Chapter 111 – School Opening (1)

"The purpose of life, huh…"

Tolstoy's words left me deep in thought.

I had never really considered it before.

I chose my elementary, middle, and high schools simply because they were close to home.

Since people are naturally drawn to what interests them, I read books, watched comics, and spent time in front of the TV. Before I knew it, I had gone from an amateur writer to a professional author.

If I hadn't become a writer? Well, as I once told Arthur Conan Doyle, I probably would've ended up as some run-of-the-mill civil servant. Or maybe working for a small or mid-sized company.

I never wanted to be a wizard, but I never thought about marriage or romance. Daily serialization consumed my life, and my schedule was nothing like that of an average office worker.

All in all, I had led a perfectly ordinary life.

And yet, the purpose of life…

Of course, at the time, I did have a vague goal—I wanted to write a hit novel.

Fame and fortune? A high-rise apartment with a view of the Han River? An anime adaptation? Sure, I wanted those things. I had been a passionate fan, and what fan doesn't dream of becoming the object of admiration themselves?

There were nights when I worked tirelessly, canning my own stories, thinking, Someday, I hope that dream comes true.

But then…

Haven't I already achieved all of that?

It was almost laughable.

Here, I felt a strange mix of fulfillment and emptiness.

I had earned enough money to fund charity work. While I wasn't a household name that appeared on every TV screen or YouTube thumbnail, I had still become something of a national superstar.

And as for being a fan? I doubt there's anyone in the world who pursued their passion as completely as I did.

My underground storage was filled with works worth a fortune—first editions of countless literary greats, art pieces that would one day belong in a museum.

Sometimes, just stepping inside and breathing in the scent of books was enough to make me feel full.

And now, popular literature was only just beginning to blossom.

Countless stories awaited me—both those I knew and those I had yet to discover. Just the thought of them made my heart race.

"Hah… I really am Korean through and through, aren't I?"

Hardworking to the core. Despite living in a place without even the concept of the Internet, I had already spent six years here.

Thinking back to when I first arrived with nothing but the clothes on my back and had to break my body as a dockworker, it was like night and day.

And now, the purpose of my life…

As these thoughts churned in my mind, I finally reached a conclusion.

"Hah… I have no idea!"

I glanced at the calendar.

More than half of 1896 had passed. In other words, the 19th century—and my twenties—had only about three and a half years left.

Other people might think differently, but I was still just in my twenties.

Sure, in this era, people married young and were considered adults much earlier, but back in my time, getting married in your twenties would earn you questions like, Why the rush?

Plenty of people didn't marry until their thirties.

And besides… does a person's life have to be driven by some grand sense of purpose?

Newton may be famous as a physicist, but he identified more as a theologian.

He spent half his life being pushed around by others, and his true genius only blossomed after he took an enforced "creative retreat" during the Great Plague.

In other words, no one knows how life will turn out.

Is having a strong, clear goal the only thing that gives life meaning? And if you don't have one, does that mean your life is meaningless?

What if you fix your sights on a goal, only to find out it was the wrong one?

And what if the journey of searching for that goal is meaningful in itself?

Just like how I'm searching for the reason I ended up here.

So, what did Tolstoy, the one who had stirred up all these thoughts, have to say when he heard my conclusion?

"Well, is that so? That's not a bad answer, either."

"You're not upset?"

"How could I be? When I was your age… ah, never mind."

He shook his head with a wry smile.

A self-loathing old man with a touch of arrogance… What a peculiar character.

And then—

"Well then, Hanslow, may you write well."

It was time for us to part ways. As we shook hands, I spoke.

"When the time is right, I'll visit you in Russia."

"Haha! Don't force yourself to make empty promises."

Ah, was I that obvious? I scratched my head with an awkward laugh.

But that place… it's terrifying.

Considering what's coming, if I'm not careful, I might just end up hanging from a pole.

"Well, I understand. Russia isn't exactly the kind of country someone like you would want to visit right now."

"… I wish you luck."

"Hah! You dropped the flattery awfully fast."

"No, this time I mean it."

I spoke with sincerity. Tolstoy nodded, releasing my hand.

"I see… Thank you. Because of you, I've come to a realization. Or rather, perhaps I had always known, but I was too much of a coward to face it."

"Sir…"

"Say no more."

With a stern expression, Tolstoy met my gaze and spoke.

"You do what you must. I'll do what I must."

"What I must do…?"

"For now, it's what we talked about before—finding your goal, isn't it?"

The way he insisted on his opinion while making it seem like he wasn't—if that wasn't the most Tolstoy thing ever, I didn't know what was.

Then again, maybe that just meant I had left a strong enough impression on him.

Laughing heartily, Tolstoy turned away.

"Well then, I'm off! Next time, let's meet in Russia—and after that, if possible, in your homeland!"

"Yes, if possible. Take care! 

"And with that, Tolstoy left, leaving behind a storm in Britain.

In his place, as if filling the void—

"I'm back."

"What took you so long?"

George Bernard Shaw, who had missed Tolstoy by mere moments, had returned.

Seriously, he missed him on the way out, and now again on the way in.

"You were way too late! Thanks to you, we had to prepare for the general meeting without you," said Edith Nesbit, poised as if she were about to throw a punch.

Well, given everything she'd been handling for the past six months—entertaining Tolstoy, negotiating with the Fabian Society—it was no wonder she was frustrated.

"Haha, but you didn't come out of it empty-handed, did you? Bernard, do you know what this is? Tolstoy read my writing and edited it for me! Incredible, isn't it?"

On the other side, William Butler Yeats was grinning smugly, showing off.

That guy… Maybe it was because he hadn't gained much fame yet, but he was still full of youthful fire, poking his nose into all sorts of strange things.

Lately, he'd been pestering me about theosophy and the occult—honestly, it made me wonder if this was the same man who would one day win a Nobel Prize in Literature.

But, surprisingly—

"Sorry. I need to rest for a bit."

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine… Just… Hah. Sorry."

Surprisingly, George Bernard Shaw, fresh from Russia, had completely lost his usual sharpness and enthusiasm.

If it were the old him, he would have exploded in frustration at missing Tolstoy, or at the very least, let out a dramatic sigh.

But now, he seemed oddly weighed down by something.

The others began murmuring among themselves.

"Could it be travel fatigue from being on the ship for so long?"

"I'm not sure…"

Edith Nesbit and Yeats exchanged glances, but that didn't bring any solution to reviving George Bernard Shaw's spirit.

And right now, the Writers' League wasn't in a position to focus on that either.

"What? Harris is gone?"

"My God, at such a young age."

Word had arrived from the West End—though I, being new to this era, hadn't known him well, Augustus Harris (1852–1896) was apparently an even bigger name than D'Oyly Carte of the Savoy Theatre, a star manager and entrepreneur of the Drury Lane Theatre.

Many in the Writers' League had benefited from his patronage, so his funeral was not just a time for mourning but also a frenzy of networking, with people scrambling to connect with his potential successors.

"The dead are dead, but the living have to eat. Those people still need to push their work to survive."

"Aren't you interested in this at all?"

"Me? No, not really."

Arthur Conan Doyle spoke with deliberate nonchalance.

I glanced at him, half-expecting a different response, and he gripped his pipe before adding,

"Let me make one thing clear—just because that damn Jane Annie flopped, don't think for a second that I can't write plays. Plenty of people still want to put Sherlock Holmes on stage."

"Oh, really?"

I perked up with interest.

He was boasting, in his way, that he was successful enough not to need to hustle for work. And honestly, he was right.

Besides, I had thoroughly enjoyed the Sherlock Holmes films starring Downey Jr. and dear old Cumberbatch.

I couldn't help but be curious—what would a Sherlock Holmes stage play in this era look like?

"It's true. Though right now, I'm busy polishing up one last full-length novel before I resume serializing my work."

At those words, my excitement soared.

This was it—a fifth Sherlock Holmes novel that had never existed in history!

And to top it all off, the title was The Birth of the Mathematics Professor!

Yes, as you might guess from the name, it was an original story about the rise of James Moriarty himself.

How could I not be thrilled?

"But enough about me—what about you? Now that Tolstoy's returned to Russia, you've been busy running around as well, haven't you?"

"Ah, well… yeah."

I scratched my head.

Entertaining the great writer had put all my stockpiling efforts on hold.

Staying in London meant juggling both writing and social obligations, leaving me just barely able to keep up with my serializations.

So naturally, I had to start building up my reserves again.

And what else was happening?

H.G. Wells had published The Island of Doctor Moreau, Oscar Wilde's Salome had debuted on stage, and Richard D'Oyly Carte—who had managed to make a comeback thanks to us—had begun producing The Grand Duke, the latest operetta by the Gilbert & Sullivan duo who had once betrayed him.

With everyone caught up in their own affairs, no one had had the time to check in on Bernard Shaw.

But that man was as resilient as a spring. He'd bounce back soon enough… probably.

And in any case, I had my own work to get to.

"Alright, cut!"

"Wooooo!!!"

In what was once known as the East End, in the Whitechapel district—

After a year of redevelopment, the first fully integrated boarding school under the Alice & Peter Foundation had finally opened its doors.