Moby Dick is the pinnacle of American literature.

It represents the literary past that inherited the epic tradition, the present that culminates in American Romanticism, and a future that remains an immortal symbol of literature. That’s why Moby Dick is called America’s Bible and considered the greatest book ever about the sea.

The greatest American literature.

I didn’t publish this great book in a “contest” just for kicks. It wasn’t to flaunt some ridiculous goal of proving my worth as a so-called literary transcendent.

In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

I wanted to use this “Moby Dick” as a benchmark to directly observe the “literary seeds” I had sown in this world, using the simplest form of statistics.

[Award]
[Moby Dick – Ed Frieden]
[Vote Percentage: 33%]

33%. That’s the number of votes “Moby Dick” garnered in this contest. Even after plagiarizing one of the greatest novels in literary history, it received barely half of the total votes.

That fact brought me quite a bit of joy.

Long Tail. Just like a graph with a long tail, countless works received a handful of votes each, thus dominating the contest’s voting. This metric clearly showed that “literature” has become more universal.

So, in other words:

No longer will a single “work from a past life” devour the entire literary circles of the empire. Sure, the name value of a ‘literary transcendent’ and the soul tied to classic works could still shake things up… but that’s outside the realm of literature anyway.

The essence of literature is singular.

Readers read.

With over half the readers choosing a work other than Moby Dick, it was as if the great divine figure of Homer had sunk. Literature doesn’t secure its absoluteness through “Homer,” but rather it’s created by writers and handed down as works.

I set up this silly contest to remind everyone of that fact.

“Moby Dick is the greatest work of literature of the new age!”
“Homer is the new name of this era!”

Of course, looking at all the folks cheering and having a blast in the plaza, it might not seem like a big deal.

After all, Homer won, and surely some will claim that this is proof that the literature of other authors simply can’t measure up to “Homer.”

Those in the Homer cult, or whatever they call themselves, will probably deify him.

Even the greatest writers to come wouldn’t be able to escape the shadow of being the “second Homer.”

But does that really matter?

In the end, what moves the reader is not the author but the work. It’s not about norms, it’s about impulses. It’s not about authority, but rather deeply personal feelings.

Just like the majority of folks who didn’t vote for Moby Dick, readers will eventually pick not the one book deemed the greatest, but that ordinary book that once touched their hearts. A great book can advance literature, but thousands of ordinary books can change a person’s life.

That right there is the meaning of this contest.

“The library is empty.”
“All the usual bookworms are gathered in the plaza.”

With a convoluted appreciation for literature, I arrived at the library.

It was high time to stop overthinking things.

I needed to shove aside the grand ideas about the future of literature and just dive into a book like a kid.

“Zion, got any book recommendations?”
“Hmm, among the entries in this contest… there were quite a few good fairy tales.”

“Sounds promising.”
“I’ll grab a few.”

.

.

.

Since the contest, I’ve been pretty bustling with activity again.

First things first, I reviewed the Foundation’s book support policies and looked into how the library could better recommend books to readers using bibliometrics and statistics.

I even roped in Albus Minideli—the guy who was protesting outside the Homer Foundation—as a consultant to tackle this.

Now, all a writer had to do was visit the library and see which books were the hottest, the checkout and return cycles, among various other standards and metrics. In simpler terms, we crafted a sort of “genre bestseller” metric based on the Foundation’s data and records.

This was no small feat, meaning it created a whole bunch of jobs.

Before everything went digital, every little piece of data had to be hand-recorded, checked, categorized, and evaluated. It’s not something that can be realistically managed with standard manpower.

Plus, thanks to my ambitions to set up libraries in every major center of the Empire, the Foundation’s staffing needs were steadily increasing.

“So, this is the new library you’re building and naming after me?”
“Yep! It’s going to be a landmark, housing twice as many books as the Imperial Central Library.”

“Nice. I could live here from now on.”
“There’ll also be a cafeteria inside where you can get a quick meal. Plus, a lounge for those who decide to pull an all-nighter at the library.”

“…Ohhhh. Zion, you’ve really put in some effort, huh?”
“Well, considering you often skip meals for reading, I thought I should make it cozy.”

In the bustling center where the Frieden mansion is located, an “Ed Frieden Library” is set to rise with my name on it.

The architect behind the new library is a talented young architect supported by the Homer Foundation. It’ll involve a ton of other artists from the Foundation too, making it one of the largest art projects in the history of the Empire.

In the future, will it be compared to the “St. Peter’s Basilica” built during the Renaissance in a past life? I don’t know.

“So how long until it’s complete?”
“With help from several other towers, it should be finished in about a year.”

“Looking forward to it.”

.

.

.

When I drifted off to sleep that night, my consciousness awakened anew, floating up into higher realms.

The Library of the Transcendent.

The door to the future, to the library of infinite possibilities, may be closed, but the library that hosts all the texts I’ve read remains intact. I was sitting there, re-reading books I’d gone through, even in my dreams.

“Oh! You’re here! Long time no see!”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Alchemist. Your invisibility potion is proving quite handy.”

“Today, a friend is supposed to visit, so this works out nicely.”
“A friend?”

“A dragon slayer. A friend who nonchalantly killed the one and only dragon.”
“Ahh.”

True to the alchemist’s words, another guest soon arrived at the library.

A man with long black hair down to his shoulders.

Upon seeing me, the man flinched before greeting me with a warm smile.

“Are you, by any chance, the author Homer?”
“Oh, yes.”

“Oh! I’m a fan!”

The overly enthusiastic face of the man felt strangely familiar.

As I racked my brain for a moment, I realized he resembled the Lazy King.

“Are you from the Kingdom of Harren? You look just like His Majesty the Eternal King.”
“Ah, I’m an ancestor of his.”

“Excuse me?”
“To be precise, I should say a prototype. The ‘dragon spawn’ who borrowed my soul and seeds to create the dragon is Haren royalty, you see.”

“Wait, when did this happen?”
“Well… I think it was over a thousand years ago…”

“Huh.”

After that casual introduction, we settled in the library for a little chit-chat.

“Your space feels incredibly peaceful, Homer; I like that it’s a library….”
“Is it different for others?”

“In my case, it’s a giant nest with a massive dragon sprawled out like a mountain. Galen’s, on the other hand, is a workshop with an endless row of alchemical ingredients and recipes…”
“Hmm.”

“I’ve been a transcendent for a while, so if you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer.”
“Do you happen to know of a tree called the ‘World Tree’?”

“You mean the World Tree? Hmm, I think I have some vague recollection from a dragon… It might be related to ‘angels.’ I guess I’ll have to ask an angel when the ‘gate’ opens to find out more.”

Alchemist and dragon slayer.

These two ended up teaching me a ton of new stuff I’d never heard of.

“Ah, Mr. Homer.”
“Yes?”

“Could I get your autograph?”
“Uh, sure?”

“Because I’m a fan.”

.

.

.

But anyway, so much time has passed.

Now the literary ecosystem is totally stable, with countless new pieces being churned out by publishers daily.

“Looks like I don’t even have to suggest new directions for literature anymore; tons of writers are honing their own works.”
“Really? Is this the ‘development of literature’ you were talking about?”

“Probably, yes. I’m beginning to think this world doesn’t really need Homer anymore.”
“Master?”

This world doesn’t require a plagiarist who lifts literature from past lives.

The literature of the future will be crafted by the writers of this world.

“Wait, Master, you’re not thinking of quitting  writing—are you?”
“Not at all.”

“Oh?”
“I’ll just let loose and  write whatever I want from now on, without worrying about literature’s impact.”

The literary ecosystem is robust enough now.

It’s resilient enough to stand its ground against invasion and won’t bend like a reed to a foreign species called “classics of previous lives.”

So, as a plagiarist, my job became simple.

“After all, hobbies are meant to be enjoyed collectively and discussed. It’s just plain fun reading someone else’s reviews and reflections on books. Wanting others to appreciate the works you love isn’t weird.”

I’ll plagiarize even more works.

Not for the sake of advancing literature, but simply to showcase them to other readers and hear what they think.

The moment has come to unveil the thousands of translated works that have been languishing in storage.