Chapter 125: Chapter 125

There were a few heinous crimes in this world that could shock the heavens, the earth, and even a passing cat, and one of them is .

It wasn’t the malicious notification sound that woke one from sleep. It was the ‘curiosity trigger’ of wanting to know what the dawn text is about that is truly heinous.

But Gu Hak-jun, instead of being angry at this heinous act, rather enjoyed it. This was not only because he was a man of virtue, but because Gu Hak-jun himself also slightly enjoyed this dawn messaging.

Gu Hak-jun enjoyed it too.

EP 8 – Dark Adaptation

Recently, he has been misunderstood as Moon In’s stalker, but Gu Hak-jun’s main occupation is actually a university professor.

He is a person who takes teaching others as his profession.

Park Chang-woon then hung up and went back to sleep.

The next day, he went to the airport instead of school as soon as he woke up.

Moon In had to face Park Chang-woon’s surprise attack before even having breakfast at his hotel.

“Got you, you rascal.”

The moment he encountered the text-bombing terrorist, Park Chang-woon smacked him on the top of his head.

Moon In recoiled, hiding his head under the blanket like a startled turtle.

Seeing this, Park Chang-woon chuckled and asked,

“So, what’s going on exactly?”

Moon In’s worries were extremely complicated.

Not because he was a time traveler, but because he was a novelist with a deeply twisted mind.

‘A novelist who uses pain as the driving force of creation.’

A monster created by the world, and a typical example of an artist with a shattered personality.

And since novelists usually have terrible temperaments, this type is surprisingly common.

However, novelists who use pain as their creative fuel often have unhappy endings, and Moon In was no exception.

But Moon In was given one more chance, no, a miracle.

And that miracle literally changed everything.

To resolve the deepest injustices from the bottom, the novelist who wrote stories of deprivation and suffering gained wealth and fame.

Once he had obtained the things he had long desired, he realized too late that the most precious treasures had all been left behind in the past.

All that remained was emptiness.

Tormented by that emptiness, he finally stood up.

And he picked up his pen.

Then where should his literature head?

In the first place, what is literature?

Thus, this unexplainable anguish surfaced as a text bombing saying, “What is literature?”

So even when he met and talked with Park Chang-woon, he couldn’t reveal the truth, and could only engage in lofty, abstract discussions.

But Park Chang-woon, a man who teaches as a hobby.

His main job is literature.

The eyes of the old master, who had studied literature all his life, sharply pierced through the young boy’s heart.

“Are you saying it seems like there is no progress in your literature?”

Moon In, too, had reached a level where he could look into hearts as a novelist. So he realized that the words ‘that’s not it’ he spoke were born from a self-protective instinct.

“No, I think that’s right. No, it is right.”

There is no progress in his literature.

Literature that takes pain as its driving force, but there is no more pain.

Although he stood up again thanks to the warm encouragement received on the beach of an island, he couldn’t figure out where to go.

Finally, the awakened soul asked,

“Where should my literature head?”

Then the master replied,

“How should I know that?”

The boy, with the blanket draped over his shoulders, glared at Park Chang-woon.

Seeing a madman who is serious about literature glare with emotion, it felt a bit chilling.

So Park Chang-woon didn’t drag it out and revealed his core thoughts.

“To me, literature is ‘war.’”

“What kind of war? A war against the new military regime, a war against North Korea, a war against Japan, a war against labor conditions, a war against poverty, a war against the IMF, a war against the world. In that context, literature was not art but a weapon. The pen is mightier than the sword. Therefore, those who hold the pen must step up and fight. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“To you kids, it’s just stories of old geezers in textbooks, but that’s how it was in our time. Ah. You kids can’t even say things now, right? ‘Political topics are blocked.'”

Park Chang-woon chuckled, mentioning the phrase commonly seen on internet communities as a joke.

A novelist from the older generation who mastered the latest trends, he immediately brought up a phrase synonymous with old people.

“In my days… literature had power. Not the cultural power but political power. The opposition political agenda was usually led by student activists demonstrating in universities, and they were all college students, right? They were the new intellectuals. And among those who read books, writers were highly regarded.”

“And in political struggles, novels and poetry were very effective weapons. The soft power of culture was stronger than politicians blabbering ‘do this, do that.’ So, literary figures didn’t have explicit power, but they held power by being close to those in power.”

Clap, Park Chang-woon clapped his hands.

And like a teacher, he posed a quiz.

“Alright, here’s a question. The democratization movement that the literary world shouted for was successful. But what now?”

“You don’t know, do you? We didn’t know either. That’s why the Korean literary world collapsed.”

The old soldier who had been on the front line of the struggle recalled the moment right after the war ended.

“Until yesterday, we were all comrades, but once it succeeded, paths diverged. Some searched for a new enemy, some said let’s focus on art now and withdrew from politics, some said Roh Tae-woo is okay and defected… yes, I’m talking about that bastard Seo Woon-pil.”

“Meanwhile, politicians no longer needed literature, so they cut ties, and we, trying to act like before, were sneered at… that’s how it ended.”

There was a brief silence.

The silence was broken by a question from the junior.

“What was your answer, teacher?”

Then Park Chang-woon spoke with self-deprecation.

“Me? I was just… a bat. I wandered because I didn’t know the answer. So, I tried everything. I looked for new enemies, tried to focus purely on art, even wrote poetry despite being a novelist, and talked a bit with the people I’d fought my whole life like Woon-pil that bastard…”

“I even dipped my toes into politics for a bit, which was crazy, and I don’t know why I did that. Anyway, after wandering aimlessly, I ended up following Hak-jun around and learning a lot. There’s nothing much to it!”

He didn’t mention that he had aged without finding any answers, worrying only about the future of the literary world, until Moon In appeared.

Yongnam people have a genetic syndrome where their whole body cringes when they talk about sentimental topics.

So, Park Chang-woon moved on to the next story.

“Why am I telling you this? It’s because I can’t teach you literature. That’s right, I don’t think it’s possible to teach someone how to write.”

Moon In, who had been quietly listening for a long time, had to ask this question.

“What do you mean you can’t teach?”

“It’s a bit funny for a school teacher to say this, but passing on literature to someone? I see this as an impossible task.”

If Chairman Baek Yi-hyun heard this, he would scold him for not resigning immediately.

But Park Chang-woon had his reasons.

“I realized this while teaching literature in the past… First of all, people who do literature have no manners. Agreed? I, agree.”

“See? No manners. Talking back to an elder…”

Park Chang-woon, having quickly proven his theory, continued speaking.

“So I thought about why this is. At first, I figured today’s kids must be rude, but then I realized I was rude too. Conclusion, people who do literature have no manners! Why? Because they want to talk about themselves so much that they write about it!”

Park Chang-woon’s argument was as follows:

“So, you need a somewhat bloated ego to do literature. Literature is essentially about expressing the inner world through language and print. But that inner world is the human ego, and since everyone is different, how can you pass your ego onto someone else?”

This was directly opposed to the philosophy of Gu Hak-jun that Moon In knew.

Interestingly, Park Chang-woon mentioned this right away.

“Of course, Hak-jun thinks differently. You can ask Professor Gu about that and learn from him.”

Moon In already knew this. So, he just nodded quietly.

Soon, Park Chang-woon smiled contentedly and wrapped up his story.

“So, no one can tell you where your literature should go. All I can do is show you what my literature was, giving you one more example to reference. That’s all. If you’re a novelist, you have to manage your literature yourself. Since it’s the literature you chose, you have to endure it with grit and determination, don’t you think?”

“…So you’re saying there’s no particularly helpful advice, right?”

Park Chang-woon nodded cheerfully.