Chapter 1: A Casual Touch

When Gu Cheng was bent over his writing desk, he had only a small bedside lamp on behind him. After letting Liu Feifei into the room and brewing the tea bag, he deliberately switched on the main light before sitting back down at his computer.

The bright light filtered through the curtains, casting shadows of the two figures sitting by the window—visible even to anyone standing below looking in.

“Don’t place your feet in the melon patch; don’t adjust your hat under the plum tree.”

Liu Feifei held the warm cup of strong tea, sighing somewhat awkwardly. “Teacher Li criticized my opening scene depicting Jin Xiangxi and Bai Xiuzhu’s first love as too forced. He said it couldn’t compare to the latter half where you have a quarrel.”

Gu Cheng, of course, was aware of this. “So, what do you plan to do about it?”

The “young lady’s illness” trope simply couldn’t be a one-size-fits-all in the new script.

Liu Feifei bit her lip. “I think it’s because I don’t understand you well enough, so I can’t find the right feeling. You spend every day either filming or hiding in your room, using all your time to manage your business, never joining the others for fun. I really can’t grasp what kind of person you are in life—it’s all too mysterious and distant.”

Mentioning this still stirred a trace of guilt in Gu Cheng. Filming was exhausting enough, and on any other set, actors would always unwind together after shooting with games and laughter. But he, after work, would just bury himself in emails and business tasks—a rarity indeed.

But that was just his uniquely independent nature.

“So, what do you want to know about me? Let’s have a proper talk tonight; I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

“Maybe talk about the book you’re writing?” Liu Feifei wasn’t quite sure how to get to know a mature man.

Gu Cheng felt that topic was unreliable; he was certain Liu Feifei wouldn’t understand it.

Still, having promised to “tell all,” he wouldn’t go back on his word. After gathering his thoughts, he explained in the simplest, most accessible way possible:

1. If you’re reading this segment, it means you’re looking at a pirated copy. Or perhaps you got up too early and accidentally encountered this. If it’s the latter, the author sincerely apologizes. Generally, reading these chapters after 7 a.m. ensures a normal experience.

2. If you encounter anti-piracy chapters, please wait until after 7 a.m. to reopen them. The app’s functions have been upgraded to automatically notify readers when a chapter has been modified by the author. If a chapter gets stuck and cannot be automatically fixed, you can delete and redownload it. Subscribers won’t be charged again for this.

3. The author works hard to protect against piracy, often rising at five or six in the morning during winter, and even earlier in summer. Imagine enduring cold and heat every day of the year, waking up two hours earlier than most. Even Luo Pangzi, with his logical thinking, boasts about sending a 60-second voice message at 6:30 a.m. daily for years—yet he’s at the very top of content creators and living the good life.

4. I also want to write better and more focused works. I dream of entering the premium channel, supporting myself full-time through writing, and serenely producing ten thousand words daily for readers. But life goes on. If I rely solely on my last book’s earnings, I can’t even support my wife, let alone work full-time or consistently produce daily ten-thousand-word updates.

The cost of living in Hangzhou is truly suffocating. I’m not greedy, nor do I expect to become rich from writing. If I weren’t married, perhaps I’d consider a small seaside city in Guangxi with low living costs—Qinzhou, Beihai, Fangchenggang—and live alone in a small house facing the sea, secluded to write.

I won’t dwell on self-pity; many writers on the app have more experience being the “most miserable” in China, and frankly, I’m not the worst.

…

Here, I’ll share some genuine reflections upon launching this book, beyond just asking for votes. Some readers of my previous work might already know these views, so I won’t include them in the normal chapters. Those who see this, see it; those who don’t, well, I’m fine with that. If you haven’t read my last book, maybe glance at the following thousand words.

I once cited Kevin Ashton, the father of the Internet of Things, who conducted market research for Dior Cosmetics in the early ’90s. Among Dior’s European subsidiaries, the UK branch saw the fastest sales growth due to its focus on market research and rapid response to feedback. They produced and sold what the market demanded, steadily increasing sales.

Yet, while all Dior UK products thrived, lipstick sales declined sharply. The more they catered to the market, the worse sales became. Ashton’s deep follow-up revealed the problem:

Lipstick is an especially segmented product. Many customers compare shades on color charts of at least fifty colors; you can’t just describe them with one or two codes.

Their weekly market research indicated magenta ‘A’ was popular, while bright red ‘B’ and pink ‘C’ were not. So Dior UK cut production of ‘B’ and ‘C’ while increasing ‘A’. ‘A’ sold out every time, but total lipstick sales dropped.

The truth was most women didn’t actually favor magenta ‘A’. It was a compromise choice when their favorite color was unavailable—white-collar women in affluent communities would snap up bright red ‘B’ quickly; students gravitated toward pink ‘C’. When those sold out, they reluctantly bought magenta ‘A’.

If we rate customer satisfaction on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being perfect and 8 barely enough to justify a purchase, magenta ‘A’ was an “8 everywhere” product. Its broad compatibility made it less likely to cause unsold stock in the short term, but over time, it bred consumer aversion to Dior’s brand because few women liked always having to settle for a second-best.

This value theory could also apply to future commercial literature.

5. If you’re reading this, you’re likely viewing a pirated copy or got up too early and accidentally stumbled upon it. The author apologizes for any inconvenience. Reading after 7 a.m. usually guarantees normal content.

6. For anti-piracy chapters, wait until after 7 a.m. to reopen. The app notifies readers when chapters are updated. If a chapter gets stuck, delete and redownload it. Subscribers won’t be charged again.

7. To fight piracy, the author rises early year-round, enduring cold and heat, waking two hours earlier than most. Luo Pangzi boasts about sending 60-second daily messages at 6:30 a.m., but that’s the top tier of content creators living the good life.

8. I want to write better, focus fully, dream of full-time writing in the premium channel, and produce stable daily ten-thousand-word masterpieces. But life goes on. With last book’s earnings, I can’t even support my wife, so full-time writing and stable daily updates are impossible.

Hangzhou’s high living costs are suffocating. I’m not greedy, nor do I expect to get rich writing. Maybe I’d live alone in a small seaside town in Guangxi, like Qinzhou, Beihai, or Fangchenggang, in a small house facing the sea, quietly writing.

I won’t pander with self-pity; many writers on the app have more experience being the “most miserable,” and I don’t consider myself the worst.

…

As is well known, a famous editor on the app once gave this example to guide fellow writers:

This example is from historical fiction. When writing anything except Japanese Sengoku period time-travel stories, it’s best not to mention “Wind, Forest, Fire, Mountain” or “Swift as the wind, quiet as the forest, aggressive as fire, immovable as a mountain” in your depiction of military strategy.

Though the concept originates from Sun Tzu’s Art of War, many novice readers don’t read serious texts. They often play games like “Nobunaga’s Ambition” or “Taiko Risshiden,” then mistakenly believe these phrases were invented by warlords like Takeda Shingen.

While authors might want to clarify this, readers dislike being corrected. They feel bad realizing their mistake and may abandon the book. So writers know never to argue with readers, even when teaching something true—readers simply don’t want to see it.

What many don’t realize is that modern AI technology combined with literary website display tech can encrypt text.

Some sites use this to fight piracy by inserting dozens of minor variations per chapter after publishing. These subtle alterations don’t affect reading or meaning but act as a textual “password.” This way, each reader sees a slightly different version. If pirated content appears online, the source can be traced and banned, increasing piracy’s cost.

But to me, this technology is overkill.

In the future, if big data can more accurately identify user preferences and habits, websites can predict if a user is a novice or knowledgeable.

For example, they can analyze whether a user recognizes “Wind, Forest, Fire, Mountain” as Sun Tzu’s original text or mistakenly attributes it to Takeda Shingen. For the former, show the original phrase. For the latter, automatically censor or alter the phrase to avoid discomfort.

Let the novices remain novices, always seeing only what they want to see.

Just like Zhang Yiming does on today’s Toutiao platform.

Though this further divides the world and deepens cognitive divides, many simply won’t accept anything else. Spoil them, and let them enjoy their bubble.

Once such technology is realized, authors won’t need to constantly edit their text for compatibility, avoiding the “magenta ‘A’” problem—never perfect in anyone’s eyes.

9. If you see this message, you’re likely reading a pirated copy or woke too early by accident. The author apologizes. Reading after 7 a.m. usually ensures normal content.

10. For anti-piracy chapters, wait until after 7 a.m. to reopen. The app notifies readers when chapters are updated. If a chapter gets stuck, delete and redownload. Subscribers won’t be charged again.

11. The author wakes early year-round, enduring cold and heat, rising two hours earlier than most. Luo Pangzi boasts about sending 60-second messages at 6:30 a.m., but that’s top-tier content creation.

12. I want to write better, focus fully, dream of full-time writing in the premium channel, and produce stable daily ten-thousand-word masterpieces. But life goes on. With last book’s earnings, I can’t even support my wife, so full-time writing and stable daily updates are impossible.

I’m not greedy or expecting to get rich from writing. Maybe I’d live alone in a small seaside town in Guangxi, like Qinzhou, with a small house facing the sea, quietly writing.

…

I believe future technology will save the world. So I don’t plan to spend time learning to compromise myself to avoid “Wind, Forest, Fire, Mountain” style pitfalls. A thoughtful person shouldn’t waste time mastering a skill that will be obsolete in two or three years.