Chapter 4: The First Account in the Interstellar Network
“You want to borrow my identity to register an account on a novel website?”
Xisha came out of the basement, his expression unpleasant.
It wasn’t because of the identity issue, but because Song Wenlan had interrupted his work.
He had been just a step away from extracting rare energy from a discarded mecha.
“Planet Master Xisha, did I disturb you?”
Song Wenlan keenly sensed his mood.
“Mm. The afternoon is my working time. As long as the Garbage Star hasn’t blown up, don’t come looking for me.”
Xisha spoke with obvious irritation.
“Sorry, I was in too much of a hurry.”
Xisha’s expression eased slightly. Picking up his light-brain, he said:
“You can use my identity to register an account. But I’ll be taking a thirty percent handling fee from any earnings that account generates.”
He added this condition on the spot, a punishment for Song Wenlan interrupting him.
Song Wenlan agreed without hesitation. After all, she had no intention of freeloading off Xisha’s identification for nothing.
Xisha gave her a surprised look, as if he hadn’t expected her to accept so readily.
But that extra bit of income did soothe his irritation. He tapped a few times on the light-brain, and soon a chime sounded.
At last—Song Wenlan had registered her own account on the Insect Literature Novel Website!
“Anything else you need done? Say it now. Once I go back into the basement, don’t call me out again,” Xisha said.
Song Wenlan’s eyes remained glued to her new account as she searched for the button to create a book.
“Nothing for now. Later on, if I run into issues with signing a contract, I’ll need Planet Master’s help.”
Xisha was so exasperated by her use-and-toss attitude that he nearly laughed in anger. But remembering his unfinished work, he finally just lashed his tail angrily and turned back into the basement.
Listening to the fading scrape of Xisha’s tail against the ground, Song Wenlan recalled his popular science explanation about beastkin. Suddenly, she knew exactly what her first book should be.
She would write a modern brain-hole novel, with two demon-beast characters as the protagonists.
In the interstellar era, the concept of demon beast didn’t exist—but the idea of demon beasts transforming into human form was something interstellar readers could easily relate to.
And with the myriad, whimsical settings of demon beast, the novelty would surely keep readers hooked.
The thought made her heart race uncontrollably, excitement bubbling up inside her.
She quickly decided on a rough plot and her main characters.
She would write a vest novel. And what was the most entertaining part of a vest novel? Of course—it was when both spouses desperately hid their identities, only for their disguises to accidentally fall away, leaving the two of them staring at each other in shock.
The love of watching a spectacle was part of human nature—no one could resist it.
Least of all Song Wenlan.
Once she had the core idea, scenes began leaping into her mind one after another like lively fish, tumbling into her imagination nonstop.
In the interstellar era, creators usually used virtual-reality communication glasses to construct a personalized creative space where they could seek inspiration.
Song Wenlan, however, didn’t have that kind of equipment—nor did she even know it existed. The only tool available to her was the projection keyboard.
But she didn’t think it was a limitation. On the contrary, the projection keyboard seemed incredibly advanced to her. It could be projected anytime, anywhere, and came with customizable lighting and sound effects.
Choosing the simplest keyboard layout and a basic typing sound, Song Wenlan began to write her very first novel in the interstellar era.
The title would be: “My Demon-Hunter Arch-Nemesis.”
Well… she couldn’t help it. Like most authors, she had the same old flaw—she was terrible at naming books.
But her weakness in naming things didn’t stand out at all in the interstellar web-novel world.
Song Wenlan placed all ten fingers on the virtual keyboard. After a brief moment of thought, her eyes suddenly lit up. Her fingers began flying across the keys, spilling out one word after another.
“In the lives of humans, there are all kinds of hidden demon race.
They might be your friends, your lovers, or just a stranger brushing past you.
Among these demon race, some are kind by nature, while others are cruel and bloodthirsty.
But the most unique of them all… are the Demon Hunters.
Demon Hunters take the extermination of evil demons as their mission, safeguarding peace between humans and demons. They appear and vanish like ghosts, their identities shrouded in mystery. Yet behind every moment of peace between humans and demons, there is always their shadow. — A Chronicle of Human-Demon Peace.”
That was the opening of her novel.
For her first time starting a story, Song Wenlan didn’t write too much—just two chapters—before her AI butler urged her to sleep.
After her novel was published, several “Net Insect” editors were the first to click on it.
The phrase Demon Hunter was a fresh one, and these editors were curious to know what exactly it meant.
The very first to open Song Wenlan’s novel was an editor named “Meng Xingchong.”
Meng Xingchong was a newly appointed editor. Within the Net Insect community, the editor’s role was akin to a secure government post—only the most outstanding and responsible Net Insects could hold it.
Meng Xingchong had won the “In Search of Good Stories” contest three years in a row, which had finally earned him a spot as an editor at Insect Literature.
He cherished this position deeply and was eager to make his mark.
And the moment he opened My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis, Meng Xingchong was stunned.
Most of what he usually read were love stories or tales of struggle. It was the first time he’d ever seen an opening like this—one that gave off the feeling of a vast, expansive world.
At the same time, Meng Xingchong was deeply curious: what exactly was the “demon race” mentioned in the title?
Carrying that question with him, Meng Xingchong continued to read.
[It was a night of the full moon.
Bright moonlight spilled across a desolate, ruined mountain village. Most of the young people had long since left this place because of poverty, leaving behind only a few elderly folk with limited mobility.
But even those old folks had passed away one after another half a month ago. If anything alive still remained here, it could only be the child hidden in the cellar.
Hu Sanli lay groggy in the crook of an enormous arm—her small body not even as long as that arm itself.
Heavy, ragged breathing sounded in her ears, like a poisonous snake hissing, sending chills all through her.
Anxious, Hu Sanli told herself she had to wake up. If she didn’t, her mother would worry.
Perhaps because her will was so strong, Hu Sanli finally forced her eyes open a sliver. But just that one glance was enough to make her feel as though she’d fallen into an ice cellar.
Blood…
So much blood…
And not only blood—what truly froze her with terror were the scattered remnants on the ground, broken arms and legs strewn everywhere.
The place looked like a slaughterhouse.]
Reading up to this point, Meng Xingchong was just as startled as little Hu Sanli herself. He nearly lost his connection to the StarNet thread.
And it wasn’t only him—his colleagues nearby all gasped in shock as well.
Before the StarNet, a few glowing white threads connected several softly luminescent little insects. They exchanged glances, steadied themselves, and once again focused intently on the story.
For most species, concern for the young was etched into their very genes. With this opening, Song Wenlan had already seized the hearts of these editors.
