Chapter 71: The Ghostwriter and the Literary Masters
The three plate-making artisans were all eager to impress the King and the Crown Prince. They each retrieved a stone slab and began their attempts with extreme seriousness.
All three were printing experts. Lithography was indeed too convenient and straightforward. They all succeeded on their very first trial print.
However, the eldest artisan, observing some flaking dry ink on the stone slab, suggested:
“Your Highness, the base ink might be better if it were a little thicker.”
Joseph nodded. “You'll have to fine-tune the specific viscosity.”
He only had a rough understanding of the lithographic printing process; the intricate details of the craft still needed to be perfected by these three professionals.
The artisans immediately began discussing:
“We should add some asphalt.”
“Yes, we could also try adding resin...”
“This...” Joseph was taken aback. He was an amateur after all, and hadn't truly considered the printing press itself.
He looked at the artisan and asked, “Can you modify a printing press?”
The artisan immediately shook his head.
Just as Joseph was wondering if he should seek out a workshop that manufactured printing presses, a somewhat bashful but extremely confident voice came from beside him: “Perhaps, I can help with this.”
Joseph turned his head and saw Louis XVI looking at him with an eager expression.
His eyes lit up. This man was a top-tier mechanical artisan, and his 'assistants' who made locks were renowned masters. Modifying the operation of a printing press would be child's play for them, wouldn't it?
He immediately bowed with a hand to his chest and chuckled, “You've truly saved the art of lithographic printing. I suggest this new printing press should be named the 'King's Printing Press'!”
Afterward, Joseph watched the bustling activity in the royal workshop, realizing he couldn't lend a hand. He returned to his chambers, knowing it was time to start preparing the content for the publication.
He summoned his secretary, gave him a brief outline, and instructed him to write a novel based on it.
The secretary left to carry out the order, only submitting the manuscript after dark.
Joseph looked at the manuscript and felt a wave of speechlessness – the sentences were indeed smooth and the structure clear, but the characterizations were stiff and utterly lacking in immersion.
He sighed. 'This gentleman's specialty is writing formal documents. It seems I'll need to find professional writers for novels.'
He had no choice but to instruct Eman again, asking him to find several writers as quickly as possible.
Eman's efficiency was indeed high. The next day, just as Joseph finished breakfast, four writers of varying ages and appearances stood before him.
Of course, this was mainly because these writers already resided within Versailles Palace.
After they bowed, Eman introduced them to Joseph one by one: “Your Highness, this is the renowned Parisian literary figure, Count Bomasha.”
Joseph was slightly surprised. “Bomasha? *The Marriage of Figaro*?”
The elderly man with graying hair and thick spectacles immediately bowed slightly:
“I never imagined Your Highness would have seen my play. This fills me with immense honor.”
Joseph felt a mix of amusement and exasperation. He had merely wanted a few ghostwriters, but Eman had brought him literary giants instead.
He quickly showered the great literary master with praise.
Eman continued with the introductions: “This is Viscount Saint-Pierre...”
“And this is Barré...”
There wasn't a single ordinary person among them; all were renowned masters in the French literary scene.
Joseph felt a sense of resignation. Since they were already here, he supposed the literary giants would have to stoop to being ghostwriters.
He looked at the four masters and smiled. “I need someone to help me turn the stories I've conceived into novels.
“Once the novel is published, all royalties will be yours, and I'll also pay you 2 livres for every 500 words. What do you think?”
Regardless of what the writers thought internally, they had to give face to the Crown Prince. So they all bowed and nodded, saying, “It is an honor to serve Your Highness.”
However, they were all quite curious: just how many stories did the Crown Prince have to write, that he would call upon four people?
Joseph wasted no time. He led the group to his study, mentally sorted through the most exhilarating power-fantasy novels he had enjoyed in his past life, selected a few, and then began assigning tasks.
“Viscount Saint-Pierre, you are to write the story of a young man named...”
Joseph almost blurted out a familiar name, but then instantly remembered it needed to suit the tastes of the French public, so he changed it: “...a coming-of-age story about a young man named Hunter Shaw.”
Saint-Pierre recorded the details with waning interest, not believing that a thirteen-year-old Crown Prince could possibly come up with any brilliant stories.
Joseph continued: “Hunter Shaw was born into a family of alchemists.
“After his birth, he possessed extraordinary alchemical talent, far surpassing his peers in the family.
“However, when he was twelve, he accidentally put on a ring, and after that, everything changed.
“His alchemical abilities continuously regressed. Three years later, during an alchemy test, he was barely rated 'Level Three Alchemist.' Members of his family began to mock and discriminate against him.”
Saint-Pierre unconsciously asked, “How truly unfortunate. What was wrong with that ring?”
“We'll get to that later,” Joseph said, keeping him in suspense. He continued, “What Hunter Shaw found most unbearable was when his fiancée, Elizabeth, a gifted maiden from the Alchemical Knights, came to his home one day and proposed to annul their engagement in front of his entire family.
“She believed his talent was too poor, that he simply wasn't worthy of her.
“Hunter Shaw suffered immense humiliation and argued his case forcefully. To prevent the annulment from harming her family's reputation, Elizabeth proposed an alchemy contest with Hunter Shaw three years from now. If he lost, the engagement would be dissolved.
“Hunter Shaw bravely accepted the challenge, uttering words as firm as steel: 'Thirty years east of the Seine, thirty years west of the Seine! Do not bully a young man for his poverty!'
“After this farce of an annulment concluded, Hunter Shaw suddenly discovered the secret of his ring...”
Saint-Pierre was completely captivated by the story and anxiously asked, “Your Highness, what happened next?”
Joseph smiled faintly. “First, write out this content, and then I will tell you the rest of the plot.”
Saint-Pierre nodded reluctantly, then praised, “Your Highness, this is truly a magnificent story! I will certainly do my best to write a main text worthy of it. Oh, by the way, what is the name of this novel?”
Joseph pondered for a moment, then said, “Let's call it *Battle Through the Heavens*.”
Viscount Barré, who had been standing by, immediately moved closer after Saint-Pierre departed, hoping he too would hear a captivating story.
Joseph stated directly, “You are to write a story about a lady.
“Her name is Clarisse. One morning, she woke up with an excruciating headache. Opening her eyes, she found herself slumped over her desk. On a notebook lying open beside her, a sentence was written: 'Everyone will die, including me'...”
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