I couldn't help but tilt my head in confusion.
"This wasn't the original content of the novel, was it?"
One of the top sword and sorcery hits of the 1980s, the 'Conan the Barbarian' series depicted the exhilarating saga of a barbarian warrior named 'Conan' from a mysterious land called Outland. The story, which began with him as a lowly slave rising to become the king of a civilized nation, provided vicarious satisfaction to many.
As a child, I loved the story where a muscular giant with overwhelming strength and a legendary sword slaughtered any enemy in his path. Later turned into a film, the 'Conan the Barbarian' series remained a classic, attracting many fans into the future.
"But what is this?"
Whore-queen? Venereal disease?
Doubtful, I took a closer look at the book's contents and eventually laughed at the absurdity.
It wasn't 'Conan.' It was 'Ranan.'
Not Conan but Ranan. The font was so small, and maybe because I had only thought of Conan in my head, I read it as Conan. The moment I realized this, a memory that had been dormant in my mind surfaced.
The Ranan the Barbarian series.
It was a parody novel that followed after the hit of the Conan the Barbarian series.
"This was common back then."
In an era when copyright concepts were relatively lax compared to the future, such works openly existed.
I closed the page and examined the magazine cover; it wasn't 'Gun's and Sword Magazine' but 'Gut's and Storm Magazine.'
"Why did I buy this?"
A moment of confusion struck me, but I soon understood.
Guts and Storm Magazine mostly contained vulgar adult parodies of the works published in Guns and Sword Magazine. Riding on the popularity of the major magazine's works, it aimed to scrape off whatever crumbs it could, and people, mostly without much thought, read it because of the provocative covers.
I intensely disliked Guts and Storm Magazine.
I loved the works in Guns and Sword that much, and the purely sensational nature of the content on this side didn't sit well with me.
Yet, it wasn't hard to guess why the past me had bought this magazine; the cover of this issue was incredibly provocative based on the standards of 'that time.'
A blonde warrior woman wearing bikini armor, mounted on a dragon's tail that resembled male genitalia, had stimulated the secretive desires of a sixteen-year-old boy, leading him to momentarily set aside his love for genre novels and Guns and Sword to purchase this magazine. The novel was disgusting, but the illustrations scattered throughout were killer.
Gradually, old memories returned.
The genre novel industry during this era was just as chaotic as most of the newly emerged cultural content markets. While the concept of genre novels existed even before, the business significantly expanded, and numerous publishers sprang up and disappeared during this time.
A senior figure at a publishing house I briefly met said at the signing of the dramatization contract for 'Deadman's Heaven':
"Ah, author. I feel fulfilled every time such a deal is finalized. It wasn't like this before. This industry was light-years away from mainstream culture."
Having become a genre novel writer and officially entering the industry, I met several figures from this era and learned the various behind-the-scenes details of the industry. By the time I was an adult, genre novel content was somewhat recognized through media mixes like movies, dramas, and comics, but it was not the case at that time.
This time, I genuinely searched for and read 'Guns and Sword Magazine.'
A magazine of over 200 pages made from poor-quality pulp, issued biweekly with about ten or so serialized stories. Each story spanned roughly five pages, about 20,000 characters in length, while the remaining pages were filled with Dungeons & Dragons play logs, columns written by the reporters, advertisements, and illustrations. To my younger self, it was truly the realization of a fantasy.
However, of course, it was not so anymore. As I aged and reread these stories, many contained racial undertones that were hard to accept as mere humor. I used to think that fiction merely reflected and influenced reality, but after gaining some financial freedom and rebuying these old stories for a reread, it felt as if my childhood was being violated.
And now, having reread Guns and Swords Magazine again...
"It's actually quite fun."
I smiled bitterly. Despite the nostalgia, when I reread the stories I once loved, old memories resurfaced and it was entertaining. When Conan boldly crushed his enemy's skull and Detective Lam aimed his gun while delivering his signature line, "Get your ass up, freak punk," I found myself nodding in agreement.
I wanted to describe these stories as having a raw, unfiltered taste. The settings and plots were straightforward and clean. In sword and sorcery tales, the hero typically realized his calling and tackled problems one by one—an elementary and common narrative. And in the future, the muscular, handsome blonde hero and the sexy heroine beside him were used as if they were the norm.
I loved that. The unhesitant belief that all the hero's actions were righteous thrilled me. The simplicity of falling in love with a beauty, acquiring treasure, and vanquishing evil appealed to me.
This was the era in which the stories I truly loved were published, but now, they only wounded me. After breezing through an issue of Guns and Swords Magazine and setting it down on the floor, I stood up.
"Let's think this through."
To clear my cluttered mind, I pulled my still growing body into a closet and closed the door, a habit from my childhood I maintained even when my thoughts became too overwhelming while writing fiction. Where had this habit come from?
"Right here, apparently."
Sitting with my back against a casually placed cushion, I reminisced.
It could have been worse. After my father was killed by a robber, my mother and I tried to overcome our grief. Just as people say everyone has their own hell, I didn't consider our situation uniquely unfortunate. Despite significant debt and considerable racial discrimination, it was okay. I had overcome it through fiction.
'Maybe that's what you call an experience a memory.'
Maybe that's why it was so special. In a time when I knew nothing and everything was scary, I overcame my fear of the unknown and moved forward, gaining a precious 'first' experience.
That's why I thought everyone longed for the past.
Because it was a first.
Because it was a first-time experience.
But the 'first' I revisited as an adult was quite different from what I knew.
That's why I couldn't long for the past.
The memories I chose to love denied my reality.
And as an adult, I compromised with that reality.
"Sigh."
A sigh naturally escaped.
I had come back to a point where I could make all the choices again.
Starting from a childhood marred by poverty, perhaps the novels I write as an author could even influence the trends of the industry itself if done well. At least now, I have a rough understanding of the current and future trends and changes in the industry. Even if not reaching that far, at least if I start writing novels again, I could choose how I, as an author, am remembered in this industry. Maybe that was what I had most desperately wanted right before falling asleep drunk in the basement.
I wanted to write novels that could heal my younger self.
I wanted to prove that it also had its own value.
"No, even if it's not for that."
To escape from the relentless poverty of my childhood as soon as possible, I had to write novels.
Right here, from 1980.
I decided firmly to write genre fiction.
With that decided, I first stepped outside the house.
Although I had some knowledge of the past industry from my activities as an author, it was somewhat vague since I had only heard it from others. To truly write genre fiction, I felt the need to understand the state of the genre fiction industry in the 1980s.
There were limits to the magazines at home, as novels were serialized in various places besides magazines during the 1980s. Therefore, I headed to Koreatown.
A place I had hardly visited since my mother passed away. All those memories, including the reality of this moment, brought new feelings.
I looked around and moved toward the Korean store my mother used to run. Naturally, the Korean merchants who recognized me started talking.
"Hey! Hanshin! Did you get into school okay?"
"Didn't experience anything weird?"
"Yes, thank you for your concern."
I greeted them with a smile.
Mr. Park, who ran the butcher shop, had been a close friend of my father. But looking back, there weren't many good memories. Mr. Park, who spoke poor English, had harshly dominated my mother, who struggled with running the Korean store, under the pretext of advising her. Verbal abuse was the norm, and he didn't actually provide any material help, just nagged as if to make himself look good.
"What did he think he was doing?"
But my mother and I had to get used to it.
It wasn't just Mr. Park; most Koreans at that time were like that. Koreatown wasn't just a space for people from the same region to gather; it was another community within American society. Centered around the Korean church, they shared information, supported each other's businesses, and literally lived together. Thus, being disliked here was essentially social suicide.
After my father passed away, we became absolute underdogs, forced to cater to the whims of the stronger ones.
'No wonder I haven't been to Koreatown since my mother passed away.'
Feeling the harsh reality, I arrived in front of the store.
There, my mother, who was sweeping up fallen leaves, spotted me and her eyes widened.
"Shin, why are you here?"
"I came to help you with your work."
"Go home and study!"
Although she said that, she couldn't hide her smile.
She seemed to subtly boast to the neighboring merchants, which was endearing... It felt strange since she seemed too young, but I was trying to adapt somehow.
While I forcibly took the apron my mother was wearing, I said, "I'll watch the store, so why don't you go to the nearby cafe and have a chat?"
"It's okay, really! You can't handle this job!"
"There’s hardly anyone here anyway."
"Hanshin!"
"Take your time and rest."
With a playful attitude, I sent my mother off, tied the apron around myself, and stepped into the store. 'Mr. Han’s store,' also known as 'Han's,' named after my father and our family name, sold a variety of daily necessities. From baby diapers to cereal and even iron ladders, there was nothing it didn’t offer, and when my father was alive, it also served as a delivery hub, making it the cornerstone of Koreatown.
Of course, not anymore, but my mother, who had lived her life as a homemaker, struggled quite a bit with running the store and suffered emotionally for a long time.
'I must make money from writing soon to at least ease her mental burden.'
I entered the store and headed to the cashier, which was fortified with bars as a precaution against potential robbers.
In front of it was an assortment of magazines and newspapers. I picked out each print media that serialized novels. As I was about to sit down behind the counter, a rumbling sound came from my stomach, making me look back.
'That’s strange.'
Having aged quite a bit, I always needed to keep my stomach somewhat empty to feel comfortable, but apparently, the body of a sixteen-year-old didn't work that way. I had had a hearty lunch during the school tour earlier, but I was already hungry.
After a moment of thought, I went to the fridge and looked at the various brands of drinks inside.
Then I realized.
'Not all memories are dirty.'
My favorite retro-designed Pepsi. I always preferred Pepsi over Coca-Cola. I was also a fan of the Pepsi man who would appear later. Pepsi, which greatly contributed to my sugar intake during my boyhood, and a bag of chips from the shelf—now I was perfectly ready to read the novel.
I popped open the cap with a bottle opener and gulped down the cola.
Gulp, gulp.
The refreshing taste of the drink sliding down my throat.
I muttered without realizing, "Holy mother?"
My body was still fine even after shotgunning another Pepsi and eating some chips.
Realizing another advantage of returning to my childhood, I began reading the novel with Pepsi and chips, just like I used to. Of course, I didn’t forget to quietly drop a few quarters from my pocket into the cash register.
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