Sure, I looked better in this world than I did in my old one, but that was only when I was dressed up as Maedamja, a foreign performer.

Here, in the Central Plains, I was still a black-haired barbarian, nothing but subject to discrimination and contempt.

“…That’s not the reason I was talking about.”

Hwarin sounded unconvinced as she stared at me.

“What do you mean, not the reason? I’m dressed properly, so the bias isn’t as bad as it could be. Try living here as a barbarian in rags. The whole damn world feels like your enemy.”

Memories of the scorn and discrimination I had endured flashed through my mind like a montage.

Days when I couldn’t even get a single meal, and people would knock over my bowl just because I was a barbarian.

Yet now, I was a bookstore owner.

Life really was unpredictable.

“…If that’s what you think, then okay.”

“What do you mean, if? That’s just how it is.”

“Heh, fine, fine.”

Hwarin chuckled softly as she looked at my sulking face.

Is my self-deprecation helping her mood?

Her expression still held some shadows, but at least she seemed a little more at ease.

Good.

With this atmosphere, we’d be able to finish the last bit of work without a hitch.

With a slightly lighter mood, we got back to preparing for tomorrow’s big release.

Printing and binding.

We busily inked the printing plates, pressed the pages, and bound them together to complete the books.

It’s finally done.

The Rising Tempest of Tang Clan.

Seeing the title boldly displayed on the cover made something well up inside me.

The journey to get here had been long and filled with countless challenges.

If I had to transcribe it by hand, it would’ve taken an eternity.

Behind the book in my hands, stacks of The Rising Tempest of Tang Clan filled the room—hundreds of copies.

Erotic Murim—or, as it would be called here, saucy Murim.

I chuckled, looking at the books.

Now, all that was left was one final task before bringing them downstairs.

From tomorrow, sales would begin.

“Hwarin, good job. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“If you’re going to do it, you should finish it properly with me. What’s with this half-baked effort?”

“You’re tired. Go get some rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m fine too.”

I exaggeratedly mimicked her tone and gestures.

“What the heck was that? Pfft.”

Hwarin couldn’t hold back a laugh.

This was the brightest she had looked since we stepped into the print shop.

“The binding is done. We just need to stamp them and arrange them on the first floor. Go rest first.”

“…Alright, then.”

She nodded, seeming to accept my insistence.

As she did, the uneven lighting made a dark smudge on her face more noticeable.

“Hwarin, you’ve got ink on your—ack!”

I reached for a towel to wipe her face, but she suddenly grabbed my wrist in a firm grip.

“Oh! Sorry.”

As if realizing she had reacted instinctively, she quickly released my wrist when she saw me wince in pain.

“No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking.”

Her face, of all places, was her biggest insecurity.

If someone mocked it, she could make them suffer bowel-related consequences within seven steps, yet here I was, reaching for it without a second thought.

I had been careless.

I rubbed my wrist slightly and lowered my head in apology.

Hwarin, looking guilty, stared at my wrist for a moment before finally meeting my eyes.

“Yunho.”

Her gaze was serious, as if she had made an important decision.

“…Yeah?”

“Please.”

With a hint of embarrassment, she closed her eyes and tilted her chin toward me.

“…Huh? Oh, uh—yeah, I’ll clean it off.”

Carefully, I held her chin with one hand and brought the towel to her face with the other.

The print shop was silent.

The work was finished, and only the two of us remained.

As soon as the towel touched her skin, Hwarin flinched slightly.

Her face gradually turned a soft shade of pink as she let me clean her up.

This atmosphere… feels weird.

A bit awkward.

“…Yunho.”

“Huh? W-what?”

Her sudden call startled me.

“The medicine you gave me… it really helped. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s good,” I answered absentmindedly as I continued wiping the ink from her cheek.

“Because of you, I was able to keep this bookstore running.”

“That’s good.”

“Because of you, the bookstore is doing well.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t know if that book will succeed, but…”

“Haha. I’ll make sure we don’t end up with leftover stock.”

“…Thank you.”

Hwarin softly traced the wrist she had grabbed earlier, her fingers lingering for a moment.

“This much is normal between friends.”

“…Yeah. Because we’re friends…”

Her voice suddenly sounded deflated.

“Hwarin?”

“…It’s nothing. I must be acting weird today. I’ll head up now. Finish up.”

Without looking back, she left the print shop.

“…What was that about?”

Tang Hwarin hurried up to the attic and headed straight for the washroom.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

What reflected in the mirror was a hideous face beneath her nose.

Her mottled, uneven skin stopped cleanly at her jawline, leaving her neck unblemished, but lifting her shirt would reveal that her upper body was much the same.

“Because we’re friends.”

Looking at the mirror with a bitter expression, she began to think about the first friend she had ever made.

Something she had truly, desperately wanted.

A stranger who approached her, not because of her background, but because he saw her.

Someone who extended a gentle hand when she was struggling, when she was on the verge of collapsing.

A friend who, even when she had lost everything and being by her side only brought misfortune, still looked at her with frustration and asked why she hadn’t asked for help.

Whenever she watched the man tirelessly writing late into the night, exhaustion weighing on him, warmth filled her chest.

Her mind was full of thoughts of him.

“This is the life I wished for.”

A bird that had escaped its cage had finally found a nest of its own.

When she was with him, she felt normal.

A life shared with a friend was far more fulfilling than the wealth of the Sung family.

This precious, hard-earned everyday life.

And yet, recently, she had begun to feel a growing sense of frustration.

“Don’t be mistaken because of this face.”

Tang Hwarin warned herself as she looked in the mirror.

Yunho carried wounds from his past—the sorrow of losing his closest friend.

It was guilt over his Poison Human friend that allowed them to form this kind of bond.

Only Yunho could treat her like an ordinary person due to his friend from the past.

Out of remorse for what he could not do for his lost friend, he was being kind to her instead.

She couldn’t misunderstand his kindness.

Don’t misunderstand, Tang Hwarin.

“This—this is enough.”

She warned herself again.

The suffocating feeling in her chest.

The emotions she couldn’t yet put into words.

If she let them slip in front of him, it could shatter everything they had.

She ignored the budding feeling taking root inside her and began to wash herself.

No matter how much she scrubbed, the ink stains faded, but the blemishes on her skin remained.

All that’s left is the final touches.

Only one thing remained before everything was complete.

I was lost in deep thought, preparing to place the final stroke on my dream of becoming a dragon.

The dilemma?

A pen name. What should I choose?

A nickname is important.

Choose the wrong one, and you might end up like those poor souls at online gaming meetups—grizzled old men calling each other, “Hey, Tinkerbell!” or, “So, you’re ‘Fairy of Love’?”

Or worse, imagine an editor at a web novel platform or a publishing agency greeting you with “Hello, Mr. ‘Cumsalot’! Haha. Oh, you changed it? Nice to meet you, ‘The Bigger the Boobs, the Better’!”

A pen name is another version of your name.

You can’t just pick one thoughtlessly.

It requires careful consideration.

“Even if I use a pseudonym, my Fame will still grow.”

That much had already been proven.

As the black-haired Maedamja, I had managed to suppress the Murderous Heart of the Heavenly Slaughter Star and alleviated the pain of an incomplete Poison Human.

The real issue was what name to use.

I shouldn’t use Kang Mo anymore.

It could get me tangled up with Black Tiger Fortress in one way or another.

Should I just use my real name?

For a moment, I thought of a woman far away in Liaodong Province, who had bid me farewell with tearful eyes.

“Haa…”

I let out a deep sigh.

If I became famous, I’d have to face her again someday.

But there was no need to rush.

Maybe I should borrow the name of a great Murim author from my old world.

So many writers had laid the foundation and revitalized modern Murim.

For instance, Wolongsheng was a pioneer of traditional Murim, while Wolongkang was a master of… well, erotic Murim.

Should I call myself Wolong Ho then?

No, something felt off.

How about Jiwoo, meaning “friend of paper”?

That sounded like a name that would bring endless misfortune.

Not for me.

No matter how much I pondered, I couldn’t reach a decision.

“What a luxurious problem to have.”

I laughed at myself.

It felt like just yesterday that I was clutching my empty stomach, wondering if I’d even have food the next day.

This place had been merciless to barbarians like me—just as I had told Hwarin.

Even if Kang Yunho became a famous writer, there would always be those who sneered and dismissed me as just another barbarian.

“There’s actually a perfect name.”

Smiling, I pulled out two printing blocks and made a seal.

Then, I stamped my pen name onto the book cover.

The two characters I had chosen—

Another name for myself.

The Ho (胡) in barbarian.

The Phil (筆) in brush.

“Ho Phil.”

A black-haired barbarian.

A stranger who had transmigrated into a body in this world.

No matter what I said, no matter what I wrote, that fact would never change.

Then I might as well embrace it.

Yes.

From now on, I am…