Chapter 40: A Bestselling Book and a Destitute Widow

“Young Master Marlon, you don’t seem… very happy?”

It was noon, three days later. Adela had just finished gathering up the thick pile of newspapers scattered across the floor—fresh ink still clung to their pages, carrying the sharp scent of the presses. She tilted her head, purple eyes brimming with curiosity, and voiced her question with genuine puzzlement.

How strange… Weren’t the papers these past few days filled with nothing but Marlon’s name, singing praises of his dazzling success? Hadn’t they already crowned him as the newest rising star—the bestselling author whose works had set the city alight?

She remembered clearly: during the morning of his first signing event, Marlon had signed sixty-six sets of deluxe hardcover collections, two thousand seven hundred and thirty-six sets of paperback editions, and more than five thousand single copies.

That very same day and the next, bookstores all across White Sand City had sold another two thousand sets of collections, alongside over sixty thousand individual books. The numbers were staggering.

And to think—the price of a single deluxe hardcover set was an astonishing ninety-nine Lants! Enough that an ordinary citizen would need to scrimp and save for nearly two months without food or drink to afford one. Even the cheaper paperback collection cost nine Lants, while a single book went for just under one.

Yet this wasn’t even the full tally. Not included were the eight thousand four hundred and thirty-seven pre-orders of The Little Prince and the ten thousand six hundred and twenty pre-orders of The Count of Monte Cristo.

Of course, the slave uprising in White Sand City had thrown everything into chaos, derailing Ivna—the fiery-haired queen of Emerald Crest Publishing—from her carefully laid-out schedule for the “Marlon the Wayward Traveler” series.

By her original plan, The Little Prince and The Count of Monte Cristo should have been released the very week of the uprising, with the rest of the fairy tales to follow gradually. Yet fate had a peculiar way of compensating. What was lost in order was regained in timing: after nearly a month of heightened tension and anticipation, readers’ yearning for Marlon’s stories had reached a fever pitch.

Thus, when Marlon finally held his first book signing, the event nearly brought traffic on Banmubuk Street to a standstill.

These dazzling figures had already made headlines across the city. Having tasted the intoxicating fruits of massive publicity, Ivna, shrewd as ever, would never let such momentum slip through her fingers.

At Marlon’s suggestion, she even played a delicate card of warmth and humanity—

Among the pre-order customers, a small number had perished during the uprising. Though these readers had paid only half in advance, and by convention their orders could have been simply erased, Ivna chose otherwise. She hired men to personally deliver the books to the families of the deceased.

The books were bound in white, solemn yet beautiful. On the title page, each carried a simple, poignant line:

“Though fate has taken you too soon into the realm of the gods, Emerald Crest Publishing and Marlon the Wayward Traveler still remember the promise we once made to you.”

In truth, the total number of such orders was less than one percent of all pre-sales—just over two thousand books. The cost to the publisher, including labor, was barely over a thousand Lants. Yet the impact was immeasurable.

Many widows and bereaved families, clutching the books to their chests, found tears blurring the pages. Their hearts were struck at their most fragile point. Letters of thanks poured in, and many came in person to express their gratitude. More than seventy percent even scraped together the remaining payment, unwilling to let Marlon bear the loss.

The story that moved Marlon most was that of a poor widow from a village outside the city.

She had risen before dawn, walking for an entire day under the burning sun, until at last, near sunset, she reached Emerald Crest Publishing on Banmubuk Street.

Before Ivna, her cracked hands trembling, she tore open a hidden seam in her patched clothing and drew out two sodden one-penny notes, along with twenty crumpled slips worth one pool each—all soaked through with sweat.

She straightened the pitiful pile with great care and held it out, murmuring in shame and sorrow:

“My son… my son was a fool. How could he order such precious books without paying the full price? Miss, please count them. Here are forty-nine pools in total. Please… please give this money to young Marlon. He is such a kindhearted soul. He mustn’t be the one to suffer loss on account of us…”

Her voice broke. The widow’s swollen eyes brimmed once more with tears that would not be restrained.

Then, bowing her head, she whispered timidly, “Miss… may I trouble you for a cup of water? I only have dry bread with me. If I could just drink a little, I will leave straight away—I promise not to dirty your fine house.”

Moved beyond words, Ivna shook her head. She pointed firmly to the newly opened restaurant across the street, beside the shuttered Golden Riley Publishing House.

“Auntie, I have no water here. So instead—I can only offer you a meal.”

The widow panicked, waving her hands. “No, no, how could I let you spend money on me? You are as beautiful as the princesses in paintings, and I… I am nothing but an old, dirty widow.”

But Ivna was resolute. At last, under her insistence, the widow was led across the street and seated within the gleaming new restaurant. For the first time in her life, she tasted a meal richer and finer than she had ever dared imagine.

In their conversation, Ivna learned the widow’s only son had just taken a job last month as a clerk in a slave factory in the Osha District. He had been one of the many who perished in the night of the uprising.

When night fell, Ivna wished to keep her guest overnight. But the widow refused with quiet dignity. She could not trouble her benefactor further, she said—and besides, her animals at home needed feeding. With no choice, Ivna sent Arandor to drive her back to her village that very night.

Soon, this poignant tale was captured by the lynx reporter, Nikola, who published it in The White Sand Morning News with heartfelt, stirring words.

And in White Sand City, there was no headline more captivating than one with Marlon’s name attached.

Thus, in today’s edition, the biggest headline blared the nationwide sales figures of Marlon’s fairy tales and novels: two million copies had been printed and distributed across the kingdom, and in just two days, more than half were already sold!

Yes, the numbers were divided among nine books, and so each individual volume had sold just over a hundred thousand. Compared to the titans of literature whose single works often crossed the million mark, these numbers might seem modest. But still—it was national sales, and for a debut author, staggering beyond belief.

Adela understood. She cared not for the fortunes of those established masters, nor for the politics of the Printers’ Guild, which for centuries had strangled any chance of mechanical printing in order to preserve their magical craft. She cared only for one thing:

The fact that Marlon had crossed the threshold. His name was no longer bound to the city alone—he had stepped firmly onto the stage of national fame.

And yet… why did he still look so troubled?

Puzzled, Adela stacked the newspapers neatly. Noticing that Marlon had ignored her first question, lost in thought, she tried again, tilting her head and gazing at him with those curious violet eyes.

“Young Master Marlon, you really don’t look very happy… why is that?”

This time, Marlon stirred. He reached out, his finger tapping the front page of the topmost paper she had organized.

Two headlines were circled in red ink:

“Aftermath of the White Sand Slave Uprising—Renowned Emancipation Leader in Brest Found Shot Dead!”
“Deputy Director of the Arcane Research Institute Acquires New Energy Patent, Establishes the Carlos-Wilkin New Energy Company!”

Marlon’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. His voice was low, tinged with frustration.

“A miscalculation… I never thought this world would have something like a Patent Office.”

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