Chapter Seven: Selling Books

Leading Zhang Chubby into the house, Feng Yuan entered the bedroom, took out the manuscript he had finished last night, and handed it to Zhang Chubby.

“Take a look at this, my novel. Tell me if it’s any good,” Feng Yuan said, watching Zhang Chubby.

Zhang Chubby reached out, took the thick stack of pages, and looked at Feng Yuan with disbelief. “Don’t tell me you wrote all this just last night?”

“Of course not!”

“I thought so. No way you could write so much in one night.”

“It took me less than two and a half hours,” Feng Yuan said slowly.

Zhang Chubby was speechless.

He sat down and began to read the manuscript page by page, growing more and more energetic as he read. Twenty thousand words wasn’t much, and soon he was finished, looking at Feng Yuan with a face full of longing. “Is there more?”

“There isn’t. So, what do you think? Is it good?”

“It’s great, really great! So easy to read, so smooth, and the ideas are absolutely wild. Everything in it is so fresh—I’ve never heard of any of it before. How did you come up with this? Where did the protagonist and his companions go when they flew off in the coffin? Tell me, quick!”

Zhang Chubby grabbed Lu Yan’s hand in excitement.

Seeing Zhang Chubby’s expression, Feng Yuan knew he’d succeeded. He smiled and asked, “You want to know what happens next?”

“Yes, yes!” Zhang Chubby nodded eagerly.

“Really want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Desperate to know?”

“Desperate!”

“In that case… you can just keep wondering!”

Zhang Chubby was speechless.

Feng Yuan chuckled, took the manuscript back, and said, “Come on, let’s go get it published!”

“Wait, Feng Yuan, tell me what happens next, don’t leave me hanging—it’s torture!”

…

After breakfast, Feng Yuan and Zhang Chubby made their way to Book Street, which was only two streets away from Feng Yuan’s place—just a short walk.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning. Usually at this time, the street would be lined with scholars selling books, writing calligraphy, or painting for a little money. But today, not a single one was in sight, which was odd.

“Why is no one setting up book stalls?” Feng Yuan asked Zhang Chubby.

“You don’t know? Ever since ‘Legend of Immortal Fate’ became a big hit, everyone’s been writing novels, nobody wants to run a book stall anymore. They all want to get famous and live without worry!”

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Feng Yuan nodded. He hadn’t expected such a craze, but it made sense—in his past life, online novels had sparked the same phenomenon. When one person became famous, a swarm would follow, all dreaming of getting rich. Yet they never realized that for one to succeed, thousands failed. They only saw the success, never the countless failures beneath it.

As they talked, they reached Hanlin Book House in the middle of Book Street. Even before they went inside, they saw a group of scholars lining up at the door, manuscripts in hand, waiting to be seen—dozens of them.

“Look, these folks are all hoping the bookshop owner will publish their novels and make them famous!” Zhang Chubby pointed at the queue and grinned at Feng Yuan.

“It really is quite a sight,” Feng Yuan thought to himself, and joined the end of the line.

Inside, the owner, Wang Lin, was sitting with his legs crossed, sipping tea, leisurely flipping through manuscripts handed to him by the scholars. A few scholars were all smiles, massaging his legs and fawning over him, hoping he’d accept their books and make them famous, so they’d become free masseurs for the shopkeeper.

But Wang Lin read one after another, shaking his head in disappointment each time. With every shake, another scholar left in defeat—it was a brutal scene.

“Tch, these people aren’t even as good as me. They dream of getting rich off a novel—how delusional!” Zhang Chubby sneered, then turned to Feng Yuan. “Yours will definitely make it. It’s better than ‘Legend of Immortal Fate.’ We’ll celebrate with chicken drumsticks afterwards!”

“You just want chicken, don’t you?” Feng Yuan smiled at him.

“No, I’m being sincere—heaven is my witness! The chicken is just a bonus. If we don’t eat, it really doesn’t matter. The main thing is your writing is amazing!” Zhang Chubby said earnestly.

“Oh? Then if we don’t eat chicken, that’s fine, right?”

“Ahem… but we should still have some, since you’re bound to succeed. You have to treat yourself well—staying up late writing is hard on the body. How can you not have some chicken to make up for it?” Zhang Chubby said, his face flushing.

Feng Yuan glared at him. “You’re already this fat and you still want to eat!”

“I have a constitution that gains weight easily—it runs in the family, generation after generation. I get fat just drinking water. Since that’s the case, why not indulge and enjoy life a little? Don’t you agree?” Zhang Chubby grinned.

“You’ll die from overeating one day,” Feng Yuan said.

They chatted idly, and after nearly an hour, it was finally Feng Yuan’s turn. He hurried over to Wang Lin with his manuscript.

“Mr. Feng, you’re writing novels too?” Wang Lin recognized Feng Yuan, since he often came to the shop to read for free and was regularly chased out.

“Heh, Shopkeeper Wang, please take a look and see what you think.” Feng Yuan handed over the manuscript with a smile.

“Shopkeeper Wang, I’m telling you—Feng Yuan’s novel is fantastic. I’m already hooked. You have to buy it and publish it!” Zhang Chubby urged.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wang Lin nodded, pointing to his shoulder. Zhang Chubby quickly stepped forward to give him a massage, signaling Feng Yuan to help too.

Feng Yuan pretended not to see, keeping his eyes on Wang Lin’s expression.

Wang Lin read Feng Yuan’s manuscript, growing more and more animated as he went. By the end, he slapped his thigh in excitement. “Excellent, truly excellent! This is very well written—I’ll buy it!”

“I told you, Feng Yuan, you’d have no trouble. You’ll be famous! Let’s celebrate with chicken drumsticks!” Zhang Chubby said, thrilled.

Feng Yuan pushed Zhang Chubby aside and turned to Wang Lin. “Shopkeeper Wang, how much are you offering?”

Wang Lin held up a finger. “One tael of silver. If the later chapters are good, I’ll pay you more.”

“We’re rich, Feng Yuan! We can buy so many chicken drumsticks!” Zhang Chubby exclaimed.

“Glutton, get out of here!” Feng Yuan shoved him away, then took the manuscript from Wang Lin’s hands. “Shopkeeper Wang, one tael is too low.”

“Mr. Feng, one tael is already a lot. I’m taking a risk here—if it doesn’t sell, I’ll lose several taels!”

Feng Yuan grinned. “Shopkeeper Wang, you know perfectly well whether my book will sell. One tael is out of the question.”

Wang Lin hesitated, then said, “Fine, I’ll add another hundred coins.”

“No deal. Fifty taels, at least!”

“What? Fifty taels? Are you crazy?” Wang Lin’s face turned red with anger. “One tael is already generous, because we’re old acquaintances. Otherwise, at most I’d offer five hundred coins. You should be grateful—you wouldn’t get even a hundred coins elsewhere!”

“Exactly, Feng Yuan, one tael is a lot. That’s a lot of… chicken drumsticks,” Zhang Chubby whispered.

Feng Yuan didn’t bother to look at him. Smiling at Wang Lin, he said, “In that case, Shopkeeper Wang, I won’t trouble you further.”

With that, Feng Yuan headed for the door.

“Hey, don’t go, Feng Yuan!” Zhang Chubby hurried after him.

Wang Lin didn’t try to stop them, knowing full well that Feng Yuan would be back to beg him before long. After all, his was the only bookshop on the street with printing capabilities—Feng Yuan had nowhere else to go.