Fantasy Writers 1860

The next morning, Dorian felt as if he were dying.

Putting aside the fact that Lily carried me on her shoulder like a sack, wasn't the speed at which she ran with me on her back yesterday a bit too fast?

I've made myself feel airsick.

Is that really a speed that a human could run at? Especially when a young girl is carrying an adult male.

Fortunately, it was late last night, and nightlife isn't very vibrant these days, so most people went to sleep quickly. Otherwise, if someone had seen a young girl carrying a grown man at an incredible speed through the streets and alleys in the middle of the night, it would have become an urban legend.

After half a night of fermentation and settling, Dorian felt that his body was completely broken.

Perhaps it was the heavy physical labor during the day yesterday, perhaps it was the aftereffects of the alcohol last night, or perhaps it was the bumpy ride Lily carried him around in the middle of the night—Dorian felt that all three were related.

In short, at this moment he felt as if his bones were falling apart, and every muscle in his body seemed to be disconnected from his bones, just like the ox that was made into a beast by the butcher, with its flesh and bones separated. Even the slightest movement was unbearably painful.

He struggled to sit up on the hard bed and looked down at his wrist, where he could still feel the sensation of Lily grabbing him—even through his clothes, he could feel the extraordinary strength emanating from her palm.

Of course, it's also possible that Dorian is too thin right now.

"As expected, carrying bags at the docks is still a bit of a stretch..." Dorian sighed. "And then there's the matter of the Royal Academy of Literature and the Book of Illusions..."

He searched his memory carefully for a while and finally confirmed that he had never heard of these two words before.

Is this all part of a hidden world that cannot be known to the public?

Compared to the traditional magic that I remembered, which had been eliminated by the times, the power of the illusionary book that appeared before me last night was clearly much stronger.

It's impossible to say I'm not curious at all.

However, since this information is unknown to ordinary people, there must be a reason why it is unknown to ordinary people. Is it necessarily a good thing to make contact with it rashly?

What if this is a Cthulhu universe? Wouldn't the more I know, the faster I'd die?

But if you know nothing, you might still die without knowing why someday...

Last night's experience made Dorian seriously consider matters of life and death. This world is not as harmonious as in his previous life, and death is no longer a distant thing.

The Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences, being an official institution, should be relatively safer...

However, in any case, it's definitely impossible to visit today.

On the one hand, he had no money, and on the other hand, he was feeling too unwell. Let alone going to the Loia district, even getting out of bed to go to his desk was now a difficult task.

After lying in bed all morning, Dorian finally recovered somewhat around noon and was able to get out of bed and walk around the room slowly. Mrs. Michel, noticing that Dorian hadn't come for lunch, personally brought him a meal.

Dorian thought it was probably because he had paid off his debts.

For some reason, Mrs. Michelle looked at her with a strange gaze, as if she had expected it, mixed with a hint of pity.

And he always inexplicably looks at his own butt.

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the tiny dust particles suspended in the air and casting their light onto the desk. Outside, the sky was a clear blue, and the streets were deserted, broken only by the occasional chirping of birds.

With bright windows, clean tables, clear skies, and a tranquil atmosphere, it's the perfect time for writing.

The more important reason is that if I don't write when the sun is shining, I'll have to turn on the lamp to start writing at night.

That will incur an extra charge.

Feeling that his body was gradually recovering, Dorian sat down at his desk, took advantage of the lazy sunlight, spread out the manuscript paper he had just bought, and prepared to start writing.

First, he wrote some more jokes, which was quite easy; Dorian did it almost without thinking, his pen gliding rapidly across the paper.

A man shouted in the street, "The Prime Minister is an idiot!" and was sentenced to 22 years in prison. Two years were for insulting the Prime Minister, and 20 years were for leaking state secrets.

A nobleman, a member of parliament, was about to inspect a hospital. Local officials commissioned a famous painter to create an oil painting titled "The Parliamentarian Inspecting the Hospital" as a gift. The reluctant painter accepted the job under duress.

When the painting was completed, local officials came to inspect it, and the result shocked them: the painting depicted a man and a woman in a luxurious bed, deeply entwined in passion.

"What is this? Who is this woman?!" the official asked angrily.

"The congressman's wife," the painter replied.

"Where's the guy?!"

"The congressman's secretary."

"Where is Mr. Congressman?"

"The congressman is inspecting the hospital."

[Minister, how should we respond to the public's demands?]

Doing nothing

What if they were the ones petitioning?

[Give them all support except for assistance]

What if the public still doesn't buy it?

[Then we'll execute a four-phase tactic: Phase one, we declare nothing has happened; Phase two, we say something might have happened, but we shouldn't act now; Phase three, we say perhaps we should act, but there's nothing we can do; Phase four, perhaps we could have done something back then, but now it's too late.]

Indeed, Dorian did not limit his thinking to Soviet jokes, but also chose some famous quotes from "Yes, Prime Minister" that were more suitable for Britannian babies.

Having broadened his selection, Dorian quickly wrote more than a dozen jokes, then took a new sheet of paper and began to conceive his first serious work.

He solemnly wrote the words "The Million Pounds" at the very top of the page.

At twenty-seven, I was working for a foreign trade broker in Lentinion, thoroughly familiar with the ins and outs of the stock exchange. I was a lone wolf in this world, with nothing to rely on but my intelligence and integrity; however, this ironically made me grounded, abandoning unrealistic dreams of wealth and single-mindedly pursuing my own future…

The original protagonist was from America, but Dorian changed him to be a local.

The original author, Mark Twain, was American, and the book was written when America was beginning to prosper and Europe was beginning to decline. The courage and wisdom displayed by the protagonist, as well as the various absurd behaviors of the British in the story, actually have a symbolic meaning of "a decaying old empire being at a loss when faced with the vigorous ambition of a rising power."

Britannia is currently thriving and at its peak, so it might not be appropriate to use a New World person who is generally looked down upon as the protagonist.

Dorian continued writing:

[...The Imperial Central Bank once issued two banknotes worth one million gold pounds each, intended for special purposes such as official-to-official transactions with a certain country. Somehow, only one of these banknotes was used and then cancelled; the other has been lying dormant in the bank's vault ever since...]

[...As the two brothers chatted, a strange thought suddenly occurred to them: What would be the fate of a man who was intelligent, extremely honest, and had nothing but a million-pound note, and who couldn't prove that the note was his?]