Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World

Chapter: 106

The cosmic being was more human than one could imagine.
In fact, it was only natural. She was created by the Earth I remembered from my past life.

“Communication, huh…”

Despite shaking the very laws and fate of a universe, what she sought through it all turned out to be human values like communication, philosophy, and the humanities—a realization that felt eerily terrifying.
From the World Tree that had nurtured an entire species of ‘elves’ for millions of years, to the transcendent library that permitted glimpses into a person’s past and future, and the magic that manipulated phenomena at will—everything emerged as a mere consideration made by humanity, teetering on the brink of destruction, for the sake of future generations.

Yet, there was but one desire beneath all that consideration.

Continuation.
One universe to the next, one soul to a new soul, one history into another… All I wished for was for it to carry on in the memories of people. At least, it seemed that was the wish of the humanity that created that ‘transcendence.’

Understanding that sentiment was enough to make my heart squeeze.
For I was the same.

I wished for literature to continue. I wished for literature to be eternal. I didn’t desire some grand influence, just that people read, remembered, and discussed literature.
I hoped people acknowledged that such literature existed and that the traces of it continued to this day.
The courage of Don Quixote, the love of the Little Prince, Scrooge’s Christmas, Werther’s sorrow…
All of these shaped the world as we know it, moving the hearts of people, once upon a time when a single book could change a person’s destiny.
And still, we live in such a time.
I wished that people understood those innocent jokes, or at least tried to.

“Sigh…”

I had plagiarized countless novels in this world because I loved so many works.
In this world, where only ‘chivalric literature’ existed, I killed off the chivalric genre with Don Quixote.
I shattered the conventions of existing literature with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, increased accessibility to literature with the Conan saga, and breached taboos with The Sorrows of Young Werther.
I spread the genre conventions of ‘detective novels’ and ‘romance novels’, and broadened the literary worldview with sci-fi and adventure.

And yet, all of this was for the development of literature.
But none of it was mine.
I had stolen from others and appropriated their work for my own purposes.

“……”

In this world, there was no Cervantes, no Saint-Exupéry, no Charles Dickens, and no Conan Doyle.
Yet, there was a will to transmit the past to future generations.
Just for that, there were madmen who wove together an entire universe.

“…Literature turns ignorance into a scandal.”

Literature turns ignorance into a scandal.
Even in an era when knights faded into history, Don Quixote made them remembered. Even when monarchy was treated as an outdated relic, one could read Les Misérables and clearly recall France during the reign. Adults who were once children could read the Little Prince and recall their innocence, and countless youngsters contemplating suicide could find solace in knowing their doubts were shared by Werther.

Thus, literature, despite not having any direct utility, is the most useful discipline.
Because literature speaks of people.
It tells us about what we’ve forgotten, what we don’t want to forget, what we have overlooked, what we could never recall, and what has become too ancient to know—literature tells us all of this.

“Shion.”
“Yes, my lord.”

Since the literature I plagiarized belonged to Earth, the people reading it ought to know about ‘Earth’.
Only then could they fully understand the ‘literature’ they read. Every background context of how these stories were written, the circumstances under which the authors wrote them—all of it.
That is the role of literature.
Literature encourages people to… make an effort to understand one another.

“I should write an autobiography.”
“…Yes. I will prepare pen and paper.”

I resolved to write about Earth.
And about myself.

“No. Hmm, I need to meet people.”
“Pardon?”

…

“Do you know how it felt to meet the author for the first time? When the author brought the manuscript of Don Quixote to the publisher… it felt like winning the lottery! Anyone who loves literature would probably feel the same. If it’s a gift so enormous it’s beyond imagination… my heart would be racing uncontrollably! And when he brought the second part of Don Quixote… it felt like receiving the Christmas present I’d been waiting for!”

…

“Hehe, do you recall what it felt like the first time you met the author? Hmm, it was interesting! In truth, if a typical person knew that the prince standing before them was a fake, they would put on a show of ignorance, right? But the author explained his assumptions with such consistency; I thought he was quite peculiar. It was fun, too. Hehe. After that… well, I owe him a debt I could never repay… Ah, it’s a bit embarrassing saying that. The author has quite the knack for it, doesn’t he?”

…

“About the first impression? Well, I can’t recall well since I was too young, but… it was enjoyable, I think. You wrote fairy tales for me, taught me how to write in cursive… Every moment spent together was just… isn’t there joy in simply being together? The time I spent with you felt very much like that. Still, having to explain it is a bit… Hehe. It can’t be helped. Our cousin simply lacks perception.”

…

“I felt grateful. When Gyeongja spoke to me in a calm voice… her words were so transparent that I truly felt embarrassed. On the carriage back to the Vatican, I scolded myself a lot. ‘Garnier, do you even deserve to be called a cardinal? Are you truly serving the words of the Lord and not just for your own satisfaction?’ I think I reproached myself quite a bit. Does that sound a bit excessive?”

…

I heard many, truly many stories.
Mr. Dooling Kindersley, the former prince Isé Princess, my cousin and childhood friend Isolt, Beastman Gray, Cardinal Garnier, the lazy king Clement Le Mans, Brother Eric, illustrator Lucia Barton, stuttering wannabe writer Rolls Camel, Ryan of Half and Half, Lionel Balzac who dealt with fairy pranks, Alchemist Gellan Lanian, chattering head mage Millie Cleang, duelist Hans and Johan, the accidental meeting with Duke Andy Carpenter, the clueless witch Mary Jane, the White and Black Magic Tower Lords, the director priest and weepy caretaker of the orphanage, Lucky King Abraham, priest Paul, the dyslexic author White—
Countless people who knew me.

When I heard all their stories, an entire month had already passed. So many people I had met, and met again.
I mixed their stories with my scant memories to craft a piece of writing.
It was a tale about a literary figure who reincarnated in another world.

[This world is trash.]
[I declare this damn medieval fantasy world is a trashy world!]

The literary figure was somewhat lacking as a human.
A half-hearted individual who felt no joy or fun in anything except literature, wasting time like a layabout with crossword puzzles all day long.
No matter how I thought about it, he was not a proper human.
Yet, he possessed an extraordinary love for literature and resolved to write with the aim of spreading literary works from his past life into this world.
He had stolen past literature and spread it in this world.

[There are many books to read.]
[I’ve read many books as well.]
[From now on, I have to read all those chivalric texts so much that I can recite them without needing to look at them.]
[Only then can Don Quixote burn those books.]

Fortunately, this endeavor turned out quite successful.
The novels produced by the man became immensely popular, and the man who plagiarized Don Quixote was revered by people under the grand pen name ‘Homerus’.
If he had been an ordinary person, he might have been tempted to indulge in luxury due to such success.
However, the man was a half-hearted human who felt no interest in anything but ‘literature’.

Since then, the man continuously used the knowledge from his past life solely for the advancement of literature. He stole works, laws, philosophies, and proverbs. Thus, he implanted literature from his past life into this world.
In that process, he met various individuals.
A young publisher wanting to abandon the inherited publishing house and move to the countryside, an emperor born with a woman’s soul, a stuttering aspiring writer who despised people, an introverted illustrator burdened by attention…
Each of them found salvation through literature in their own ways.
Literature continuously proved its value, and the man was exceedingly satisfied. That salvation was the one faith and miracle he had believed in since his past life.
And so, the story gradually advanced.

[“I think I should write an autobiography.”]

Now it reached the present.
The man—I assembled my manuscript, placing down the pen.
Beside me stood my ever-loyal attendant, just as always.

“What is the title of your new work?”
“Hmm, well…”
After a moment’s thought,
I chuckled and said.

“Surviving as a Plagiarist in Another World.”

It was a title a bit reminiscent of light novels.

### Author’s Note (Afterword)
Of course, this is a memoir.
– Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose
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