Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World

It was quite enjoyable to share old stories.

Of course, it wasn’t quite like reading a book. As they chatted in the library, the topic soon shifted to “books.”

When book lovers gather, the conversation inevitably turns to writers and their works.

Of course, there were topics that were difficult for me to respond to.

“Homer, the author, must surely be an angel sent by the Lord!”

“Isn’t that a bit… of an exaggeration?”

“Exaggeration?! It’s not enough! Before the author Homer descended to this land, literature was only chivalric literature written with the support of nobles, wasn’t it? It was kind of funny when noble family names came up… In fact, they were all the same stories with only the names changed, printed every day on printing presses. Literature was dying every day…”

“Hmm.”

I could somewhat relate to this.

After all, I had plagiarized literature from my past life for the very same reason. To plant the seeds of new literature in this world.

“But Homer’s Don Quixote changed everything. It cut the throat of chivalric literature and opened a new era for literature. How can we not praise it?”

“……”

“Don Quixote is the Bible of literature that heralds the second era. Just as the Savior was born to spread the gospel to this land through words— as long as literature exists, Don Quixote will be loved forever. It symbolizes how our world, which merely followed the ‘Age of Philosophers and Heroes,’ has stepped forward. All classics must eventually die… Thus, paradoxically, Don Quixote will be loved forever.”

From the eyes that shone with fanaticism, and the voice of praise growing more intense,

I sensed the talent possessed by a girl named Isolette Reinhardt.

It was the talent of a critic. A sharp eye that didn’t merely see the work as a work but sought to find an interpretation within it.

She was looking at the immortality of Don Quixote— which is still called the “most beloved classic by writers” even in the era of modern literature that constantly seeks something new— with an absurdly clear eye.

The last work of the Renaissance, the first modern novel. The Bible of literature.

Don Quixote.

Don Quixote was a novel that signaled the end of “unchanging literature,” and thus, paradoxically, it could not help but be immortal forever. After all, nothing is more eternal than death.

“Truly, he is nothing less than the second savior sent by the Lord to this land! Homer is the savior of literature!”

“……”

Thus, while listening to the story of the most talented critic I knew,

I came to understand, once again, the influence I had on this world.

Such influence wasn’t due to the church declaring me a blessed figure. It wasn’t because I had advanced the knowledge of this world with the Principia, nor was it determined by objects like the imperial seal symbolizing the dragon of Harren, the golden staff representing the beastman’s shepherd, the philosopher’s ring, or the platinum card from the guild. 𝔯𝐀ΝỗＢÈṢ

Such things were merely “trinkets.”

The true influence I had lay in the dozens of books stacked on top of all those trinkets. Because the soul of literature is in the literature itself.

The knowledge of the 21st century, wealth, fame, any noble symbol, or expensive objects,

None of these can last forever.

Eternity resides only in the hearts of people.

[“The daughters of the air have no souls, but— they can create their own souls by doing good deeds.”]

[“Little Mermaid, you tried with all your heart to earn a soul, just like us. You endured cold and painful suffering. That suffering brought you to the world of air. If you live kindly for three hundred years from now— you will gain an immortal soul.”]

Therefore, literature, though the most useless discipline,

Was the most eternal discipline.

That was the true “power” literature held!

Isolette praised Homer fervently for a long time.

Then, perhaps because she had spoken so much that her throat dried up, she cleared her throat and, feeling embarrassed, shifted the topic.

“Right! Ed, since you like books too, why don’t you join?”

“Join?”

“Homerism!”

“…What cult?”

“It’s a group that follows the saint of literature, Homer!”

“Isn’t that blasphemy…? It sounds like heresy…”

I had thought I sensed a fanatic zeal, but did they actually have a religion for it?

When I asked in disbelief, Isolette instead smiled confidently and replied.

“Denouncing the sanctity of Homer is the real blasphemy! This is still confidential— but the Vatican is preparing for Homer’s beatification. Heh heh.”

“Hmm.”

Was it confidential? I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t really shared it with others.

Cardinal Garnier hadn’t exactly told me to keep it a secret either. Perhaps it was simply not yet ready to be officially announced.

I had heard that the beatification process could take anywhere from a few years to several decades.

It wasn’t very important. What was truly important was—

“Then, those ‘Homeric Sect’ people, they’re all literature enthusiasts, right?”

“Exactly. Sometimes they even write their own novels and critique each other.”

“Sounds great. Let’s go right away.”

“Now? That’s fine, but shouldn’t you eat something first? I heard you’ve been fasting for days.”

“Oh, right.”

“…I understand you love books, but as a human being, don’t forget to eat.”

Isolette gave me a half-lidded glare.

Hmm.

I should at least grab some bread before heading out.

.

.

.

The gathering of the “Homeric Sect” that Isolette led me to wasn’t some secretive cult meeting by candlelight.

The venue was a library, and the atmosphere leaned more towards a wholesome book discussion group.

The main difference from the book discussions in my previous life was that all the participants were dressed as nobles, adorned in fancy clothes. Their attire resembled formal evening wear more than casual outfits.

“Oh my, Lady Isolette! You’ve arrived! Didn’t you have plans with a friend today?”

“Well, I brought that friend here by converting him! Mr. Ed, would you like to introduce yourself to the members of the Homeric Sect?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.”

So this is how Isolette talks in social circles. Her tone changed so dramatically that it felt a bit surreal.

I nodded and introduced myself.

“I’m Ed Fríden, second son of Count Fríden. I’ve always loved books, so I decided to visit.”

Hmm, this feels a bit awkward.

Thinking back, I rarely attended book clubs in my previous life. Whether it was rereading classics like Demian or Zorba the Greek, or the presence of people who clearly hadn’t read the books but showed up just to chat, there were too many reasons I avoided them.

Oh, and especially those folks who exclusively praised Japanese literature while dismissing Korean literature as trash—those people were another reason.

Living in Korea, yet skipping Korean literature and only reading Japanese literature, only to loudly declare, “All Korean literature is garbage!” Honestly, as a person, not just as a reader, that was a bit…

Anyway, due to these reasons, I wasn’t familiar with book clubs. My expression right now must look incredibly awkward.

Teaching students at the academy feels much easier. It’s similar to mentoring rookies at a publishing house, which I used to do.

“Nice to meet you all. I heard this group also shares original novels—”

“Herodotus, the author…?”

“Excuse me?”

Suddenly, I heard a familiar name from somewhere.

I turned toward the voice, and there stood a man, wide-eyed, staring at me with his mouth agape. His face looked somewhat familiar.

Where have I seen him before?

“Have we met somewhere before?”

“Y-Yes! I was at Eric’s wedding, and—”

“Oh, right. At my brother’s wedding….”Nôv(el)B\\jnn

“And at the Holmes X Lupin contest…!”

“Ah.”

As the man and I spoke, the other members of the Homeric Sect stared at us blankly.

They seemed to be struggling to understand the conversation.

Awkwardly, I smiled and reintroduced myself. I hadn’t planned to reveal it, but there was no need to hide it either.

“I write mystery and commercial novels under the pen name ‘Herodotus’ for Half and Half.”

After my introduction, there was a brief, heavy silence.

Then—

“Whaaaaaat─!!!”

“Oh my god─!!!”

One after another, as they processed what I said, screams erupted from different corners of the room.

“Are you saying that Herodotus is here?!”

“Reyn! Go home and bring all the magazines I’ve been keeping!”

The library quickly descended into chaos.

Meanwhile, Isolette, who was a bit late to grasp the situation, asked in a trembling voice.

“Ed… You’re Herodotus?”

“Yeah.”

…Maybe I should’ve just said I looked like him.