However, the things these beastmen focused on left Song Wenlan both amused and helpless. Many of them fixated on details that would never pass review.

[The position the author wrote about, I’ve never tried before. I’ll give it a shot tonight.]

[Even though there are still misunderstandings between them, I can tell that Bai Ye really does love Hu Sanli.]

[It’s clearly just a simple bunny costume, so why does it feel so exciting to me?]

[I got hooked on this book because our young master recommended it. It’s really well-written. I’ll never say novels are boring again.]

Under this comment, there were a lot of people chiming in.

[Our young master is so innocent. I just saw his neck turning red.]

[Hey, the young master can see these comments too!]

As soon as that was said, the comments above immediately vanished.

Song Wenlan, who happened to see that comment: ……

So that’s what it was—turns out they all belonged to the same tribe. Song Wenlan could practically picture a little young master with a flushed neck, going around eagerly promoting her book.

It was actually kind of cute. Song Wenlan smiled quietly.

Of course, some readers also noticed the special footnotes Song Wenlan had added.

“Note 1: Gas stove, a kind of cooking appliance. Food is the god of the people; culinary culture is one of the most important aspects of human culture.”

“Note 2: White Snake, a traditional folk love story. White Snake is a white serpent who cultivated for a thousand years. To repay Xu Xian for saving her, she marries him. During the Dragon Boat Festival, White Snake drinks realgar wine and reveals her true form, frightening Xu Xian to death. To save him, White Snake steals the immortal herb lingzhi, and in the end, she successfully brings him back to life.”

As for the story of White Snake, Song Wenlan hadn’t written it out in full—she only chose a section that was related to her content.

After all, that drama had so many episodes. If she wrote the whole thing, would she even have time to write her own story?

Even so, those two footnotes still sparked heated discussion among the readers.

Some focused on food.

[“Food is the god of the people”—these words feel so weighty. Maybe the author will include more dishes later in the story. I’m really looking forward to it!]

[In our interstellar era, we don’t have any of those delicious, tempting dishes. It’s always just nutrient packs and more nutrient packs.]

[My friends, actually, the interstellar does have vegetables. Blue Star has always cultivated them. But vegetables are too rare and too expensive. My entire year’s salary is only enough to buy a single leaf. I’m so jealous of Hu Sanli and Bai Ye in the novel—vegetables are actually so cheap there.]

Seeing that comment, bitterness rose in Song Wenlan’s face as well.

She had searched the Blue Star cultivation base listings before: a lettuce the size of a palm cost one hundred thousand interstellar credits.

And she herself was penniless.

Who knew when she would ever achieve food freedom?

Of course, compared to food, the audience discussed White Snake even more.

[Why did White Snake have to marry Xu Xian just to repay him? Couldn’t she have chosen another way?]

[I think Xu Xian doesn’t deserve White Snake’s love at all. Just seeing her true form scared him to death.]

[What kind of place is the underworld? The worldview of this story seems fascinating too. Author, when will you write White Snake’s story?]

Even when Song Wenlan went to find the Meng Xingchong, its first question was this very one.

“Author Zao Si, would you be interested in writing the story of White Snake? I could talk to the chief editor and apply for an A-level contract for you.”

Looking at the very first line sent from the other side, Song Wenlan felt a little helpless.

It seemed this editor really was a devoted reader of hers—her story hadn’t even been out for long, yet he had already finished reading it.

But on this matter, Song Wenlan made her stance very clear.

“White Snake isn’t my original story. I don’t have any intention of writing it out.”

Of course, if she really wanted to, she could write it. With the existing storyline already there, the money would be easy to earn.

But no matter how many stories she wrote, Song Wenlan firmly believed that original work was original work. No matter who else tried to write it, it would never capture the feeling of the true creator.

Besides, she wasn’t lacking stories of her own—so why should she go and write someone else’s?

This was Song Wenlan’s pride, and also her bottom line.

The Meng Xingchong quickly replied:

“Then… would you be able to recommend the original author? I was just asking casually. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

“The original author has already passed away,” Song Wenlan answered directly, cutting him off before he could keep asking. “That work is also lost. If I ever manage to find it, I’ll let you know.”

“That really is a pity.” The Meng Xingchong sounded regretful, but he also knew the real purpose of today’s conversation.

He quickly sent over a B-level contract to Song Wenlan:

“Author Zao Si, please take a look and see if there are any issues. If you have other requests, you can let me know as well.”

After receiving the contract, Song Wenlan carefully began to read through it.

The terms at Insect Literature Novel Website were extremely generous. Aside from the 70/30 revenue split between author and platform, there was also a full-attendance stipend of five thousand interstellar credits every month.

Most importantly, even after signing the contract, the copyright still belonged to the author. Later on, if the work was adapted into film, television, or animation, the platform would only take a small fee.

It was rare to see a contract where the author still held the copyright after signing, and this point struck right at Song Wenlan’s soft spot.

“No problem. It’s just that my current identity is a little special—I can’t appear in public. Can I sign the contract under my brother’s name instead?”

The Meng Xingchong hesitated for a moment.

But he also understood that if he refused, the other party might not sign at all.

Being quick on his feet, the Meng Xingchong immediately agreed:

“That’s fine, but you’ll need to sign a guarantee agreement yourself.”

“Alright.”

Soon, Song Wenlan received the guarantee agreement. In black and white it stated: the author must not write content inciting the masses or threatening interstellar peace, nor any remarks that smeared particular races, and so on.

Song Wenlan signed swiftly, then took the contract to Xisha for his signature.

Her timing was just right—Xisha hadn’t left for work yet.

When he saw the contract, he was a little surprised.

“You actually managed to get a contract?”

“Of course. If I wasn’t confident I could make money, how would I have dared to promise you?”

Song Wenlan said with a bright smile.

Xisha choked for a moment. “I hope you can keep up that confidence.”

He glanced down at the contract and happened to see the book title.

My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.

Xisha thought the title of the book was very strange, but since he had no curiosity about such energy-wasting novels, he had no intention of reading it.

He quickly signed his name in the required places, patted Song Wenlan on the shoulder, told her to keep working hard, and then hurried off to the basement to work.

The Meng Xingchong, upon receiving the contract: It was signed just like that?

The surprise came so suddenly that the Meng Xingchong couldn’t help but pat his own face with his wings.

Feeling the faint sting of pain, he pursed his lips, glanced around, and secretly broke into a smile.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.14 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Amid the eager anticipation of the unmarried youths of the snake clan, the clan leader finally emerged, holding his scepter.

Looking around, he saw that compared to last year, there were even more young people present, and he couldn’t help but show a satisfied expression—especially when he noticed Fengxing obediently sitting to the side, which reassured him even more.

“Today is our snake clan’s annual matchmaking gathering. Everyone knows what this gathering is for, so I won’t say much about that. Instead, I’ll explain the process for today.”

The clan leader’s voice rang out loud and clear.

The snake youths all perked up their ears.

“As in previous years, the first event is the hunting activity, where you’ll be ranked according to the amount of prey you catch.”

The female snakes nodded. No matter how the matchmaking process changed, they still needed to find a mate who could provide for them.

Of course, some female snakes were strong enough to support themselves, so they didn’t care much about a male’s hunting ability and instead relied on their sense of personal connection.

“This year, that activity will continue as usual. But before that, we’ll be holding a small event.”

At this point, the clan leader cast a meaningful glance at Fengxing.

Fengxing looked blank, not understanding why his father was staring at him like that while speaking.

Under his son’s innocent gaze, the clan leader smiled slightly—and sold him out completely.

“Everyone knows my son usually has no interest whatsoever in matters of romance. Yet today he has actually come to the matchmaking gathering. Aren’t you all curious about this?”

The moment he finished speaking, both male and female snakes shouted in unison:

“We are!”

“Clan Leader, what do you know?”

“Was it you who forced Fengxing to participate?”

The moment Fengxing heard his father mention his name, he had a bad feeling. Now, seeing how things were playing out, how could he not realize the old man was up to no good?

He might be simple, but he wasn’t stupid.

He also had the ability of perception—of course he knew just how heaven-defying this power was. As long as the old man wanted to know something, there was nothing that could escape him.

Thinking of this, Fengxing immediately lunged at his father, trying to cover his mouth.

“Father…”

But his speed was nowhere near enough to match his father’s.

The old man easily dodged his son’s sneak attack, then continued:

“I only found out today myself—my son changed his attitude and developed the desire to start a family because of a book he read.”

The clan leader’s words made everyone’s eyes widen.

No one had expected that answer.

In fact, everyone in the snake clan knew that Fengxing liked to read, but they had seen those romance books before too—nothing special.

Fengxing had been reading them for years, and yet he never showed up at past matchmaking gatherings.

“This particular book is newly published. Fengxing only read it recently. Its title is My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.”

While dodging Fengxing’s attempts to attack him, the old man went on:

“So, the very first activity of our matchmaking gathering will be to read this book and hold a reading and discussion session.”

With the clan leader’s words, the matter was completely settled.

Chasing after his father was useless now. Fengxing could only stand there awkwardly, his whole face burning red with humiliation and anger.

Yumo glanced at his good brother with quiet sympathy. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do.

It was fortunate that Song Wenlan wasn’t here. If she were, and heard an old man publicly announce the title of her book and then demand the entire clan read it, she might have felt even more embarrassed than Fengxing. She could probably dig a castle into the ground with her toes.

As soon as the clan leader said the book’s title, one of the quick-acting female snakes had already searched it up.

“I’ve found it—huh? This book just updated?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but the word updated was far too sensitive. Both Fengxing and Yumo immediately caught it.

Fengxing and Yumo: !!!

The author who had been missing for so many days had actually updated?!

Fengxing leapt up at once and turned to run toward his room.

“I need to read the new update!”

But his dear father casually waved a hand and clamped down on his neck.

When Fengxing turned his head, he saw his usually stern father wearing a kindly—no, sinisterly kindly—smile.

“Read it right here. Perfect—you can share your thoughts with everyone after.”

Fengxing thought back to where the author had left off: the rabbit disguise, the brutal interrogation…

He couldn’t stop himself from covering his face.

Father, do you really not want your son to survive in the Baimiao Star System?

Thankfully, Song Wenlan hadn’t written too much this time.

She had only briefly described Bai Ye, bound tightly with ropes, unable to move no matter how he struggled. In his helplessness, he could only agree to Hu Sanli’s request—that she spend the New Year with him, going back home together.

But this kind of half-veiled, teasing description, in Fengxing’s eyes, was even worse than if she had just written it all out in detail!

For the first time, Fengxing realized that leaving things vague could actually be even more exciting than spelling them out.

Just imagining it was enough to know how delicious Bai Ye must taste… No! He couldn’t even let himself think about it!

Fengxing instantly forced his brain to shut down and quietly glanced around at the clansmen nearby.

He saw them all absorbed in the book, their faces showing expressions of either worry or surprise. Some of the faster readers were even imitating the poses described in the story as they discussed them with others.

Gradually, more and more people joined in the exchange.

Fengxing: shocked.jpg!

Wait—are my clansmen really this open?

“Face reality. In our clan, someone like you who hasn’t had any nightlife is actually very rare.”

Yumo quietly came over to Fengxing’s side, reading his expression and offering “comfort.”

“You mean you’ve had it before?”

Fengxing’s question shut Yumo right up. He hadn’t either.

“I just haven’t found the right one yet, it’s not that I don’t want to,” Yumo muttered. Then he changed the subject: “Anyway, before, the author always updated one full chapter after another. But now she only released two thousand words before stopping. I think she’s about to sign a contract.”

“Sign a contract?” Fengxing’s eyes lit up. “Then there won’t be a lack of updates anymore?”

“There won’t,” Yumo confirmed, “but don’t get your hopes too high. On the days when she updates ten thousand words, do you really think that feels like a lot?”

Fengxing understood what Yumo meant. He was right. With the way the author wrote, unless she updated straight through to the ending, they would always feel it wasn’t enough.

Waiting for updates was sheer torment!

Fengxing let out a long sigh as he looked at his clansmen, his eyes full of envy.

They were so lucky—just opening the app and the author had updated!

But from now on, they would have to suffer through the agonizing wait for new chapters together with him!

Thinking of this, Fengxing actually felt a sense of balance in his heart.

Just as Yumo had guessed, after Song Wenlan updated those two thousand words and reached the signing threshold, she planned to contact Meng Xingchong to sign a contract.

But before leaving, she glanced at her book and noticed that her bookmarks had suddenly increased by nearly a hundred, and comments were also starting to rise. Judging from the content, it seemed they were from some kind of beast clan.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.13 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Between the lines of Meng Xingchong’s words there was only one meaning: as long as Song Wenlan was willing to write, they could sign the contract even if her current word count wasn’t enough.

This was an editor willing to bend the rules for a good story.

That was Song Wenlan’s first impression of Meng Xingchong; her second was that he was clever.

She was only two thousand words short of the required count. Anyone who had seen her updates knew two thousand words was nothing to her — she could make it up in a day after signing.

So Meng Xingchong wasn’t handing out freebies; he was showing an attitude.

Song Wenlan smiled and exited the message.

She wouldn’t reply right now — she’d finish the remaining words first, then respond.

After leaving her private messages, Song Wenlan began reading the novel’s comments.

The moment she opened the novel page she was startled by the current stats.

There were over seven thousand bookmarks — nearly eight thousand!

How many had there been when she last stopped updating? It seemed like only a few dozen.

Song Wenlan felt a little baffled. How had the bookmark count exploded like this?

After studying it for a few minutes she pieced together what had happened, and when she understood she couldn’t help but laugh and cry at the same time.

Who would have thought?

All she’d done was miss one update, and because those readers couldn’t see new chapters they felt aggrieved and actually went to the forum to draw in more readers!

Now the comments under the book were all begging for updates.

[Author, I’m a “star thief” — if you don’t update soon I’ll come rob your drafts box.]

[Author, I can’t sleep. I want to see the next plot. Can you still sleep?]

[Got drawn over here by a forum post. Even though I now know it was a scheme by the old readers, I’m still glad I found this book. So… does that make me a shameless person?]

Of course, what made Song Wenlan happiest was realizing from these comments that readers seemed quite receptive to the concept of the demon race.

Some readers remarked that the demon race felt like a fantasy species but was interesting. Others said the book’s background felt rather ancient, with many elements like antiques, which made it fun to read. However, one of them admitted he didn’t quite understand what a gas stove was.

Seeing that, Song Wenlan once again felt that adding annotations was definitely necessary.

After reading through all the comments, she was full of motivation as she opened her author’s backend and began writing the continuation.

At that moment, within the net-insect community—

Meng Xingchong stared at the chat window with a tangled expression.

What did it mean that Great Zao Si had read his message but not replied? Did she not want to update? Or not want to sign the contract?

Or perhaps… she already had an editor she wanted to sign with?

Meng Xingchong glanced furtively at his colleagues. They were all connected to the light-brains with their silken threads, none showing any unusual reaction.

Great Zao Si probably hadn’t signed with any editor yet, Meng Xingchong thought. If she had signed with him, he’d definitely be so excited he’d be jumping around.

And so he fell into another round of inner turmoil.

The only good news for him was that Great Zao Si had finally shown up. Maybe, just maybe, he’d see an update soon!

Meng Xingchong knew Song Wenlan had logged in to her author account, but Fengxing and Yumo didn’t.

They were busy attending a matchmaking gathering in the Snake Clan.

Before the gathering began, all the unmarried men and women of the Snake Clan gathered at the chief’s house, waiting for the chief to announce the event.

When Yumo appeared, no one was surprised. Ever since he’d first felt the stirrings of springtime desire, he had attended the matchmaking gathering every single year.

His presence was something the tribe was already used to.

But what shocked them was that the chief’s son—Fengxing, who had always resisted marriage—had shown up as well!

The young snakefolk who came couldn’t help glancing at Fengxing.

Among the male youths of the tribe, Fengxing was a formidable rival.

Setting aside his status, even just his hunting ability alone was something few could surpass.

The young men looked at Fengxing, and a spark of competitiveness began to burn in their eyes.

The young women, on the other hand, were more focused on why Fengxing had come.

Could it be that he already had someone he liked?

The female snakefolk swarmed, but not toward Fengxing—they crowded around Yumo instead.

As for why not Fengxing, his cold face said it all: the words “keep your distance” were practically carved onto his features.

Yumo, on the other hand, looked much more approachable.

Still, Yumo had already promised to keep Fengxing’s secret. No matter who came asking, he wouldn’t say a word. All he would tell them was that Fengxing didn’t have anyone he fancied yet, so anyone interested could give it a try.

Not only the young women—even the tribe chief himself was curious about the change in his son.

And so, Yumo was directly summoned to the chief’s side.

The stern old man sat at the highest seat. His long blue-green hair was gathered into a small braid. His eyes were narrow and, when slightly arched, gave him the look of someone not to be trusted.

Yumo faced the chief’s pressuring gaze and spread his hands helplessly.

“Chief, I really can’t say. I promised Fengxing I’d keep it a secret. Why don’t you go ask your son yourself?”

“It’s fine, you don’t need to say.”

The old man moved swiftly to Yumo’s side, gave him a smile, and quickly grabbed his arm.

Yumo was startled, but immediately realized what the chief was doing.

This branch of the chief’s lineage had a special ability of perception.

No matter what they touched, they could sense past events—before the chief, no secret could remain hidden.

Fengxing had never used this ability on him, so Yumo had let his guard down.

Before Yumo could pull away from the chief’s grasp, the old man had already let go, his face curling into a smile.

Because of his features, even his smile looked sinister.

“So that’s how it is. Why be embarrassed about this? Mating and reproduction have always been major matters in the tribe.” The old man spoke unhurriedly. “We beastmen have never shied away from such things. It’s only humans who look at these instincts with strange eyes.”

Yumo curled his lips. He didn’t care about opinions on humans; he only cared about one thing.

“Chief, this is something you found out yourself—it wasn’t me who said it. If Fengxing comes asking, don’t pin it on me,” Yumo quickly clarified.

“I know, don’t worry. Do you really think I’m someone who doesn’t understand the rules?” the old man replied helplessly.

Yumo muttered under his breath, “You understand them, sure… but you never exactly follow them.”

“All right, enough muttering there. Go on back—those beautiful young ladies are waiting for you.”

The old man waved him off.

Once Yumo had left, the chief began to think.

It was just a novel, yet it had such great power—enough to awaken that slow-witted son of his. If he spread this novel throughout the whole tribe, could it perhaps bring about better results for the tribe’s reproduction?

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.12 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

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.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.11 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

If there was one thing Meng Xingchong regretted the most, it was signing a contract with Ao Weiwei.

No doubt about it—Ao Weiwei was the author who gave him the biggest headache.

Few updates, frequent hiatuses, always pretending to play dead, and whenever asked, the excuse was always the same: “No inspiration.”

Once, she even tried livestreaming under the watch of netizens—yet after a whole day, she only managed to write two hundred words.

He wished more than anything that he could turn back time and stop his past self—who had thought Ao Weiwei’s novel had “potential” and eagerly signed the contract!

An editor’s schedule was fairly flexible, but Meng Xingchong had developed one fixed habit: every single workday, he urged Ao Weiwei to update.

His reminders had practically echoed across the farthest reaches of the Empire, but the other party just stayed silent, feigning death.

And now, what was this—had the King Insect descended today? She actually dared to message him first?!

Meng Xingchong was shocked. He was bewildered. He wanted to ask her just how thick her skin was—to actually turn the tables and urge him to do work?

But then he saw the familiar book title she had shared, and Meng Xingchong understood.

This book truly did have that kind of magic—the power to make even a “dead” author take the initiative to contact her editor.

Yet the moment he understood, Meng Xingchong only felt more annoyed.

Was it that he didn’t want to sign a contract with that author?

He had already sent a barrage of messages to the author’s inbox, but up until now, the author hadn’t even opened them.

All his helplessness and frustration boiled down to one line:

“Great Weiwei, please—immediately! Right this instant! Go write! If you weren’t pestering me, maybe by now I’d already be in touch with the author!”

…

Song Wenlan had no idea that her novel had triggered such a chain reaction of chaos.

In truth, she hadn’t wanted to go on hiatus either.

But she had no choice—her light-brain had broken down.

Just yesterday, while writing the last chapter, Song Wenlan’s light-brain suddenly went black. No matter which button she pressed, it wouldn’t turn back on.

Helpless, Song Wenlan had no choice but to call Xisha out from his work again.

With a grim expression, Xisha dismantled the light-brain piece by piece, and soon found the cause.

“One of the rare components is broken.”

“Can it be fixed today? Or is there another light-brain?”

If it wasn’t for some irresistible factor, Song Wenlan would never have wanted to go on hiatus.

Unfortunately, her luck wasn’t so good.

“I don’t have any spare light-brains here.”

As he reassembled the parts, Xisha explained. He was using the room’s built-in communication device, which usually only connected with people from other star systems, and had no other functions.

“And your luck is especially bad—I just sold off that batch of rare components a couple of days ago.”

From what she had seen over the past two days, Song Wenlan realized that Xisha’s so-called “Garbage Star” really lived up to its name.

Every day, unmanned ships from waste-disposal companies dumped trash here. Xisha’s job was to scavenge for reusable energy or parts, process or modify them, and then resell them.

Much like how scrap collectors in the modern world could strike it rich, Xisha had also made quite a lot of money in this trade.

Watching his practiced movements, Song Wenlan couldn’t help but feel that if he had become a repair engineer, he would have done just as well.

“So when will new rare components show up?” Song Wenlan pressed.

Xisha shot her a glance and drawled, “That depends on your luck. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe… not even a month from now.”

Song Wenlan’s heart sank completely.

She had never placed much hope in her own luck. The only comfort she had was that her book wasn’t under contract yet, and she didn’t have that many readers.

Surely… not too many people would curse her… right?

What Song Wenlan didn’t know was that her readers were already on the verge of going mad from her hiatus.

In the current interstellar era, authors hadn’t yet mastered the art of “writer’s block tricks.” Very few of them bothered to deliberately leave hooks or cliffhangers to keep readers hooked.

And yet here she was, dropping a hook at every critical moment, making it impossible to stop reading—while the wait for updates was ten times more agonizing than for other works.

One day passed, and the readers comforted themselves: the author would be back soon.

Two days passed, and they told themselves: just wait a little longer.

Three days passed—and the comment section exploded, the sheer resentment enough to feed a whole Evil Sword Immortal.

Finally, one reader couldn’t take it anymore. They charged into the reader forum and made a recommendation post for My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.

They even sneakily egged on the others: go leave a comment, go bump the post.

[A story this addictive—don’t you want more people to know about it?]

In an instant, the remaining dozen or so readers caught his meaning.

Right! Such a good story couldn’t be known only to them—and the suffering of waiting for updates shouldn’t be borne by them alone.

Immediately, all the readers swarmed to that recommendation post, eagerly backing it up with their own proofs.

[I can vouch for it—this is truly the best book I’ve read in my entire life. After finishing it, I suddenly felt that every other book was unbearably dull.]

[I can vouch for it too. The fact that the site hasn’t signed a contract with the author is an enormous loss for the platform.]

[I swear on the dignity of our Snake King—if it’s not good, come find me.]

It didn’t take long for someone innocent to bite.

[Is it really that good?]

The readers had been watching the forum all along. The moment they saw this question, they pounced.

[It really is. Go read it, you won’t regret it.]

[Friend, if you miss this book, it will be the greatest regret of your life.]

[The author’s writing is truly excellent. Watching the protagonists interact is so sweet I couldn’t help but smile. And… let me tell you a secret—there are some benefits hidden in the text.]

Because the post’s activity was so high, it gradually climbed into the hot posts section. Many people saw the comments and became curious about this book.

They wanted to see for themselves—could it really be so good that missing it would become the regret of a lifetime?

Of course, some were drawn in purely for the sake of that so-called “secret.”

As everyone knows, the more secretive something is, the more people want to uncover it.

Whatever their reasons, once new readers opened the book, very few could pull themselves back out.

At first, they were only intrigued by Song Wenlan’s portrayal of the demon race. But soon, when they reached the part where the protagonists first met, their faces flushed red.

What kind of author was this?!

But they loved it. Write more!

Before long, they reached the final line: [You have finished all available chapters. Please bookmark the work before leaving.]

So then… what about the updates?

Why exactly didn’t Bai Ye bring Hu Sanli home? Did he really have a wife waiting back in his hometown?

And could Hu Sanli actually succeed in persuading Bai Ye to take her back with him?

These questions firmly lodged themselves in the minds of the new readers.

One after another, they flooded the comments section.

“Where’s the rest of the plot?”

“Author, hurry up and update!”

Seeing this, the old readers all smiled smugly, some even laughing out loud beneath the pleas for updates.

It didn’t take long for the newcomers to learn the truth—that the author had already gone three days without updating.

A bolt from the blue.

In a fit of fury, they fumed.

Unable to endure the lack of updates, the readers stormed back to the forum. But instead of exposing the old readers’ little scheme, they started making new posts of their own.

[After reading everyone’s recommendation of My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis, let me share my thoughts. First of all, I can confirm that everything they said is true—this novel is absolutely amazing. If anyone hasn’t read it yet, I’ll be very unhappy, okay?]

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.10 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

“You’ve finished reading all available content. Please bookmark the story first.”

Seeing this all-too-familiar line, Meng Xingchong was utterly stunned.

Wait—what? That’s it?

He could’ve sworn he’d only been reading for two minutes. Wasn’t today’s content a bit short?

Meng Xingchong felt he was being greedy. After all, Great God Zao Si had already updated quite a lot. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t enough. Besides, this novel… it really made him feel both embarrassed and completely hooked.

But this was his job, after all. Meng Xingchong fluttered his wings, trying to cool down his face that felt like it was about to overheat.

Just as he was about to send the contract he’d prepared to Great God Zao Si, the discussion among nearby editors caught his attention.

“This author, Zao Si, really knows how to grab readers’ hearts. Every chapter ending just makes you want to keep reading.”

“You’re reading her work too? I’ve been following it as well. I even got the contract ready. I thought I could sign her today, but she’s still just short of the required word count.”

It was normal for excellent authors to attract the admiration of more editors. Meng Xingchong had no issue with that. But… word count???

He immediately turned back and reopened the novel he’d just finished.

18,000 words?

Only 2,000 short?!

It was like a bolt from the blue. Meng Xingchong froze on the spot. So it hadn’t just been his imagination that something felt missing—

It really was missing!

A whole two thousand words!

Even though the interstellar era didn’t have the meme of “shaking the author upside down,” Meng Xingchong could still deeply relate to it.

Oh, how he wished he could grab the author and shake out those words.

So… would there be another update today?

Meanwhile, Fengxing and Yumo had also just finished reading today’s update.

Ever since reading My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis from Fengxing, Yumo had become infatuated with the story as well.

Fengxing’s focus was all on the demon race’s combat abilities, while Yumo’s attention was on the interactions between Hu Sanli and Bai Ye.

To him, the romance in this book perfectly fulfilled his own fantasies about love.

He too wanted to find a female beastman and live a life that was both ordinary and passionate.

In Yumo’s eyes, the love between Hu Sanli and Bai Ye was like a red rose seen every morning upon waking—sweet as honey, yet so seamlessly woven into daily life that it had become the norm.

But regardless of what their focus was, when they reached the end, both of them had the exact same thought.

How dare you stop here?

Huh??

Author, can’t you update a little more?!

Fengxing refreshed the page again and again, until at last he let his gaze fall in disappointment. “There really isn’t any more.”

“Just wait a little longer. Tomorrow there’ll be an update. Maybe even tonight,” Yumo said, comforting Fengxing—and also himself.

“You’re right. I need to follow this author. I want to see her updates the moment they come out!” Fengxing said fiercely.

Yumo looked at his good brother but didn’t tell him—he had already followed the author yesterday.

“Oh right, in a few days our tribe is holding this year’s Friendship Tournament. You’re still not planning to attend?” Yumo asked.

For the snake tribe, the “Friendship Tournament” was, to put it bluntly, a matchmaking event.

And both Fengxing and Yumo, though still young, were already star figures at these gatherings.

One was absolutely unwilling to find a mate, even once saying to his father: ‘Why should I share my prey with some stranger snake?’

The other went every year, but because his standards were far too strict, he never once succeeded.

Needless to say, Fengxing was the “lonely king,” while Yumo was the perfectionist.

While reading, Fengxing had been focusing on the demon race’s combat power, but the story still affected him all the same.

He hesitated—something rare for him.

After a long pause his face flushed and he mumbled, “If it were a female beastman as strong as Hu Sanli, it might not be impossible.”

Yumo had expected that answer; hearing it, he burst out laughing without a second thought.

A clear breeze passed over Fengxing’s embarrassed face and carried away Yumo’s cheerful laughter.

In that moment, Fengxing and Yumo were both very happy.

But their happiness didn’t last long.

That night there was no update, and they felt disappointed but didn’t think much of it.

By the next day there was still no update, and the two realized something was wrong—their mood began to grow anxious.

[Author—where’s today’s update? Give us the update now!!!]

[If there’s no update I’ll make a scene!]

Compared with Fengxing’s rashness, Yumo was more polite.

[Great God, are you unwell? Or did you run into some problem?]

He shifted the topic to the update: [So, when will you update?]

It wasn’t just them leaving comments—readers who had recently discovered the book but had been lurking quietly began to show up and demand updates as well.

[This is the best book I’ve discovered recently. Author, please don’t give up (sobbing).]

[It’s so addictive. Since finishing it I think about it when I walk, when I eat, even when I sleep. If there’s no update I won’t be able to survive.]

[Author, if you update now I’ll spread the word for you!]

Not only were they commenting, some were even planning to tip the author to drag them out and force an update.

But when they checked the novel’s page, they saw that the author still hadn’t signed a contract. Unsigned books couldn’t receive tips, and for the first time the readers experienced the frustration of having money but nowhere to spend it.

Ao Weiwei was one of those frustrated readers.

In fact, she wasn’t purely a reader—she was also a small-time author. Because she had read too many novels and had been in a constant state of book drought, she eventually resorted to “cutting the flesh off her own legs” and started writing the kind of stories she liked herself.

But reading and writing novels were completely different things.

It wasn’t until she tried it herself that Ao Weiwei realized just how difficult writing a novel was. You had to keep updating, come up with all sorts of plots and characters.

Gradually, she began to drop updates from time to time, wandering around looking for novels to read, dressing it up as “seeking inspiration.”

Because she skipped updates too often, her readers even threatened that they would find her, lock her up, and only feed her if she kept writing.

But Ao Weiwei didn’t really care.

Her family wasn’t short on money, and their security was always on top-level protection—her readers would have a hard time taking her away.

Now, Ao Weiwei finally understood how her own readers felt.

Going on hiatus herself? Fine. But other authors going on hiatus? Absolutely not!

Usually Buddhist about everything, Ao Weiwei was uncharacteristically furious.

She started pestering her editor like crazy.

[(You shared My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis with Editor Juanwang.)]

[Editor, what on earth is going on at InsectLit? Do you still want this site to grow or not? With such a good story, hurry up and get it signed!]

[Go contact the author, get the contract signed, I want the flood of updates after signing!]

[Why aren’t you replying? It’s been three seconds already—do you not love me anymore?]

Meng Xingchong, already frazzled and now forced to endure the unreasonable tantrums of his own author: ……

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.9 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Meng Xingchong had been longing to sign a contract with Song Wenlan, so he paid special attention to her update speed.

Seeing that Song Wenlan had updated 10,000 words on the very first day, Meng Xingchong was overjoyed.

Currently, interstellar authors updated at a very slow pace. Even after signing a contract, most only put out one or two thousand words a day. Some even stopped updating altogether and acted perfectly justified about it, forcing editors to beg them repeatedly before they were willing to grudgingly grind out a little bit of plot.

But in Meng Xingchong’s eyes, Song Wenlan’s update speed was nothing short of godlike.

He even felt that the chief editor was worrying too much. At Great God Zao Si’s pace, the contract could probably be signed in just two days.

Early this morning, Meng Xingchong woke up bright and early, with the contract already prepared.

At the very start of his workday, he clicked open My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.

Noticing a new chapter had appeared, Meng Xingchong instinctively let out a breath of relief.

Good, Great God Zao Si had updated.

His natural craving for stories made him set the contract aside and dive straight into today’s update.

Hu Sanli, after cultivating with the demon hunters, finally returned home at dawn the next day.

Hu Sanli often worked night shifts—Bai Ye was aware of this. Every time she came home, there would always be steaming hot food waiting on the table, and on the TV at home, White Snake was always playing.

Interstellar novels were highly concise, with little details often hiding bits of information. With this understanding, Meng Xingchong subconsciously began to wonder what exactly a “television” was, and what this White Snake might be.

Meng Xingchong didn’t know much about Blue Star’s culture. He didn’t realize that television belonged to Blue Star’s history. He only instinctively thought that this White Snake must be a very good story—otherwise, the male lead wouldn’t keep playing it.

One had to admit, being able to enter the InesectLit Novel Website already proved that Meng Xingchong had considerable ability.

Once he’d thought it through, he continued reading.

Every time Hu Sanli saw the breakfast Bai Ye prepared, her heart would brim with delight. She couldn’t help but imagine the scene of a tall, handsome man in a pink apron, washing his hands and cooking a meal just for her.

Why call it imagination?

Because Bai Ye, always claiming he was afraid she’d get splashed, never allowed her to enter the kitchen while he was cooking.

Hu Sanli was deeply touched by this, but in truth—

That scene of him “washing his hands to make soup” simply didn’t exist.

In the kitchen, a tall man stood at the very edge, keeping a full meter’s distance from the gas stove.

The glow of the flames reflected against his furrowed brow. Under Bai Ye’s watchful gaze, scales carried the prepared cabbage and seasonings into the wok, one after another.

Soon, a rich fragrance of stir-fried vegetables mixed with the gentle aroma of millet porridge drifted into the living room.

After that, Song Wenlan went into great detail describing the taste of cabbage, fried eggs, and porridge. This sprang from her own resentment—she had been here for two days already, and in those two days, the only thing she’d drunk was nutrient solution.

Nothing else, no food, no extra fluids.

Fueled by her craving, the simple home-cooked dishes in the novel turned lush and delicious.

Meng Xingchong unconsciously swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

In truth, net-insects didn’t need to eat at all. They only needed to seek out fresh stories; a good story would stimulate the secretion of a special substance, which in turn kept all their organs running.

But now, Meng Xingchong suddenly had the illusion that he wanted to eat something. Even if it wasn’t the dishes in the story—just a single tube of nutrient solution would do.

The nutrients in nutrient solution could also be absorbed by net-insects. However, their bodies couldn’t process most of the nutrients, so they could only absorb a tiny bit of energy from it. For most net-insects, nutrient solution was more like a snack.

Meng Xingchong usually kept some nutrient solution on hand as well.

He rummaged through his things and finally dug out a bottle—apple-flavored.

But the artificially synthesized apple taste didn’t satisfy Meng Xingchong’s palate; it only made him feel hungrier.

With no other choice, Meng Xingchong hurriedly continued reading.

The mysteries surrounding the male lead grew deeper and deeper: refusing to let the heroine into the kitchen, those inexplicably appearing scales, the way he appeared almost instantly in front of her when she accidentally dropped her porridge, and the fact that he had never once taken her back to his hometown.

Her colleague’s voice kept echoing in Hu Sanli’s mind: “I’ve seen this kind of thing a lot. People from the countryside marry early. Before they come to the city to work, they’ve often already been married. But once they’re in the city, they’ll say they’ve never been married and then find another woman to live with.”

Hu Sanli refused to believe Bai Ye was that kind of man. But no matter whether she tried threats or persuasion, Bai Ye never let a word slip.

And yet, he had clearly said before that he had family back home.

“No matter what, you need to go to his home and see for yourself. If he really does have another woman, it’s better for you to leave him sooner rather than later.”

“In the end, humans and demons are different. Back when you insisted on marrying him, none of us agreed. The fact that you’ve lasted two years already is surprising enough.”

Hu Sanli didn’t want to doubt Bai Ye, but she agreed with this last point from her colleague.

She had to uncover the truth, to find out what Bai Ye was really hiding.

As a demon-hunter, she still had certain privileges. So long as it wasn’t treason or some crime against the nation, she had the means to dig it up.

Hu Sanli had hidden her true identity from Bai Ye, so she knew better than anyone how hard it was to keep a secret from the one you loved.

Her beloved was right there at her side, and more than once she had wanted to lay everything out in the open. But she was afraid he wouldn’t accept it—just like Xu Xian, who didn’t dare face White Snake’s true form. She too feared her lover would turn away from her.

That was why, in every other aspect, Hu Sanli was unusually candid. She spoke her mind, and if there were misunderstandings, she always tried to resolve them one way or another.

Watching Bai Ye carry a tray away, Hu Sanli’s eyes flickered and suddenly lit up with an idea.

Though Bai Ye was a man of few words, after living with him for two years, Hu Sanli knew that deep down, he was really a repressed flirt.

He had once admitted that he liked her at first sight—but instead of confessing, he had only hooked her with his eyes, silently waiting for her to bite the bait herself.

And that was Bai Ye’s weakness.

From the storeroom, Hu Sanli pulled out a long-forgotten rabbit costume.

The outfit had been secretly bought by Bai Ye, until Hu Sanli discovered it. As a fox, she had naturally looked down on the frail little rabbit.

But today was a special case—New Year was just around the corner. If she wanted Bai Ye to agree to take her home for the holiday, Hu Sanli figured there was no harm in playing along.

Bai Ye had just finished tidying up the pots and dishes. He was about to tell Hu Sanli he was leaving the house when, all of a sudden, he was caught off guard by the sight of a flustered little bunny.

Normally, Hu Sanli was headstrong. Whenever the two of them clashed, it was like thunder meeting fire—neither willing to give an inch.

But today’s Hu Sanli… Bai Ye’s pupils darkened, and his throat bobbed involuntarily.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.8 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Yes, Fengxing immediately equated “demon beasts” with beastmen. After all, transforming between animal form and human form was a unique ability of beastmen.

Although he really wanted to punch that vicious wolf-shaped beastman to death, at the same time, as a beastman himself, Fengxing couldn’t help but feel a trace of resentment toward the author.

With so many species out there, why make beastmen the loathsome villains? Wasn’t that tarnishing their reputation?

Heaven knew, beastmen were actually a very friendly race.

After all, if they weren’t, the interstellar humans would’ve long since taken up their advanced weapons and wiped them out.

It wasn’t until later, when a little girl suddenly transformed into a fox and toyed with that massive wolf in the palm of her hand, that Fengxing’s mouth dropped open in an “O.”

Only then did he finally realize—the author was writing about the demon race, not beastmen.

Once beastmen reached adulthood, they could no longer revert to a childlike form.

Their human form grew larger in proportion to their beast form, and beyond that, they didn’t possess any kind of summoning skills.

After figuring that out, Fengxing’s interest in the book only grew stronger.

He quickly added it to his favorites—this was his habit.

Because if he ever put down a book he liked, he’d often find that he couldn’t locate it again no matter how hard he searched.

So, to prevent that from happening from time to time, whenever he came across a story that caught his attention, Fengxing would always add it to his collection before continuing.

What followed was Hu Sanli bringing the wolf demon back to the Demon Hunters’ Hall.

In order to keep her husband from noticing anything unusual, Hu Sanli often chose to cultivate at the Demon Hunters’ Hall.

And thus, Fengxing witnessed Hu Sanli’s peculiar cultivation method.

Her cultivation carried a strong sense of ritual. On nights when the moon was out, she would transform into her beast form and spit out her inner core toward the moon to cultivate.

This was the Fox Gazing at the Moon technique, allowing her to absorb the essence of the sun and moon.

Fengxing thought about the way their own people cultivated—it didn’t seem special at all. They just kept hunting, eating, drinking, and then growing bigger.

Fengxing suddenly felt that their method of cultivation was far too simple and crude, completely lacking in ceremony.

He lifted his head. The moon had just risen into the night sky.

Fengxing’s eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth wide, as if hoping an inner core would emerge from it.

Yet, even after his jaw muscles ached, nothing happened.

Fengxing couldn’t help but feel dejected.

His unusual behavior, however, was noticed by his childhood troublemaker friend, Yumo.

“Fengxing, what on earth are you doing?”

With a rustling sound, Yumo slithered over in his snake form, asking in surprise.

Fengxing closed his mouth and looked at Yumo with hopeful eyes:

“Do you think… maybe our tribe has some cultivation method they haven’t told us about? Like gazing at the moon at night, absorbing the essence of the sun and moon or something?”

Yumo burst out laughing without hesitation.

“What’s going on in that little head of yours?”

“If there really were some cultivation technique, you think your father wouldn’t tell us?”

Fengxing’s father was the current chieftain of the snake clan. He was very strict about educating the tribe. If there were truly a cultivation method, his father would’ve told them right away.

Fengxing knew this too, which only made him feel more disappointed.

Yumo, knowing well how his friend was, tugged the corner of his mouth.

“What, did you stumble on another one of those so-called brilliant stories again?”

“This one’s different—it’s really good,” Fengxing defended himself.

“In it, there’s a demon race that, like us, can transform between human and beast form.”

“What’s so surprising about that?” Yumo didn’t get it. “It’s just something created based on us beastmen as a prototype. You’ve seen stories like that before.”

“No. I have a feeling… this demon race is definitely different from us. It’s a new species with its own unique culture.”

At this point, Fengxing didn’t want to waste any more time with Yumo. He shoved aside the tall emerald-green snake—easily as tall as a man—and went back to reading on his light-brain device.

“Go play by yourself, don’t disturb me while I’m reading.”

???

Three question marks practically floated above Yumo’s head. Fengxing had never brushed him off so casually while reading before.

That made Yumo curious about the story too.

He flicked the tip of his tail against Fengxing’s waist. “Then once you finish, let me read it too.”

Fengxing had shared novels with Yumo in the past. Not wanting to be pestered again, he gave a half-hearted “mm” and agreed,

“Alright, I’ll be done soon. You can read it after me.”

Satisfied, Yumo coiled up his tail and waited quietly.

But what happened next was completely beyond his expectations. Within just a few minutes, Fengxing’s face suddenly flushed red—redder than the ripest fruit on the mountain. He even avoided meeting Yumo’s eyes.

Yumo’s curiosity was fully hooked. Lifting his snake head, he craned toward Fengxing’s light-brain.

“What did you just see? Your face is that red—let me see too.”

Normally, everyone’s light-brain came with privacy settings. Even if Yumo stuck his eyes right up against it, he shouldn’t be able to see anything on Fengxing’s screen.

But the strange thing was—Fengxing seemed to have forgotten this. His reaction to Yumo’s movement was huge.

With lightning speed, he shut down his light-brain. The device flickered twice and vanished. At the same time, Fengxing transformed into a snake and shot off across the mountainside, desperate to get away before Yumo could chase him down.

What else could Yumo do? Of course, he chose to give chase.

Fengxing’s speed was among the very best in the entire serpent tribe, so Yumo couldn’t keep up with him at all.

But that was fine. Having been his troublemaker friend since childhood, Yumo knew all of Fengxing’s weaknesses by heart.

“Fengxing, if you don’t stop right now, I’ll tell the chieftain you’re wasting your time on frivolous things and have him confiscate your light-brain.”

Yumo always used this trick, and it never failed. This time was no exception.

In the end, Fengxing had no choice but to stop reluctantly and present the title of the book he was reading with both hands.

Song Wenlan’s work had just started—barely over ten thousand words—and in a few minutes, Yumo had already finished reading all of it.

By the time he reached the last few descriptions, even the usually composed Yumo couldn’t help his pupils from contracting in shock.

In that moment, he finally understood Fengxing’s strange behavior. But so what?

Now that he had dirt on his friend, of course he wasn’t going to let it go without making a show of it.

Yumo slithered quickly away:

“I’m going to tell everyone—the dignified young master of the snake clan is actually reading this kind of thing!”

Just as Yumo knew Fengxing well, Fengxing had stayed behind precisely to prevent Yumo from spreading the word.

And now, that fear had come true.

Grinding his teeth, Fengxing lunged at Yumo.

The two immediately wrestled together.

Of course, Fengxing was stronger than Yumo. But since Yumo had the sharper tongue, in the end Fengxing had to agree to hand over ten days’ worth of prey in exchange for Yumo’s silence.

Not that the secret stayed hidden for long.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.7 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Bu Yingchong wasn’t really reluctant to spend that little bit of money.

Just this one novel website had already brought their tribe countless wealth.

Besides, at the end of the day, the net-insects cared most about the story itself—that was also why Meng Xingchong dared to suggest raising the offer after only two chapters.

Even so, Bu Yingchong was still quite worried about Song Wenlan’s future updates.

Plenty of authors posted just one or two chapters on the site before disappearing, with no consistency at all.

Working with such authors left the net-insects miserable afterward—mainly because of waiting for updates. The anxiety was unbearable.

“If I’m not mistaken, this author has only released one chapter so far, right? Xiao Meng, young people need to have a bit more patience.”

“Let’s wait and see. If she’s really willing to sign, we can give her a B-level contract. As for an A-level contract, we’ll decide after she finishes this book.”

Meng Xingchong personally felt that Song Wenlan deserved an A-level contract, but he could also understand the editor-in-chief’s point of view.

The older generation of editors preferred stability.

Besides, even with just a B-level contract, he could still achieve his goal.

Among his colleagues who were stuck with C-level contracts, he would be the only one holding a B-level. Great-author Zao Si would definitely choose to sign with him.

“Understood, Chief Editor.”

Feeling satisfied, Meng Xingchong unplugged his web-thread.

Song Wenlan, however, had no idea that an editor had already set his sights on her.

The next morning, Song Wenlan discovered that her novel had gained five bookmarks.

“So quickly? I already have readers?”

Song Wenlan was taken aback.

She didn’t know those were bookmarks from the novel site’s editors—she thought they were from actual readers.

Opening the comments section, she found only a single comment:

Chong’erfei: “Jiayou, Great Author! Write up to 20,000 words quickly so you can sign the contract sooner.”

Indeed, Chong’erfei was none other than Meng Xingchong’s alternate account, created specifically to push her to update faster.

“Looks like the reception’s not too bad.”

Song Wenlan muttered to herself. But since there were no other comments, she couldn’t really tell how well readers were accepting the idea of the demon race.

She closed the comments section and continued writing the next part of her story.

In the very first chapter, Song Wenlan made it clear that Hu Sanli was a demon-hunter.

But calling her a “hunter” was a bit misleading—she didn’t have the right to judge or sentence anyone. All she could do was capture them and hand them over to the Demon-Hunters’ Bureau.

What happened after that was no longer Hu Sanli’s responsibility.

Aside from being a demon-hunter, Hu Sanli had another identity: “the beautiful painter” Hu Sanli, currently married.

Her husband was three years younger than her. As the saying goes, “when a woman chases a man, it’s like a thin veil between them.” Back then, she had been the one who pursued Bai Ye.

Seven summers ago, Hu Sanli had gone to a resort villa for a mission.

The culprit that time was also a fox demon—only this one was a white fox.

She loved seducing handsome young men, then, when they were relaxed at night, draining them of their very life essence.

The moment Hu Sanli entered the resort villa, she spotted Bai Ye.

She was certain that if that fox demon were still around, Bai Ye would have been her target.

To successfully capture the fox, Hu Sanli approached Bai Ye and struck up a conversation.

They got along splendidly. When Bai Ye learned she was a painter, he talked about many works he liked—and among them were paintings signed with Hu Sanli’s name.

Hu Sanli could only laugh awkwardly at that, because she had no real interest in art. Those so-called paintings were props handed to her by the Demon-Hunters’ Bureau to build up her public persona.

But she liked listening to Bai Ye speak. She liked his deep voice, and she liked his eyes—eyes as deep and starry as the night sky.

That night, she smoothly knocked on Bai Ye’s door. Bai Ye was very surprised to see her, but still politely invited her into his room.

Perhaps it was because Bai Ye’s voice was too enchanting—Hu Sanli, who should have been on guard against the fox demon, ended up falling completely under the spell of his voice, pulling him into a night that was both beautiful and reckless.

Fortunately for Hu Sanli, the fox demon never showed up to interfere. Otherwise, she would have been so frustrated that she might have torn the entire resort villa down.

This kind of overused “memory trope” in modern-day stories was still a fresh, novel technique in the interstellar era.

At the very least, when Meng Xingchong read it, he felt a sudden spark of delight.

But what really made him blush was the very last part of the description.

Things like “two hands clasped tightly on the bed, veins standing out”, or “red marks clawed deep into the back”, or “the sound of lingering water”—all of it left the young insect’s mouth dry and his heart restless.

In this era, such primal impulses were considered base desires, despised and rejected. Yet Meng Xingchong didn’t feel any vulgarity from this author’s writing at all. Instead, what the author conveyed was a vibrant surge of life itself.

Meng Xingchong couldn’t help but fall into deep thought.

Did this author write such scenes precisely to correct their misguided thinking?

In truth, Song Wenlan hadn’t thought that far at all.

She simply felt that, since in the interstellar age there were no restrictive policies, she could go ahead and write boldly, without holding back.

Of course, her main focus was still the story itself. She didn’t include much of this sort of depiction, and the reason it had such an impact was probably just that interstellar readers had so little exposure to it.

After finishing and posting 10,000 words, most of the day was already gone. Without stopping, she turned to working on her stockpile of drafts.

Next, the male lead was about to make his official appearance.

How to reveal to the audience that his identity was also extraordinary—that was the key point.

The female lead’s identity was stated directly, but the male lead’s would need to be shown indirectly.

While Song Wenlan was mulling over this, a beastman reader happened to be reading her story.

He was a snake-type beastman named Fengxing.

Though only in his twenties, Fengxing was already a seasoned bookworm. Ever since he was just a little snake, he had been looking everywhere for stories to read.

The Insectlit Novel Website had plenty of novels, but most popular ones were all about romance, which he disliked.

What he loved were the kinds of stories about star pirates slaughtering their way through the galaxy, or the autobiographies of powerful figures.

After finishing everything on Insectlit, he had even snuck over to the Starlight to read. Amidst all the heavy theoretical knowledge there, those adventurous tales always managed to set his heart racing.

But today, he was suffering from book famine again.

Bored, Fengxing browsed the New Releases chart. That chart ranked stories by their latest updates.

The newest stories to update would appear there, and even unsigned works had a chance to show up.

And right as he was browsing, Song Wenlan’s novel had just updated.

When he first saw the title, My Demon-Hunter Arch-Nemesis, Fengxing assumed it was a battle story. It sounded like a classic life-or-death rivalry.

But to his great surprise, the moment he opened the book, he was immediately hooked by the opening.

When he read the scene of that damned wolf-type beastman about to eat a child, Fengxing nearly wanted to punch the screen—to kill that scum who was tarnishing the reputation of beastmen everywhere.

<< _ >>

**TN

Fengxing – Windrunner

Chong – means Insect/Worm/Bug, that’s why their name has the word Chong.

Meng Xing/chong – Dream Star

Bu Ying/chong – Firefly-Catcher

At first, I used Wormlit and Networms, but they’re insects, so I changed them. Pity. Networms = Bookworms. Haha! I wanted to use Bug, but not all insects are bugs. So, Insect it is.

The post Writer Ch.6 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

[Little Hu Sanli was startled into full wakefulness.

She turned her head—and met a pair of murky, greedy eyes.

“So tender!”

She heard the man’s hoarse voice: “You’re so tender, you must taste delicious!”

“Have you eaten a lot of people?”

The childish voice rang out suddenly. Unexpectedly, Little Hu Sanli did not burst into tears.

“Yes, plenty. Old folks, and children like you. Children taste the best—your skin is so soft.”

The man chuckled darkly. His height began to grow taller, his arms thickened, and yellow fangs jutted out.

“Awoo!”

Before Little Hu Sanli’s eyes, he transformed from a man into a wolf standing two meters tall!

The wolf howled, lunging at her in eager hunger.

“A child’s heart tastes the best. Give me your heart—let me have a bite.”]

“He suddenly turned from a man into a wolf? Is that a beastman?”

A net insect flapped its wings fearfully and backed away, the thread connecting it to the terminal pulled taut.

“Probably not a beastman. Beastmen don’t eat humans.”

Meng Xingchong, braver than the others, answered calmly.

Besides, if it were a beastman, the author could have just written beastman. Why specifically write demon race?

Meng Xingchong kept on reading.

After all, Little Hu Sanli was still in danger. But what came next even managed to surprise the well-experienced Meng Xingchong.

[The enormous wolf’s claws were just about to slash down in front of Little Hu Sanli.

The wolf demon laughed hoarsely, drool dripping uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth. A cold gleam flickered in his eyes.

He seemed to already be picturing the scene of pulling out this little girl’s heart right before him.

Just at the critical moment—

A crimson claw suddenly smacked the wolf demon’s paw down with brutal force.

That claw was only half the size of the wolf demon’s, yet it carried a strength that could not be resisted.

With a sharp crack, the wolf demon’s forepaw went limp and dangled uselessly.

Startled, the wolf demon looked closely—only to see a red fox sitting proudly in front of him. The little girl was nowhere to be found.

In an instant, the wolf demon realized: he’d been tricked.

What he had grabbed was no helpless child, but a demon hunter!

Once that sank in, the wolf demon immediately turned to flee.

After all, he was nothing more than a minor demon who hadn’t even cultivated a full century—how could he possibly be a match for a demon hunter?]

The tide had turned, and the editors all let out a sigh of relief.

One of the net insects couldn’t help but spit disdainfully: “Serves you right. Met your match now, huh?”

Meng Xingchong also flapped his wings, easing up a little.

The following development was easy enough to predict.

[Ahead, the gray wolf ran off in panic through the forest, its tail tucked between its legs.

Behind, a small fox trailed leisurely after him.

The corners of her long mouth curved into a mocking smile.

“Run faster! This much exercise isn’t even enough for your Grandma Hu to stretch her legs.”

The words nearly made the fleeing gray wolf break down completely.

“You so-called demon hunters are nothing but traitors to our kind! You’re a demon beast, yet you insist on becoming lapdogs for humans. Bah! Even if I die, I’ll curse you in the underworld—you and everyone close to you will meet a wretched end!”

Perhaps because he knew his death was near, the gray wolf shouted hoarsely between ragged breaths, his curses laced with desperate, broken howls.

The words “everyone close to you” instantly struck Hu Sanli’s weak spot. Her smile vanished.

She formed a hand seal, and suddenly a net glowing with golden light appeared, wrapping the gray wolf’s entire body.

“Awooo!”

The moment the golden net touched his fur, the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

“Since you’re so eager to die, your Grandma Hu will gladly oblige.”

The red fox transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman—her hair a cascade of fiery red curls, lips painted with crimson lipstick, and a pair of tall high heels clicking under her feet.

Under the gray wolf’s horrified gaze, Hu Sanli stepped forward, grabbed one end of the net, and dragged him away like a dead dog.]

The editors watching were completely hooked. They were dying to know what other stories might unfold around Hu Sanli.

But when they turned the page, they were greeted by a familiar line: “You have reached the end. Please bookmark the work first.”

It felt like having a bucket of cold water dumped over them in the dead of winter. Everyone was left with a heavy sense of loss.

“This story is really something. In all my years in the industry, I’ve never seen one this exciting.”

An old editor withdrew her web-thread and sighed with heartfelt admiration.

The editor beside her flapped his wings in agreement: “It’s brilliant. If the later plot doesn’t collapse, our site might just have another phenomenon-level hit on our hands.”

“It’s just a pity there’s too little of it for now. Otherwise, I’d send her a contract invitation right this second.”

Another net insect editor pulled back his thread.

Myriad Novel Network had a rule: a work had to reach twenty thousand words before it could be signed. On the one hand, it was to test the author’s ability; on the other, it was to prevent flighty authors from quitting on a whim.

One thread after another withdrew, until at last, only Meng Xingchong’s web-thread remained—alone, still linked to the terminal.

“Meng Xingchong, aren’t you going to rest?”

A colleague called out.

“You all go ahead. I’ll read it again.”

Meng Xingchong replied.

After his colleagues had all flown off, their wings fluttering, he went back and reread the opening chapter.

He really liked this story. There seemed to be a kind of magic in it, something that tugged at the reader’s mind—something most authors simply could not achieve.

If only I could get this book signed, Meng Xingchong thought. But he was still too inexperienced. Even if the author agreed to sign, the chance probably wouldn’t fall to him.

How could he get this book signed under his own name?

All at once, his body lit up—he’d thought of a way!

Net insects were a race that needed little sleep, especially fond of nighttime activity. Meng Xingchong knew that their department’s chief editor definitely wouldn’t be asleep yet.

As a young net insect fresh to the job, Meng Xingchong hadn’t yet learned the unspoken rules of society. Whatever came to mind, he did directly.

He shared the novel straight to his chief editor, “Bu Yingchong,” and typed:

[Chief, could you take a look at this book? Do you think it’s worth signing?]

He didn’t have to wait long before Bu Yingchong’s reply arrived.

[The story is fresh, and the author’s writing skills are quite practiced. This author has definitely written other novels before.]

One had to admit, the chief’s eye for talent was sharp.

[The only drawback is that there isn’t enough written yet. Once it hits the word count for contracts, we can sign her.]

Seeing this, Meng Xingchong immediately replied: [Chief, I think this novel is really high quality. Couldn’t we give it an A-level contract?]

[This author hasn’t signed with our site before. If we offer better benefits, there’s a good chance we could keep a top-tier author.]

After that message, Bu Yingchong fell silent for a moment.

Myriad Novel Website had four kinds of contracts: S-level, A-level, B-level, and C-level.

For new authors, the site usually signed C-level contracts—the revenue split was fifty-fifty. B-level contracts were given to mid-tier “small-god” authors with some success, where authors took seventy percent and the site thirty. A-level contracts were reserved for the true “great-god” authors, offering an eighty-twenty split in favor of the author, plus guaranteed base pay and benefits.

As for the legendary S-level contracts, almost no one ever qualified. Only authors whose works generated extraordinary profits for the site could obtain one.

For Meng Xingchong to open his mouth and immediately suggest an A-level contract showed just how highly he valued Song Wenlan.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.5 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.