The transport circle flashed, and Murphy, along with Byron, appeared at the center of the Silver Moon Highlands.
The Silver Moon Highlands were sacred grounds, home to the werewolf clans for generations – basically, the wolf folks' den. Due to the werewolves' characteristic transformation at the full moon, the clothing of those Murphy encountered along the way was somewhat ragged. Minutes later, they were greeted by Sean, a dependable adult werewolf lord.
"Your Majesty, have you come regarding that matter?" Sean asked after bowing.
"Yes, it's been a while. Any progress?"
"Indeed, there is progress. Just... perhaps it's best if Your Majesty sees for yourself."
The group entered the largest building within the territory to find hundreds of parchment books scattered across the floor.
Murphy eyed Sean with bemusement. "So, the noblemen indulge in such rich cultural lives?"
Sean explained, "Those young wolf pups got wind of Your Majesty's assignment and fought to carry it out, but... few can read. In the end, they simply bought one of every differently titled book. We're still sorting through them. Oh, Your Majesty, Wirt can read; he's helping over there."
Following the werewolf's words, a white blurry head popped out from the pile of books to greet Murphy before diving back into the sea of pages.
Impressed by Wirt's reliability for once, Murphy also joined the effort, which, admittedly, demanded a certain academic flair.
As a well-read individual, Murphy's input, along with Byron's, injected new vitality into the book-sorting team. Once the task was completed, Murphy began to soak in the culture of this alternate world.
Two hours later, an infuriated Murphy lifted his head out of the pile of reviewed books, exhaling heavily, and blurted out, "Boring! Trite! Same old soup just reheated! ”What on earth is this drivel?if I were a count, I will cheese off them too. [[what are they writing about?!]]" At this moment, the Demon King's outcry mirrored that of Count Reed himself.
Byron, who had been reading quietly to the side, looked over and said, "Calm yourself, Your Majesty. It's indeed hard to imagine that the realm's popular literature hasn't advanced in nearly a century."
Byron shook the book in his hand, its florid cover title reading "The White Rose Count."
Murphy glanced at it and offhandedly commented, "Let me guess, the story of a valiant young count and an innocent, beautiful princess embroiled in a clichéd secret romance? And it just happens to include a sweeping victory over demons?"
Although unsure of what "clichéd" meant, Byron nodded in agreement, "Strikingly similar to what you described. I've seen these plot lines in my father's library when I was human." He checked the publication date of "The White Rose Count" and continued, "This was published three years ago. It's unbelievable that these century-old tropes are still in play."
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"I knew it'd be the same old tale once I saw 'count' in the title. I've read over a dozen, and they're all virtually carbon copies, following three templates – switch out some names and places, and they call it new? I guarantee, if Lord Bacon (Lord of the Living Dead) and his minions cracked open these authors' heads, they'd find nothing but cobwebs."
Byron nodded in agreement, while the werewolves and spirits seemed confused about the generic storylines. So, Murphy elucidated:
"The first template is targeted at the upper crust – usually involves a duke's son and princess growing up sweethearts, overthrowing internal family rivals for the title, and after a grand ol’ battle with demons, he carries the day and the damsel."
"The second is for the middling gentry, like Byron's book here, featuring a mid-tier noble and princess in an undercover love affair, ending with our noble protagonist triumphantly returning from demon-bashing to win the princess."
"The third is aimed at literate knights and commoners: some lucky civilian saves the princess, then, for reasons beyond me, she insists on eloping with him. After leading an army against demons, he’s knighted posthaste and – you guessed it – wins the lady."
"I see, so this is the nobles' preferred reading." The werewolves nodded understandingly.
"Human princesses sure have a busy schedule," Wirt chimed in with a rare fitting snark.
"What irks me most is that these hack writers, to highlight their protagonists' supposed martial prowess, inevitably script a grand battle against the demons – a complete rout at that. They act like not a single human soldier falls while purging us demons clean. Have these authors ever seen battle? Fought one? Endless victories over demons, personal slayings of the Demon King—I've lost my head seven or eight times across these tomes. Why the devil?"
Murphy massaged his forehead and continued, "Thanks for the brainwork, folks. At least we've gleaned a new plan of action here. If nonsense like this turns a profit, we could write something interesting for sale too."
The demons exchanged glances before admitting, "Your Majesty, these popular works don't demand much artistry, but writing a book with our limited exposure... might be a stretch."
Murphy surveyed the earnest faces around him and sighed, "No worries, you have me, don't you? Wirt, hand me a stack of parchment."
"You got it, Your Majesty." The white specter vanished and returned with a pile of yellowed parchment and a quill.
Murphy, a flexibly-minded Demon King, felt no pressure transporting some of his homeland's local treasures to this world, where copyright was an unknown concept. With a one-way ticket to this realm, material flipping was out of reach, but cultural flipping was ripe for the picking.
Yet, borrowing required finesse — to quickly establish a reputation, a blockbuster was needed. After much thought on what story would provide the ultimate thrill for readers, Murphy landed on a pulse-pounding genre: a triumphant warrior’s return.
Given the medieval backdrop of this world, a direct lift would befuddle the audience. Therefore, some local adaptation was essential.
Two hours of localizing and translating later, Murphy penned the first few chapters of an exhilarating tale he remembered from his past life — the opening acts brimming with thrilling cliffhangers and cool one-liners.
Now, it just needed a localized title. Murphy was no wordsmith; after considerable thought, he settled on "The Grand Knight Returns" for this otherworldly urban-warrior sensation.
Murphy passed the opening chapters to his eager subordinates to sample the fare. Byron took the manuscript, the wolves and spirit squeezing in beside him. To let everyone in on the salacious content, Byron decided he'd read it out loud.
Murphy, startled by Byron's initiative, thought, "Leave it to a skeleton to invent ways to mortify one's superiors." At that moment, Murphy's sense of shame ballooned. With the remaining parchment and quill in hand, he made for the sanctuary of a sidebar, aiming to escape the perilous scene, which was social suicide in the making. Yet, he was a step too slow as Byron's sonorous and magnetic voice already began to echo behind him, "Ahem, 'The Grand Knight Returns,' Chapter One: The Grand Knight Comes Home to Find His Five-Year-Old Daughter Living in a Doghouse..."