"...This is unbelievable."
Before being a writer, I am, above all, a reader who loves stories more than anyone else—
A fierce passion surged within me.
"To think I could meet Landon Bishop in person."
Before my regression, when I was a high school student, I practically lived in the library.
It was there that I stumbled upon the first volume of Landon Bishop's masterpiece, *Starlight Chronicle*, titled *The Birth of a New Empire*.
A tale of conflict between noble houses, empires, and religious orders unfolding across vast alien planets.
Amid the relentless conspiracies, schemes, and stratagems—
"I was captivated by the deep melancholy and awe that lingered beyond it all."
That's how I was introduced to the sci-fi genre.
If fantasy is my home base, then sci-fi would be my second love.
Even after entering university and starting my career, my affection for this new genre never waned.
Especially with Landon Bishop—I didn't just reread his entire series multiple times; I collected every magazine that featured his interviews without missing a single one.
"It's probably why I started my career at a small sci-fi publishing house."
Though I worked at various types of publishing companies,
I personally found the most joy working at genre-specific publishers—sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and the like.
However, by the time I was working as an editor, Bishop had already passed away in old age.
Sadly, the miracle of handling his manuscripts never came to pass.
"And now, to think I could meet that very Bishop in person!"
This perk might just be a greater reward than the prize money itself.
Lost in that thought, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the poster.
"Hey, that thing's causing quite a stir this time."
Just then, I heard Uncle Joseph's voice as he passed by behind me.
"You know the sci-fi club that meets at our shop? They're all going wild, saying they're going to enter that contest."
"...Because of Bishop?"
"Heh, as expected of a sci-fi maniac—you know your stuff."
I turned to Uncle Joseph and shrugged.
"Well, I wouldn't call myself a maniac."
"If you're not a maniac, then who is? Besides, every time you come here, you're always hanging around the sci-fi section more than the comics."
I nodded at that.
"If I had to pick, I'd say Tolkien's more my taste than Ray Bradbury."
"Oh, same here. ...I almost dropped out at Bilbo's birthday party scene with all that singing."
"Pfft."
"Good thing I stuck it out. Anyway, that—"
His finger pointed at the poster on the wall.
"The theme's post-apocalypse, right? It's a hot topic these days."
"...Yeah, it is."
Uncle Joseph studied my face for a moment before saying seriously,
"But Eugene, this is just a hunch of mine."
"Yes?"
"I don't know how to put it, but... you look like someone who's finally resolved something you've been wrestling with for a long time."
"..."
For a moment, I couldn't respond to Uncle Joseph's words.
"Am I wrong?"
"No, you're right."
It wasn't just that a worry had been resolved—my deepest wish had come true.
And now—
'How thrilling it is to know I just have to walk toward my goal.'
Seeing my expression, a faint smile appeared on Uncle Joseph's face too.
"Well, if that's the case, I'm glad. ...Stay and browse the new arrivals until Ned gets here."
With that, Joseph went back to tending to customers.
'Post-apocalypse, huh.'
...It's not exactly an unfamiliar genre to me.
And at that moment, a memory from long ago surfaced.
Almost reflexively, I closed my eyes—
*[Fiction] [Nonfiction] [Genre Categories]*
...
Words floated like afterimages in the darkness.
Among them, the *[New Material]* folder caught my eye.
'Maybe now's the time.'
...To finally bring out the story I've been crafting for so long.
The thought made my heart pound with anticipation.
"Hey, I'm heading out now!"
"You're not waiting for Ned?"
I'll contact Ned separately.
With that, I dashed out of the shop.
My steps toward home quickened without me realizing it.
---
The next afternoon, at Iowa State University.
The muggy weather had cleared up nicely.
"Mr. Leonard!"
Leonard Hines, a literature teacher from Hillcrest, had come to the university campus to visit an old student.
"Long time no see, Shirley."
"Haha, yeah. How have you been, sir?"
Shirley was one of the students Leonard had taught when he was a lecturer at this state university.
She was also an editor at the University of Iowa Press.
The two moved to the campus cafeteria to continue their conversation.
"So, how's the company?"
"Well, it's still hectic as ever. Too few people, too many manuscripts..."
One might think a university press only publishes dull, unpopular books,
But the University of Iowa Press was a bit of an exception.
Known as the "City of Literature," this university was more specialized in creative writing than most—
"On top of graduation theses, we get flooded with editing requests for literary magazines, club zines, personal projects—you name it. You know how it is, sir. These aren't books we can just slap together."
Leonard knew well enough that she was right—some of these manuscripts rivaled commercial submissions in quality.
"Yeah. And... isn't the Shakespeare Festival coming up soon? You must be swamped."
"Ugh, yes. We're all losing our minds over it."
Every fall, the University of Iowa hosts the "Shakespeare Festival."
The event features plays, readings, concerts, and more, all themed around Shakespeare.
The university press publishes a student anthology of "Shakespeare parodies" each year.
"One of the short stories slated for the anthology fell through."
Finding a replacement manuscript at this stage was no easy task.
"The students are talented, but their understanding of Shakespeare is shallow, so most submissions feel superficial..."
As Shirley vented her frustrations, her eyes drifted to the manuscript in the binder Leonard was carrying.
"But sir, what's that manuscript? *The Confession of Brother Lawrence*? Wait, is it a Shakespeare parody?"
"Oh, this."
It was Eugene's manuscript, fully proofread and ready for the school literary magazine.
Instead of explaining, Leonard simply said,
"Want to take a look?"
"Of course, hand it over!"
Shirley took the binder from him and began reading.
At first, it was mere curiosity.
"...!"
But soon her eyes widened.
Before long, she was so engrossed that she barely breathed, focused solely on the text.
The sound of pages turning.
The faint gulp of a dry swallow.
That was all that filled the air.
Leonard Hines watched his former student with a strange sense of satisfaction—
Five minutes passed before Shirley finally spoke.
"Who wrote this? It's good enough for our anthology—no, wait, it'd have to be a student piece, but this doesn't feel like—"
"It's a student's work."
"Oh my God, really?"
Leonard's lips curled into a smile at Shirley's excited reaction.
"One of my students submitted it as an assignment."
"An assignment? No way. This is way beyond assignment level."
"Right?"
"Absolutely!"
Shirley nodded enthusiastically.
It was clear this was a work painstakingly completed after thorough preparation, planning, and struggle.
"Look here, see this? Not a single sentence is wasted. The overall polish is incredible, but the last page—honestly, it gave me chills."
Her excited review turned serious.
"But why submit something like this now, and as a class assignment of all things?"
By now, the two were discussing *The Confession of Brother Lawrence* as if it were a long-prepared masterpiece, not just homework.
"Well..."
Leonard stroked his beard as he answered.
"They were probably afraid."
"..."
A writer's greatest fear—
...is having their work, something as dear as their own child, rejected.
'The desire to show it to the world as soon as possible,'
And the anxiety that all that passion and effort could be dismissed in an instant.
Leonard understood that conflicting emotion better than anyone.
"Yeah, I suppose. Every writer has that fear."
Quickly convinced, Shirley fired off questions like a machine gun.
"But who wrote this? Where did you even meet a student like this? Are they from our workshop? No, if they were, I'd have seen this manuscript first."
Leonard grinned.
"They're a student, but not from here."
"Huh? Another university? How'd a student from another school end up—oh, maybe a community college? They've got older students sometimes—"
"They're young."
"Wait, young?"
Leonard's smile grew mischievous.
"A 10th grader."
"10th... grade? Hold on, so you mean—"
Shirley's mind seemed to freeze for a moment.
"So, this 10th grade thing... you mean, like—"
She swallowed hard before continuing.
"...a high schooler?!"
---
Time flew by, and soon it was the weekend.
The past few days had been a whirlwind.
It was all because of the *Science & Fantasy* sci-fi contest I'd seen at Ned's Comics Store.
"...The deadline's still a ways off, but I've already written quite a bit."
Maybe it's because I'd spent every moment—aside from meals—glued to my computer.
The manuscript file, more than half complete, filled my screen.
I've always been a fast writer, but...
'Post-apocalypse—a world after the end.'
Maybe it's because this contest theme feels so familiar to me.
After all, right after I had a stroke—
Lying in a hospital bed, I dreamed of the world's end every single day.
"..."
Even now, recalling that time makes my chest ache.
Back then, I was filled with rage, frustration, and despair.
Why did this have to happen to me?
What did I do wrong to deserve this tragedy all by myself?
'So if the end had come for me,'
I wished it would come for the whole world too.
And so, every day, I imagined stories of the world's destruction in my head.
...It was a pathetic mindset, but it was the only way I could cope.
Sometimes it was a nuclear war breaking out.
Other times, World War III.
Or a mysterious plague wiping out most of humanity.
Survivors fighting over scarce resources.
The hypocrisy and ugliness of humanity laid bare in the chaos.
The stories were dark and brutal, but—
'Even so, in the end,'
Like the hope left at the bottom of Pandora's box,
They always concluded with a glimpse of humanity's goodness.
That's when I realized—
...I'm not the kind of person who can hold onto resentment for long.
"After that, the bitterness started to fade."
Those apocalyptic stories I'd conjured up in that dark time—
They became my goal back then,
'And maybe that's what helped me rise from despair and take the next step.'
...I've long felt that writing ultimately reflects a writer's own desires.
At this very moment,
What I yearn for most comes alive in my work, breathing vividly.
With that in mind, I mulled over the ideas and stories I'd thought up back then,
But nothing felt quite right.
Maybe it's because I'm so different now from who I was then.
So instead of reviving what I'd written before as-is—
'How about tweaking the old ideas a bit?'
A post-apocalyptic setting, but with a protagonist who doesn't despair over reality.
Maybe even blending in a touch of fantasy or a fairy-tale vibe.
From the countless ideas I'd jotted down over time,
I picked and combined the best ones, rolling them around in my head until—
'Peter Pan!'
The boy who never grows up.
What if I put him in an apocalyptic story? That idea hit me.
And that's how it began—
*Peter Pan in Doomed Land*,
The manuscript now in front of me.
*[A.D. 2080.
Six months after a mysterious plague that kills only adults sweeps the world.]*
On my laptop screen, the novel starts like this:
*[Peter became the last adult left on Earth.]*