Chapter 10

EP 1 – Cause of Death

Old memories come to mind.

For a student attending an arts middle school and arts high school, winning a literary award at a hundred-day writing contest was a matter of course.

However, for a general humanities student not attending an arts middle school or arts high school, winning first place at a hundred-day writing contest was a special event.

I was a special middle school student.

I traveled around the country to various hundred-day writing contests, collecting youth literary awards as if breaking through levels.

But every time I received such 'special' treatment, I wondered what it meant to attend an arts middle school.

And no matter how I looked at it, when a kid with worse writing skills than me won the grand prize just because he attended an arts middle school or arts high school—

(I admit, I was a bit rough as a middle school student.)

—I gradually began to understand the answer to this strange question.

Students attending arts schools were not necessarily more creative or possessed overwhelming talent compared to ordinary students.

They just knew the style, format, and themes that the literary world demanded (or liked).

These were taught by current literary professionals, and the judges of literary awards were also current literary professionals.

From these few facts, the following conclusion could be drawn:

– Still, I can't not give the award to that student of Mr. Kim. He knows I'm a judge in this competition...

– Just by looking at the writing, I can tell which school the student attends. The writing has a solid foundation. The expression isn't messy. What about this one? He should be writing web novels, why did he crawl into here?

– We should give awards to students who will be active in the literary world later, not to humanities students who just dabble in hundred-day writing contests as a hobby.

Of course, no one said such things outright.

But the meaningful glances exchanged between judges and students, the slightly awkward atmosphere whenever it was revealed that I didn't attend an arts middle school, and the atmosphere of the examination room filled with students in arts middle and high school uniforms all spoke volumes.

They were already a group within the literary world.

So, I was a clear outsider, a literary aspirant from a humanities background who frequented hundred-day writing contests.

That was why I said I wanted to attend an arts high school.

"No."

That was Ms. Bang Jeong-a's response.

"Of course, I feel bad that I can't fully support your dream. But it's impossible to pay hundreds of thousands of won in tuition for just one student per semester. It wouldn't be fair to the other students."

I said I would attend on a scholarship.

"Then what about the tuition?"

I said I would work part-time to save up.

"Inseop... Don't make things so... complicated. Everyone lives like this. It's not just our orphanage; even ordinary families don't often send their children to arts middle or high schools. It's because of the money."

I still said I wanted to attend an arts high school.

"…Why are you so selfish? I didn't think you were like this. You're really disappointing. Do you think other students don't want to receive generous scholarships? Why do you want special treatment? Our orphanage may not have provided you with a wealthy environment, but we did everything we could. Wanting to attend an arts high school is too much of a desire. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Go back and reflect."

Money. Money. Money.

That damn money. Money. Money.

Is it my fault that I was born without money or parents?

Unable to contain the rising anger, I lashed out.

I cursed her in a literary manner, as a wannabe novelist.

Ms. Bang Jeong-a called students by their future aspirations during every preschool class. So, in our classroom, there were six doctors and so many entertainers that they were tripping over each other. Naturally, I was a writer from the start.

I lashed out, saying that this was wrong.

I said it was wrong to plant dreams in children.

You don't have parents or wealth, so you probably won't even go to college. So, you should prepare to enter a factory at 18—this is what you should have taught us.

That's what I said.

And in my very early childhood, the woman who had carefully taken care of me, whom I once mistook for my mother, burst into tears.

She sobbed and apologized to me.

I can't forget that expression.

And now, that scene was being replayed right in front of me.

"I'm sorry, Inseop..."

As soon as we left the elementary school, Ms. Bang Jeong-a grabbed my hand and burst into tears. She kept apologizing in a muffled voice.

"I'm sorry..."

"What for?"

"Just... everything..."

It seemed that the events at the school had completely shattered the mental state of the 25-year-old woman.

In any case, good childcare teachers suffer because of overzealous parents.

Surely, she can't think that this child has become so bitter because she failed to protect him, after seeing a fifth-grader spill hot coffee on an adult? No way.

This is all because of the parents. The fifth-grader, Moon Inseop, is not at fault.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you... Sob!"

When a child holds an adult's hand and cries, it's one thing, but when an adult holds a child's hand and cries, passersby can't help but look.

I opened my mouth to comfort Ms. Bang Jeong-a.

"Teacher, stop. Just stop."

"Sniff..."

"Right. Right."

She cried for a while longer, then blew her nose with the tissue I gave her and abruptly stopped crying.

Ms. Bang Jeong-a, 25 years old.

An age where she should be embarrassed about crying with an elementary school student.

With a face flushed with embarrassment, she asked me to keep a secret to save face.

"...Inseop. Can you keep it a secret from the other childcare teachers and friends that the teacher cried just now?"

"If you buy me manuscript paper."

"Ah! Right! I got it!"

Since we were near an elementary school, a stationery store was nearby. Ms. Bang Jeong-a ran over and bought manuscript paper, then handed it to me.

"Here! Here!"

"Thank you, teacher."

Ms. Bang Jeong-a, whose eyes were still puffy, smiled awkwardly.

"Come to think of it, I forgot to buy you manuscript paper this week. I was too busy preparing for the Christmas party."

I carefully put away the manuscript paper she gave me and said,

"From now on, you don't have to buy me manuscript paper every week. I'll write on lined paper from now on."

"Huh? No! No! Is it because of the money? It's okay! It doesn't cost much. I can keep buying it for you..."

"No. Thanks to the manuscript paper you've bought me, I've practiced enough that I can estimate the word count just by writing."

Ms. Bang Jeong-a was about to cry again.

I quickly added,

"But in exchange! Can I get manuscript paper and postage when there's a contest that only accepts manuscripts? I'll use email for the rest."

"Ah..."

She smiled brightly and patted my head.

"Of course!"

Her smile was as pure as a child's.

Indeed, 25 is too young to be considered an adult.

* * *

After experiencing a few minor troubles recently, I've come to realize something.

For a fifth-grader like Moon Inseop, this world is too harsh and scary to handle alone.

Whether it's taking the high school equivalency exam or earning money, I need to improve my environment quickly.

Living in a four-person room with two bunk beds is also difficult.

Right now, aren't my three roommates gathered in front of the TV, chatting noisily?

– Now, what will be the fate of the politicians surrounded by a horde of zombies?! If the country is going to fall on the first day of the term, why did they even get elected?! A movie that makes you want to vote after watching! It's "Zombies on the First Day of the Term"!

"Damn it, Hyung Kyung-sik! Show a little more!"

"Hyung Kyung-sik! Please! What if you cut it off here?!"

I shouted at the three roommates who were lying in front of the TV, making a fuss.

"Hey, you guys! If you want to watch the movie so badly, go to the cinema! Don't make a fuss watching a movie review channel!"

"We don't have money to buy tickets."

"Hey, glasses. Are you insulting Hyung Kyung-sik?"

"We can tolerate insults to our parents... but we won't forgive insults to Hyung Kyung-sik!"

"Huh? Something's off?"

"What?"

"Ugh..."

While the guys were playing self-roasting jokes, I covered myself with a blanket and organized my thoughts.

Let's see. That damn money problem follows me from my past life to this one.

Since a fifth-grader can't work part-time, I have to earn money through novels.

To make money through writing, the only way is to get published...

Web novels? It's the fastest way to make money through writing, but I'm a proud pure literature enthusiast, so I can't take that path of the heretical school.

It's not because of the trauma from my past life, where I dropped my pride and wrote nearly 100 episodes but didn't get a single comment...

Anyway.

There are two ways for a novel scribbled on manuscript paper to become a book on the shelves.

First, winning a literary award at a literary contest hosted by various newspapers—debuting in a grand manner through the New Year's Literary Contest.

However, major literary award submissions usually close in early December, so the time has already passed.

The only remaining method is the second one.

The second method is...