Chapter 11: Why Are There Suddenly So Many Readers?
It was seven days later when Song Wenlan once again logged into her account.
During those seven days, she had done absolutely nothing, so idle she felt like weeds were about to start growing on her.
Go out and play? Impossible! The radiation outside wasn’t something a fragile human like her could resist—Song Wenlan had no desire to turn herself into some mutated creature.
Besides, on this whole junk planet, aside from Xisha, there wasn’t a single other living being who could breathe.
In Song Wenlan’s opinion, Xisha was even more extreme than people with social anxiety.
People with social anxiety just locked themselves in their rooms to avoid socializing, but Xisha? He went so far as to buy an entire planet to completely cut ties with society.
It wasn’t as if Song Wenlan hadn’t considered helping Xisha with work. But when it came to physical strength, she couldn’t compare with the robots; when it came to skill, she couldn’t compare with the robots; and when it came to precision, she was even further behind the robots.
In the end, with no other options, Song Wenlan could only ask Xisha for some harmless metal and start doing handicrafts.
Handicrafts were a hobby she had developed back in the modern world.
In the spare time she had left after writing, Song Wenlan would do crafts to pass the time.
Whenever she finished making something, she would take photos and post them on social media. Over time, she gained some fans and became a moderately popular craft blogger.
Of course, another reason she liked handicrafts was because she could think about her story while working on them.
And in fact, while she was making crafts, her story ideas always flowed more smoothly.
With the future developments of My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis running through her head, her hands absentmindedly shaped a metal rose.
By the time the rose took form, she also had many more ideas for how the plot would unfold next.
Song Wenlan instinctively wanted to take out her phone for a picture. She reached out—only to find nothing by her side.
She froze for a second before realizing—oh right, she had already transmigrated into the interstellar era.
Just as Song Wenlan was rebuilding her mindset, Xisha came walking over with a repaired optical computer in hand.
“Your luck’s not bad. I just happened to pick up a rare part today.”
With that villain-like face of his, Xisha handed the optical computer to Song Wenlan.
“Here, it’s fixed.”
As he spoke, his gaze unconsciously landed on the metal rose.
“You like this?” Song Wenlan caught his look.
She eagerly took the optical computer and said generously, “Then I’ll give it to you.”
Xisha’s brows lifted slightly, showing his good mood.
“You’re really giving it to me?”
“Mm. Just think of it as thanks for taking me in and saving my life.”
Back in the modern world, most of the things Song Wenlan crafted ended up being given away anyway, so she didn’t think much of it.
“But before that, let me take a picture first.”
She aimed the optical computer at the metal rose. It automatically adjusted the brightness and filter, even suggesting the best composition.
When the final image came out, even Song Wenlan was amazed.
On a white table, a pale golden rose bathed in sunlight looked as if it were glowing with its own radiance.
Almost on reflex, Song Wenlan uploaded the photo to the largest social network in the interstellar era, “Paipai.” Without checking the feedback, she closed the optical computer, satisfied.
Xisha had been waiting by her side the whole time. Only after Song Wenlan finished everything did he carefully pick up the metal rose from the table and ask,
“Do you mind if I take it apart to see how it’s made?”
Song Wenlan was stunned.
She had thought Xisha simply liked the design. She hadn’t expected his first reaction would be to dismantle it.
But then again, it wasn’t hard to understand—Xisha had always been passionate about taking things apart.
So Song Wenlan smiled and replied, “It doesn’t have much technical content. Go ahead and take it apart.”
Xisha nodded, then eagerly carried the rose away.
Once the room was left with only Song Wenlan, she finally opened her author dashboard.
She hadn’t realized it before, but the moment she did, she was shocked.
Song Wenlan had assumed that since she was just an unsigned author, going silent for a few days wouldn’t make much of a difference.
But the reality turned out completely opposite to what she expected.
The moment she opened the dashboard, she found 99+ new comments, and even private messages from editors.
She checked the private messages first.
There were three different editors from InsectLit reaching out to her.
On InsectLit, multiple editors contacting the same author was allowed. If it had been another site, only editors would get to choose authors—the authors themselves had no say and just had to wait to be bound to whichever editor picked them.
But InsectLit was different. They encouraged mutual choice between editors and authors.
If an editor liked an author’s novel, they could contact the author and make their offer, while the author could also choose to work with whichever editor they preferred.
Their goal was only one: to do everything they could to create the best stories.
Even if some editors lost out to others, they wouldn’t feel discouraged or jealous. After all, no matter which editor an author chose, it would still be the best match between author and editor—and would result in the best possible story.
When Song Wenlan first saw this, she was quite surprised.
Perhaps only a race like the net-insects, who treated stories as their very lifeblood, could create such a healthy competitive environment.
She opened the three editors’ messages one by one.
The first editor’s tone was very official—essentially just encouraging her to update more, and saying that once she hit twenty thousand words she could come to him to sign a contract.
The second editor was more lively, showering her with flattery and saying things like: “A story this good—if it doesn’t continue updating, it would be a loss for the entire interstellar world.” Later on, though, she also shared the performance of the authors under her care and promised to discuss plot with Song Wenlan in the future, even offering to help polish her writing.
The third was an editor named “Meng Xingchong.” During the time she’d been missing, he had sent over ten messages, off and on.
Most of them were his reflections after reading her novel—such as his guesses about the male lead’s identity, his curiosity about White Snake, and even his hope that she might add annotations for White Snake.
Inspired by him, Song Wenlan suddenly had an idea.
She had seen the annotations on those StarNet sites before—they were all very official and dry. But couldn’t she go the opposite route? Supplement the story with fun, engaging notes that explained the parts of Blue Star culture readers didn’t understand?
By the time she reached this point, her preference was already quite clear.
When it came to interstellar culture, she was actually lacking. Song Wenlan didn’t want to pick a laid-back editor; besides, she was already a mature author and still needed an editor who could give her useful guidance on her work.
And Meng Xingchong was able to point out the details in her text that she herself hadn’t noticed. Not to mention… Song Wenlan’s gaze fell on the very last line of his message:
“I’ve already applied to the chief editor for a B-level contract. If you’d like to continue updating, you can private message me to sign it.”
All the more so, this editor had already shown his sincerity.
