160: Prizes delivered to your door

The glow from the computer screen wasn't piercing,

but in the dim studio, it made the newly opened email seem to radiate heat.

The email had no small talk, none of those roundabout pleasantries.

The first line of the body was a string of numbers that had been specifically bolded and highlighted in red.

[As of midnight today, national physical book sales for 'the ferryman': 3,120,000 copies.]

[Only five days since launch.]

Lin Que leaned back in his ergonomic chair,

casually setting aside the can of bubbling cola in his hand.

Three million copies.

In this era where the physical publishing industry was practically on life support about to have its tubes pulled,

this number could be called a miracle.

Lin Que's fingertip scrolled the wheel, his gaze skipping over the polite greetings,

locking directly onto those few lines of red-marked data.

The light from the screen reflected in his pupils; Wang De'an's irrepressible excitement seemed to overflow through the text.

Lin Que could even picture this Editor-in-Chief, who was over fifty, currently tapping away at his keyboard,

holding his purple clay teapot, his face glowing with the look of someone who had found a treasure.

[Teacher Jian Shen:]

[In view of the current staggering circulation, the publishing house has unanimously decided to increase your royalty rate from the original 16% to 18%.]

[Thank you again for your trust, Teacher Jian Shen.]

[The phone lines at the office have been ringing off the hook with calls from distributors these past few days.]

[Not just Xia Hua Bookstore, but even those small bookstores that previously only sold supplementary teaching materials and self-help books are frantically restocking.]

[The machines at the printing factory have been running continuously for over a hundred hours.]

[There is a situation I must report to you:]

[Due to the massive demand for restocking,]

[the high-grade Daolin paper inventory of the three major paper mills around Su Province is in a state of emergency across the board.]

[The industry jokingly calls this 'Paper is expensive in Jiangcheng' caused by the 'Jian Shen Effect'.]

[Those experts who once predicted the decline of print media are now all studying your phenomenal data.]

Seeing this, Lin Que raised an eyebrow and took a sip of the cola at hand.

In this day and age, even paper can be bought out of stock; it seems everyone has indeed been hungry for a long time.

He scrolled down with the mouse.

A pre-settlement statement lay in the attachment.

That was the first royalty payment.

Looking at the long string of zeros following that number, Lin Que silently did the math in his head.

This money, combined with the previous manuscript fees and shares from Hong Guo Net, was enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.

Lin Que turned his chair to face the massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind him.

The bookshelf was empty.

Only two books stood there lonely.

'The Miracles of the Namiya General Store' and 'the ferryman'.

Even adding the yet-to-be-published 'the little prince',

and the books 'the human world is like a prison' and 'soul ferry' written by 'Dream Weaver',

compared to the vast treasure trove of civilization stored in his head,

this little bit of content wasn't even a drop in the bucket.

He had the money now.

But looking at this empty bookshelf, Lin Que didn't feel the wild joy of sudden wealth.

Instead, an indescribable sense of urgency arose within him.

Throughout five thousand years of Chinese history, those brilliant names—

Lu Xun, Mao Dun, Lao She... he was merely a fire-bearer.

And right now, the efficiency of this fire-bearing was too low.

The cultural soil of this world was too barren,

so barren that any seed thrown down could grow into a towering tree.

But precisely because it was barren, people's aesthetics were still at a very primitive stage.

Healing alone wasn't enough.

Satire alone wasn't enough either.

He needed to lay out a strategy.

On the left hand was Jian Shen, using the gentlest knife to carve the soul of this world.

On the right hand was Dream Weaver, using the most extreme fear to awaken those numb nerves.

There needed to be more.

Lin Que's fingers lightly tapped the armrest in a slow rhythm.

Since the heavens had allowed him to bring the sparks of that world here, he couldn't just light a candle.

He wanted to burn.

Burn a hole through the sky.

Lin Que pulled back his thoughts, his gaze returning to the screen.

Wang De'an's email wasn't finished yet.

After reporting on sales and royalties,

this veteran Editor-in-Chief changed his tone, his phrasing becoming somewhat subtle,

even carrying a few hints of cautious probing.

"Additionally, there's something quite interesting."}, internal

The organizing committee of the national emerging literature award, the 'Moyun Award', took the initiative to contact the office yesterday afternoon.

Their intention is to invite you, Teacher Jian Shen, to participate in this year's Moyun Best Book of the Year award with 'the ferryman'."

Moyun.

Lin Que searched for the name on the computer.

This was an award specifically established for new writers in the country.

While it couldn't compare to the titan-level status of the Beluga International Literature Award of this era,

it held significant influence among young readers.

According to the rules of previous years, the threshold for this kind of award was terrifyingly high.

Usually, publishers would beg and plead to submit works for review,

authors would have to use connections to take judges out to dinner,

and they'd have to endure the attitudes of those so-called 'academic judges'.

For a newcomer without any background,

no matter how well the book was written, they wouldn't even touch the threshold of the preliminary review.

But now... Wang De'an's subsequent text illustrated this contrast vividly.

"The message from the Moyun Award organizing committee is that,

given the social influence of 'the ferryman', the judging panel hopes to make an exception.

The hint is very obvious: as long as you are willing to fill out an application form,

this year's Best Book of the Year is basically waiting for you to take it.

To put it bluntly, it used to be people looking for the award, but now it's the award looking for the person.

In this era where traffic is king,

they need this award to prove their own value more than you do."

What is reality?

This is reality!

In the face of absolute strength and sales, all unspoken rules must give way.

Seniority, inner circles—in the face of sales, they are all paper tigers.

This wasn't just giving out an award; this was clearly 'delivering the award to the door'.

However... Lin Que's brow furrowed slightly.

Winning an award was a good thing; it could further consolidate 'Jian Shen's' position in the mainstream literary world and make the road ahead easier.

But the trouble was also there.

Winning an award meant having to show his face.

It meant walking the red carpet, facing the flashes of cameras, and standing on the podium to give an acceptance speech.

Attend?

Lin Que leaned against the back of his chair, his fingers lightly stroking his chin.

This was clearly impossible.

He was currently still a high school sophomore preparing for the college entrance exam.

If he stood in the spotlight at this critical juncture,

the gates of Jiangcheng No. 1 High School would be trampled by reporters the next day.

That peaceful campus life would be completely shattered.

More importantly,

the reason 'Jian Shen' achieved god-like status, besides the work itself,

was largely due to that 'divine dragon whose head is seen but not its tail' sense of mystery.

Once a god steps down from the altar and reveals a youthful face,

the beauty created by that sense of distance would be greatly diminished.

A divine statue is worshipped because it is made of clay and gold, silent and unmoving.

Once the statue opens its mouth to ask for offerings, that ethereal aura dissipates.

Wang De'an was also well-versed in human nature; he provided a suggestion at the end of the email:

[The office knows you prefer quiet and are unwilling to step into the vanity fair.]

[If it is inconvenient for you, could we arrange for a senior executive from the publishing house to go as a proxy to accept the award?]

[Or find a suitable reason to decline?]

Decline?

No.

There was no reason to spit out meat that had been delivered to one's mouth.

This award had immense value for the subsequent film and television adaptations of 'the ferryman',

as well as paving the way for his future works.

Lin Que sat up straight and placed both hands on the keyboard.

Since he couldn't show his face, then he would weld this mysterious veil even tighter.

If he was to be mysterious, he would be thoroughly mysterious.

The sound of typing echoed in the quiet studio...