**New Jersey**
**Comic Book Store**
"Holy shit!"
Leonard stared at the words on the comic book cover—**"Adapted from the novel *Lord of the Mysteries* by Adam Duncan"**—for a long mont before finally cursing out loud.
Unlike Eastern authors, who often preferred pen nas, Western writers tended to use their real nas. Of course, this wasn't an absolute rule.
As for the reason?
In the East, novels were once considered a lower form of literature. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been called "novels" but sothing grander—perhaps "big tales." That single word, "novel" (or "small tale"), encapsulated the awkward position of novelists in literary circles.
Because of this, even after the explosive rise of online literature in Adam's past life, pen nas remained the norm for authors. Almost no one used their real na.
What were the benefits of a pen na?
For struggling writers, a pen na ant anonymity. No acquaintances would recognize them, so they could write whatever they wanted without worrying about personal attacks from people who disliked their work.
If they couldn't continue a story due to poor performance or other uncontrollable factors, they could simply abandon their pen na and start fresh under a new alias.
Moreover, a pen na with a unique aning was far more morable than a common real na that could be shared by dozens of people in the sa school.
It was just like how many celebrities changed their nas to sothing catchier for fa.
In the West, pen nas were also used in the past, but not because of literature's low status—rather, because much of what was written was explicit, violent, or otherwise inappropriate. Writers had no choice but to use pseudonyms.
Take Adam's benefactor, the *Queen of Erotic Fiction*, Nora Bean. In the past, she would never have dared to use her real na.
Her novels followed a simple formula—one that she summarized herself: *"Start by describing a few European cities, use 30 euphemisms for the unspeakable, and boom! You've got a bestseller!"*
It was that straightforward and crude.
But in modern tis, with increasing openness and the implentation of content rating systems, writers could publish anything.
At that point, what mattered most?
Fa.
Between using a pen na or a real na, there was no question—real nas were the way to go.
A pen na was just an asset—it could be taken, transferred, or diluted. But a real na? That couldn't be stripped away.
No matter the occasion, a writer's na would be attached to their work, ensuring people knew who they were.
Never underestimate the importance of this distinction. Ninety-nine percent of readers wouldn't bother searching for an author's real na beyond their pen na. Even changing a na could damage one's reputation.
For example, Nora Bean had long divorced her *charming* ex-husband. But why did she still use his last na?
Because when she first beca famous, she published under "Nora Bean." That was the na her readers rembered.
Adam, being reborn, understood this well. So when he borrowed *Lord of the Mysteries*, he didn't adopt a tribute pen na like *Cuttlefish Who Loves Diving*—he used his real na: Adam Duncan.
Now, even in the comic book adaptation, the cover read **"Adapted from the novel *Lord of the Mysteries* by Adam Duncan,"** rather than **"Adapted from a novel published by Random House."**
Of course—
As the saying goes: **Everything has two sides.**
Fa and privacy were mutually exclusive. Wanting both was just a child's dream.
And so, with Adam Duncan's real na printed on the comic book, Leonard saw it imdiately.
Thus—he was exposed.
"What's wrong, Leonard?"
A bespectacled boy standing nearby looked over curiously.
The comic book and nerd communities overlapped significantly. It was a small, niche circle. The sa people ca in and out, buying and reading comics, so most of them knew each other.
"I know the author of the original novel for this comic," Leonard responded.
At first, he was furious, thinking, *Adam didn't even tell
he published a book?! Doesn't he consider
a friend?*
But that anger quickly faded, replaced by an uncontrollable grin. He straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and declared proudly:
"He's my best friend!"
"No way!"
"Adam Duncan is your friend?"
"Impossible!"
The comic store wasn't that big. As soon as Leonard said this, everyone gathered around.
"It's true!" Leonard said loudly. "Adam is my best friend! He even helped
beat up Jimmy once!"
"What?! Adam Duncan is *that* badass friend of yours?"
The store erupted into chaos. No one had ever associated a writer with a tough guy before. The contrast was too extre—it was sothing straight out of a superhero comic.
"Stop making things up."
At first, so believed him, but now, most were skeptical.
"I'm serious!"
Leonard was so agitated he almost reached for his asthma inhaler. "Adam really is my best friend!"
"Then prove it!" soone challenged.
"I…"
Leonard opened his mouth but realized—he had no way to prove it.
"See? You're just bluffing!"
The doubters burst into laughter.
"I'll prove it to you!"
Leonard grabbed the first volu of *Lord of the Mysteries*' comic adaptation, paid for it, and stord out of the store in frustration.
---
California
Pasadena
"Howard, breakfast is ready!"
A large figure bustled in the kitchen before shouting upstairs.
"I'm coming!"
A frustrated, childish voice called down from above.
"Don't yell at !"
The large figure retorted, "I'm your mother!"
"I know!"
The young voice grew closer. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a short, skinny figure ca into view. "Everybody knows you're my mother!"
"Eat your breakfast quickly. We have a doctor's appointnt later."
The large figure reminded him.
"I know," the scrawny boy muttered as he sat at the table. Then, he bargained, "But on the way back, I want to stop by the comic book store. I need to restock."
"Are you sure you're just buying comics?"
The large figure narrowed her eyes. "You *do* realize the tissue supply at ho is disappearing fast, right?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about!"
The boy stiffened, then shouted again, "If you don't believe , you can co in with ! *If* you can even fit through the door!"
"It's all your *damn* father's fault! If he hadn't abandoned us, I wouldn't have needed to eat so much! I wouldn't have ended up like this!"
The large figure lanted, her voice filled with grief. "And now, even you despise ! What's the point of living anymore? I might as well be dead! *Boohoo…*"
The boy rolled his eyes. He had seen this act too many tis to count. He *should* have built up immunity by now.
But no matter how much he yelled at his mother, deep down, he still cared about her. That's why this old, cliché guilt trip always worked.
"I don't despise you," the boy said helplessly.
"Yes, you do!"
The large figure remained unconvinced.
"I could never despise you!"
The boy snapped again, shouting.
"See?! You *do* despise !"
The large figure accused, her voice suddenly strong and full of energy—no trace of grief left.
"…"
The boy was speechless.
(End of Chapter)
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