Fantasy Writers 1860

Chapter 96 You Seem to Know Me Very Well? (Part 2)

His voice echoed in the room: "They were not created from the very beginning like humans and all other living beings. They were actually vessels created by the Seven Source Goddesses when the tide of nothingness erupted."

Kirk feigned surprise: "You mean, the legends in the scriptures, the stories we've heard since childhood, are all true?"

"Yes, but not entirely." Langdon's eyes were filled with fanaticism. "Those so-called orthodox churches have altered too much of the truth of history, trying to keep us in the dark forever. Fortunately, we encountered the Order of the Immaculate Dawn, which allowed us to witness the true history."

"In that catastrophe that nearly destroyed the world, the goddesses didn't, as the orthodox traditions record, consider sealing the Void Tide outside the world too costly. The selfish gods were unwilling to pay that price, so they chose a less desirable option: sealing the Void Tide within the demi-humans, making them living seals to bear the calamity!"

"However," he changed his tone, becoming increasingly agitated, "the seal is not perfect! The tide of nothingness has merely been hidden within the bloodlines of the demi-humans!"

He clenched his fist tightly: "As long as the demi-human race exists, the power of the Void Tide will flow, accumulate, and grow stronger in their blood. One day, the seal will completely collapse, and the Void Tide will descend once more, devouring the entire world!"

"So—" Langdon's voice grew fanatical, "only by completely annihilating all demi-humans can the Void Tide be completely eradicated! This is a necessary sacrifice to save the world!"

Kirk applauded his brilliant sermon. "To be honest, although I also work for the Order, I don't really know much about the Order's grand vision. Thank you for your explanation today."

He joined the cult simply because it was profitable; he didn't harbor any excessive hatred for demi-humans, as long as he could make money.

"That's wonderful. The High Priest has made a new prophecy. The final sacrifice is about to begin."

"Praise be to the High Priest! Praise be to the Lord! His fire will purify all things in the world! We will follow him into the new Kingdom of Heaven!" Langdon began to shout.

Kirk echoed, "His fire will purify everything in the world. I will follow him into the new heaven!"

""

Langdon, already lost in his own self-admiration, didn't notice that Kirk's statement was slightly different.

1

That same afternoon, in Lentinion, Tannhäuser district.

A three-story red brick building stands beside the street, its walls covered with dark green ivy and its pitched roof covered with dark gray slate tiles. The windows on the second and third floors are long and narrow rectangles with delicate plaster moldings along the edges of the window frames, and dark wooden shutters on the outside.

This is the editorial office of Bentley Weekly.

"Hello, I am Dorian Winchester White, invited by your esteemed organization—" Dorian alighted from the carriage, walked up the steps to the door, and began to knock.

Soon, the door was pushed open from the inside. An unassuming employee first looked at the acceptance letter in Dorian's hand, and after confirming that the letter bore the signature of the editor-in-chief, Dickinse, he led Dorian inside.

They walked through narrow corridors and offices piled high with manuscripts, finally stopping in front of an elegantly furnished office.

"Editor-in-Chief! The person you invited has arrived!" the junior employee who led Dorian over called out into the office.

In that office, a figure that didn't look very tall was standing with his back to him, flipping through something in front of the bookshelf.

Upon hearing the sound, the man turned around abruptly—

Dorian's pupils contracted slightly.

The first thing that catches the eye is her brightly colored clothes.

Even at comic conventions in my previous life, this kind of outfit was considered quite shocking.

However, she was wearing a simple, pure white hat on her head, creating a striking contrast.

Then he noticed that she was a petite girl with wheat-colored skin and messy brown hair, and deep, bright eyes that sparkled with vitality.

"You must be Mr. Dorian, right? Please have a seat." The young woman warmly invited Dorian to sit down, smiling and extending her hand. "I am Charlie Johanna Dickins, currently the editor-in-chief of Bentley Weekly. I've heard so much about you, sir."

Good grief, shouldn't this be my word?

Shouldn't it be that I've long admired your name?

Dorian quickly composed himself and regained his composure: "I've long admired your name—but I didn't expect you to be so much younger than I imagined."

After all, in the history of his previous life, Dickens was already quite old at this time.

However, since this world already has magic, fantasy books, and demi-humans, it doesn't seem like such a strange thing.

In his previous life, Dorian had read about a theory of parallel worlds, which said that the origin of each person's soul is actually outside the world, like a crystal, refracting different lights and projecting them into different worlds.

The same soul crystal will refract different aspects and manifest different forms in different worlds, but its essence is the same.

According to this theory, the girl in front of him really is the great writer in Dorian's memory, an equivalent counterpart from another time and space.

Dickins smiled and poured him a cup of black tea himself: "Age doesn't matter, what matters is what you can write. To be honest, your two novels are the most Britannian novels I've read in recent years."

"The most Britannia?" Dorian accepted the teacup with a hint of trepidation.

"The language is humorous, the expression is direct, and the satire is biting," Dickins said bluntly.

"Speaking of which, there's something I've always been curious about. Didn't I submit my two short stories to the Britannian Literary Gazette? How did they end up here with you?" Dorian finally had the chance to ask this question that had been lingering in his mind for a long time.

Then, Dickinson vividly recounted to Dorian how she had managed to salvage something from a pile of discarded manuscripts that day.

Although the process may be somewhat overly detailed, Dorian believes the general plot should be fairly accurate.

It feels like there's going to be another outrageous and bizarre story in the future.

With this wonderful story breaking the ice, the two quickly began chatting happily.

Dickinson is an excellent conversationalist; she is perceptive, knowledgeable, and always gets straight to the heart of the matter with the most precise language.

Similarly, Dickinson also found it very comfortable to chat with Dorian.

Even though it was their first meeting, for some reason, Dickinson always felt that Dorian understood her very well, and she felt as if they had known each other for a long time.

Even Dickinson herself didn't realize that she had unknowingly drifted into a rather deep conversation with someone she was meeting for the first time: "There's this very popular, mysterious author, Mr. Hakimi. I've read his novel, *The Million Pound Note*, and I'm currently serializing *Dombey and Son* myself, both of which are critiques of the supremacy of money. But undeniably, I've made a lot of money from this work, and I believe that mysterious Mr. Hakimi has done the same—"

Dickins began to reveal something she had never told anyone before, something that had been weighing on her mind lately: "Dombey, the character I write about, had his soul corrupted by money—I've certainly seen people like that. But what about me? I criticize money, yet I'm making a fortune at the same time. My life now, too, requires financial support, and even here I am, to make money—"

Dickinson's tone became increasingly cautious.

"I've been wondering if I'm being hypocritical? On one hand, I criticize the evils of money, while on the other hand, I'm doing everything I can to make money—I wonder if Mr. Hakimi has the same dilemma as me—"

Coincidentally, Dorian actually knows the answer to this question.

Because he is Mr. Hakimi.

Therefore, he knew Mr. Hakimi's opinion on the matter: "No," Dorian replied decisively.

Touched by Dorian's conviction, Dickinson raised her pretty face and looked into Dorian's eyes.

Why is he so sure?

"I think this isn't hypocrisy, but rather excessive honesty," Dorian said. "I've read your work, and perhaps you yourself haven't realized it, but I can feel it in your writing. What you hate isn't money itself, but the state in which money makes people only recognize money." Dorian said calmly.

Dorian had indeed read "Dombey and Sons," a famous work by Dickens, in his previous life.

This work portrays a typical capitalist, Mr. Dombey.

He was stubborn, cold-blooded, and arrogant, disregarding all human relationships except for business interests and monetary transactions. This led to the deaths of his wife and children in a gloomy and indifferent home environment, and his second wife also left him because she could not bear the cold atmosphere at home.

He only felt lonely and regretful when the company went bankrupt.

However, Dickens ultimately gave him a happy ending.

Just as Mr. Dombey was feeling desperate and preparing to commit suicide, he was reunited with his daughter.

He rediscovered hope and interest in life under his daughter's influence, transforming from a capitalist tyrant back into a loving father.

"I once heard an old saying from the Eastern Kingdom of Shun: 'Sages also love money, but they acquire it in a moral way.'"

In Dorian's view, Miss Dickinson's worries were nothing but self-destructive.

"Why do you earn money? It's to keep your family from going hungry, and to earn yourself a quiet study to write in. This isn't about being materialistic; it's about survival."

"The fact that you still feel this guilt proves that you are not the kind of person who hates money the most, the kind of person who treats money like a god."

"Those noblemen, capitalists, and factory owners, they don't have such troubles. They can proclaim without batting an eye that it's a blessing to work to death in a factory, while saying that they have no interest in money, have never touched money, and that their happiest days were when they were children sharing stolen black bread with their parents in the slums."

Upon hearing this, Dickinson couldn't help but burst out laughing.

Can there really be such shameless people in the world?

Even the capitalists she had met were not this shameless.

"Making money and criticizing money are not contradictory. Why should you be ashamed of the wealth you earned with your own hands and talent? Those who make their fortunes through mergers and exploitation of workers don't feel hypocritical. Why should you, an upright person, feel hypocritical?"

Dickinson felt as if Dorian's words were a revelation, a wake-up call.

Yes, I didn't steal or rob. I earned my money through my own writing and thoughts, through hard work and talent. It's clean and honest. Why should I feel inferior? Why should I feel bad? Why should I fight with myself?

Making money and criticizing money are never contradictory.

"You're absolutely right. I suddenly realized that all my previous worries were unnecessary and had taken up so much of my time." Dickinson let out a long sigh.

It's such a simple and clear truth now, but I used to be so stubborn and couldn't get out of it. It's ridiculous.

At the same time, she also had some different thoughts about Dorian: "I don't know why, but I feel like you know me very well, even though this is the first time we've met—"

Of course, as Dickens's alternate counterpart from another time and space, I certainly know you!

I even know that you didn't have a happy childhood. You worked as a child laborer in a shoe polish factory and said, "No one suggested to my parents that they try to send me to school, because I was a child with special talents, quick-wittedness, enthusiasm, frailty, and easily hurt, both physically and mentally." You spent your whole life healing from a painful childhood.

Of course, Dorian couldn't say these words aloud, so he chose a rather poetic explanation: "No, I've known you for a long time."

"What?" Dickinson was slightly taken aback, a hint of surprise flashing in her amber eyes, and her dashing demeanor seemed to soften.

"I've read your works, from Boz's Notebooks to Pickwick's Biography, and now the still-running Dombey Father and Son. I've already come to know your soul through your works." Dorian gave a sincere smile.

This is no exaggeration.

Dickinson's eyes widened; she hadn't expected to hear such an answer.

It turns out he's also a fan of his own books; it turns out there really are people who can glimpse their past through their writing and touch their soul through their expressions.

Moved by this, Dickinson ended up talking with Dorian for almost three hours without realizing it.

"Mr. Dorian, it has been a pleasure talking to you—" Dickinson glanced at the clock on the wall in the room and realized that she had been talking to him for so long. "Perfect timing, there is something I want to tell you."

"Please speak."

"A small literary salon will be held the day after tomorrow evening at the mansion at 17 Foyle Street in the St. George district. There won't be many attendees, but they will all be true writers, and I would like to invite you to join us."

Dorian paused slightly, then asked, "Me?"

"Yes," Dickins nodded. "A newcomer as talented as you should be introduced to the literary world—"

While I don't particularly enjoy networking, it's hard to completely resist the temptation. And for a newcomer like you, there are definitely some benefits to networking appropriately.

Literature is not something that can be done in isolation; appropriate communication with peers can also help with creation.

As for more pragmatic factors, Dickinson declined to comment.

"By the way, each participant will need to recite their own work. You can practice beforehand. You can use the two short stories you wrote before, but if you'd like to prepare a new piece, that would be an even bigger surprise."

Dorian thought about it and agreed.

On the one hand, Dickinson's invitation was hard to refuse; on the other hand, networking was an important part of a writer's job.

17 Foyle Street, St. George's District — this address just doesn't feel right —

Dorian had never been to this place before, but he had seen a map of Lentinion at Inspector Lesder's house that morning, and the place seemed somewhat familiar.

Is this place not too far from the old dock in St. George's district?

If I remember correctly, Foyle Street in the St. George district is indeed not far from the riverbank. And there is indeed an abandoned old dock nearby, which has been abandoned due to land and building ownership issues.

Was there something wrong with this literary salon? Or was it just a coincidence?

More importantly, even though he knew all this, he couldn't tell Dickinson.

How to put it? The Phantom Book, the Order, and the Demi-human Auction are all heavyweight players, things that are inconvenient to talk about.

I had only just met her, so I told her that there might be a problem with the literary salon she had invited me to, and that we shouldn't go. When I asked why, she said it was a confidential matter and she couldn't tell me.

Who would listen to that if I said it?

Even if it's just a coincidence, if Lily and Scotland Yard act carelessly and the situation escalates, the people in the vicinity might all suffer.

The thought of this possibility completely dampened Dorian's initial excitement about making his official debut in the literary world.

"Mr. Dorian? Are you listening?" Dickinson's voice interrupted his chaotic thoughts.

"Of course, I'm listening." He snapped out of his reverie, a polite smile returning to his face. "However, Miss Dickinson, I'd like to suggest that this literary salon—"

Seeing Dorian's troubled expression, Dickinson assumed he couldn't attend but was too embarrassed to say so, so she offered, "Oh, don't worry about it. It's just an invitation. If you can't make it, don't worry too much. These salons aren't held very often, but there will be other opportunities. If you don't have time this time, you can always come next time—"

Dorian found it even harder to say it now.

It's not that I don't want to go; I'm saying that maybe you shouldn't go either.

Of course I can choose not to go, for any reason, but why should I convince the other person not to go either? I've only known Miss Dickinson for an afternoon at most, what reason do I have to convince her not to go?

I can't just confess my feelings to her now and say, "Let's go on a date the day after tomorrow, instead of going to that literary salon."

"It's alright, I'll be there on time, Miss Dickinson—it's my honor to have the opportunity to exchange ideas with all of you seniors." Dorian hesitated for a moment, but finally decided to accept the invitation.

Since he couldn't cancel the salon or move it to another location, and had no reason to persuade Dickinson not to go, he had no choice but to go first and then improvise.

Having already been aware of this beforehand, and with the added power of the Illusionary Book, he was probably the only person with special abilities at this salon.

If something unexpected happens, at least I can find a way to protect more people and get them evacuated in time.

Dickinson nodded, her flamboyant outfit gleaming under the dim office lights. "Then it's settled!"

"The hostess of this salon is Countess Castells, whose family comes from Iris and was a noble family during the Iris Kingdom era," Dickins began with a brief introduction.

"Perhaps influenced by their experience of exile after the Iris Revolution, their family members don't care much about so-called aristocratic etiquette, but they really like unconventional and talented young people. So, feel free to express yourself without being bound by formalities."

Countess?

Dorian nodded, looking quite expectant.

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