Chapter 57: The Father Who Sets His Own Son Up

There has always been an irreconcilable conflict between fan fiction and original works, and Zhang Chu’s luck was simply terrible—he had run headfirst into trouble.

Although countless fan fiction pieces exist on novel websites and in various forums, none have ever reached the level of “Detective Sherlock.”

With the entire internet’s attention, a prize of five hundred thousand yuan, and publicity and publication by Nanhai Publishing House, it all seemed to far outstrip what a fan fiction ought to receive, leaving so-called original authors green with envy.

Most authors and readers of detective fiction were young people in their twenties and thirties, still full of youthful vigor. They poured their efforts into writing original novels, suffering poor sales and criticism from readers, barely earning any money. Not a single person made a living solely by writing detective fiction.

How many works would one have to write to earn five hundred thousand yuan?

If calculated at five hundred yuan per thousand words, it would take a million words! That word count might be just an entry point for web novels, but detective fiction demands rigor and simply cannot be rushed.

Detective fiction is perhaps the most taxing on the brain, requiring authors to painstakingly devise plots and logical puzzles, even the atmosphere must be carefully crafted. To write two or three books a year is already a genius-level feat; most authors fall far short of this.

What’s more, not every magazine is as generous as “Times Detective,” paying five hundred yuan per thousand words. Usually, the rate is one to two hundred per thousand, and this time it was only so high thanks to sponsorship from Warner Brothers.

Money moves the heart. Never mind the top scorer in the college entrance exam, but to casually write a fan fiction and receive half a million yuan in prize money—how could the authors of detective fiction swallow that?

Even for a writer of Qin Mu’s stature, earning half a million yuan from a single book would be no easy task—unless he could sell the rights. Relying solely on book sales was far too difficult!

Even with sales of a hundred thousand copies, the royalties would only come to three hundred thousand yuan. As for bestsellers, it was usually the classics by foreign authors that broke the million mark.

...

Zhang Chu never expected that simply returning to his hometown would turn him into a lightning rod the moment he went online. “Detective Sherlock” had never blocked anyone else’s path.

“Clearly, the tall tree catches the wind. Nowadays, people fear fame as pigs fear fattening. Qin Mu is really too much.”

Sitting in the courtyard, Zhang Chu placed his laptop on his lap and began to ponder what he should do next. This matter hardly warranted using the system to hack someone’s account.

Before Zhang Chu could react, Zhang Bowen sent an angry voice message on WeChat, “That Qin Mu is too much! Your ‘Detective Sherlock’ is the pinnacle of fan fiction, and he dares say you have no talent for detective writing? I’ll return all his books from the shop. We won’t sell them anymore!”

“Don’t, Dad! Don’t let business suffer,” Zhang Chu urged. “Just because someone says I can’t write original novels doesn’t make it true. Who does he think he is?”

Zhang Bowen replied in a serious tone, “Actually, he’s quite influential in our domestic detective community.”

“‘Detective Sherlock’ isn’t bad just because he says so. It’s a work recognized by over a million netizens.”

“Anyway, your mom and I believe in your talent. Keep it up, son.”

Wait!

After hearing the voice message, Zhang Chu felt something was off. Why did he need to keep it up? He quickly opened WeChat’s video chat function to ask in earnest.

The tone sounded repeatedly, and after half a minute, the call was answered.

On the phone screen, Zhang Bowen and Chu Lan sat together, smiling at the camera with loving eyes.

“Dad, what exactly did you do?” Zhang Chu could tell from their expressions that his parents must have done something wrong—the smiles were too fake.

“Uh…” Zhang Bowen’s eyes darted around as he stroked his chin, “I just accepted an interview with a reporter, that’s all.”

“What interview?”

Zhang Chu’s attention had already waned, but after Qin Mu’s criticism, his reputation rose again. Although it hadn’t made up for previous losses, regaining a million was within reach.

Chu Lan sighed and explained succinctly, “It’s your father’s pride at work, suffering for appearances. Someone said your work wasn’t good, accused you of relying entirely on the original, and he had to boast to the reporter, saying his son would be the best detective author even without writing fan fiction. Oh, it was an interview with Sina Education, so it’ll have quite an impact.”

Everyone else complains about their parents, but when it comes to him, it’s his father who causes trouble for his son.

Zhang Chu gazed gloomily at the sky, “Dad, what else did you say?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Zhang Bowen waved his hands repeatedly. He had wanted to retort himself, but lacking confidence, he pushed his son forward instead.

“Actually, Qin Mu was right. I really am not a qualified detective fiction author,” Zhang Chu said earnestly. “Maybe we should contact Sina Education and ask them not to publish the news? Request another interview?”

Zhang Bowen glared at his son, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not qualified? Your writing is excellent. A little humility is good, but too much is just… well, you know.”

Zhang Chu felt a pang inside. He had read very few detective novels, didn’t even know the various schools or the most famous authors.

He knew himself well enough—he was certainly not a qualified detective fiction writer. He was just a copyist...

He had planned to switch to writing something popular after “Detective Sherlock” was published.

“Son, do your best at home and win some respect for your father. Maybe our novels can’t beat his, but at least my son is better than his!” Zhang Bowen encouraged him, fully trusting his son, the top scorer in the college entrance exam.

Chu Lan, meanwhile, was displeased. “It’s just a novel. Do you need to be so modest? Write well and come home; if you don’t, stay in your hometown.”

Though it was meant as a joke, Zhang Chu still felt as if he’d been betrayed by his own parents.

“Don’t overthink it. The reporter probably doesn’t care what you actually said. After all, I’m the focus of the interview,” Zhang Chu consoled them, oblivious to the storm brewing outside.

“Why do I feel you’re implying something?” Zhang Bowen stroked his chin, sensing something wasn’t right.

“Hey, are you still there? Why can’t I hear you?” Zhang Chu deliberately shook his phone, pretending to look for a signal. “Did the WiFi disconnect?”

He ended the video call, slapped his forehead, and sighed—his father was always adept at finding trouble for him.

Saying no yet acting so eagerly, Zhang Chu actually loved these sorts of events most. His reputation value accumulated slowly, bit by bit, just like this.

Trusting a reporter’s integrity? One might as well believe that pigs can climb trees!