581: Chapter 581 Western Invitation

The curtains in Dormitory 303 were only half-drawn.

Xu Changge sat at his desk, with several pages of handwritten field notes spread out before him.

The tip of his pen hovered over the paper for a long time, never once setting down a new word.

There were footsteps in the hallway.

The door was pushed open, and Lin Que walked in wearing a thin hoodie, his hair carrying the chill of the early morning air from outside.

"Master Que!"

Chen Jiahao's voice came from the corner of the corridor; he arrived even faster than his voice, throwing an arm around Lin Que's shoulder.

"The public reading channel has been closed for three days now, and the final judgment results still haven't been released. Yet here you are, running out all day long."

Chen Jiahao poked his head into the dormitory for a look; Xu Changge just lifted his head and gave them a slight nod of his chin.

Lin Que smiled, not denying it.

"I have some things to attend to outside."

"What could be more important than the final results of the Kunpeng Award?"

Chen Jiahao looked at him with a mischievous grin.

Lin Que draped his jacket over his arm, his tone steady:

"The results are with the judges; me staying in the dormitory won't change a single vote."

Chen Jiahao crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, clearly not having received the answer he wanted.

"Right, did you finish the new assignment Professor Liu gave us the day before yesterday?"

Lin Que paused for a moment.

Professor Liu Zuoqing had assigned a new topic the day before yesterday.

Everyone had to log in to the Kunpeng backend and read through the authentic long-form reviews under their own works.

Then, write a reflection note of at least eight hundred words.

You weren't allowed to talk about data, only the loopholes or questions that readers had reflected back at you.

It was about looking at what those who had truly finished reading your work had left behind.

"I wrote it."

Lin Que said.

Chen Jiahao's eyes lit up:

"Really? When did you write it? How come I didn't see it?"

"Last night."

"Alright then, that's a relief."

Chen Jiahao lowered his voice and gestured with his chin toward the room.

"Looks like Brother Xu has entered seclusion mode again."

Lin Que glanced toward the desk.

Xu Changge didn't look up; his index finger was pressing down on a line in his notes, his brows slightly furrowed.

"Don't disturb him."

Lin Que patted Chen Jiahao's arm.

"I'm heading out, I'll be back later."

Chen Jiahao shrugged helplessly:

"Fine, take care, Master Que."

Lin Que took the thin gray jacket off the coat rack, zipped it up, and walked out.

The moment his feet stepped out of the dormitory door, he quickly ran through the notes he had written in his mind.

Professor Liu Zuoqing's assignment appeared to test reading comprehension on the surface,

but in reality, it tested "self-awareness after being scrutinized."

During the public reading phase, readers cast their gazes upon the work.

When the author looked back at the comment section, what they saw were the traces left by their own pen.

Lin Que had seen two mirrors in the Kunpeng backend.

The comments under "qin opera," written by those grassroots readers, were full of typos and awkward grammar, yet every single one struck the most painful parts of the story.

Some said, "I cried for half an hour when I saw that cigarette of Old Zhao's," while others said, "My dad is the same, he never talked about his hardships his whole life."

Those words were not polished, but they carried more weight than many critics' articles.

They proved that the mud and rust in "qin opera" had not fallen onto the paper in vain.

...

Twenty minutes later, Lin Que was sitting in the swivel chair in his studio.

The screen lit up, and an unread email lay in his encrypted mailbox.

Sender: Wang De'an.

Subject: Latest European Data + Western Invitations.

Lin Que opened it.

The first line of the email carried Wang De'an's undisguised excitement.

"Teacher Jian Shen, I really couldn't help myself, I had to tell you immediately."

The body of the email was very long.

There was only one core piece of information:

The sales data for "ordinary world" in seven European countries had occupied the top three spots on the mainstream literary charts for five consecutive weeks.

France, Germany, Italy... all seven countries simultaneously.

Including reprint pre-orders and channel replenishment orders, the cumulative physical sales had already broken through eight hundred thousand copies.

For a work of Chinese literature, this number could not be summarized by the word "success."

It had directly broken all historical records for the overseas debut of a Chinese literary work.

Lin Que finished reading the data without any change in expression and continued to scroll down.

The tone of the second paragraph of the email changed abruptly.

"Three days ago, the three major Western publishing giants—Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, and Simon & Schuster—successively sent copyright invitation letters.

The terms were increasingly generous, one after another, with advances plus tiered royalties.

They wanted to obtain the dominant English distribution rights, priority rights for global derivative development,

and they even stuffed the priority negotiation rights for film and television adaptations into the attachments."

Lin Que's fingers paused on the mouse.

Full-category deep introduction.

Film and television priority rights.

Lin Que opened the reply box and typed the first line.

"President Wang."

He paused for two seconds and continued typing.

"The reason 'ordinary world' was able to take root in Europe is because European readers could understand Sun Shaoping, not because of some exotic novelty.

On their own land, they also have worker strikes, social stratification, young people leaving their hometowns, and the decline of small towns."

"The underlying color of suffering is the same, which is the only way words have a chance to transcend language."

"Those contracts don't value Sun Shaoping as a person; they value the subsequent development, adaptation windows, and a whole set of replicable commercial chains.

Once you enter that system, the publishing pace, content direction, and even the themes of sequels will be kidnapped by market models."

"Sun Shaoping's suffering should not be placed on store shelves, and even less should it be cut into a set of pretty product packaging."

"Therefore, decline politely."

Send.

In less than three minutes, Wang De'an's reply popped up.

"Rest assured, sir, I have already returned the original invitation letters from those three companies."

"To be honest, I only flipped through two pages of their contracts before I realized something smelled wrong.

The wording was full of phrases like 'We will provide a global platform for your side' and 'Helping Eastern literature move toward the world mainstream.'"

"Throughout the whole thing, you couldn't find a single word like 'consultation' or 'cooperation.'"

"Condescending. From beginning to end, it was all condescending."

Lin Que looked at these lines, his mouth twitching slightly.

Wang De'an had been rolling around in the publishing industry for thirty years; what kind of business jargon hadn't he seen?

Those arrogant probes from the Western publishing giants were, in his eyes, even cruder than haggling at a wet market.

The reply continued to scroll down.

"However, to speak from the heart."

Wang De'an's tone faded from the toughness it had just shown and became heavy and slow.

"New Tide can find local channels to cooperate with, but we cannot give up the leading role.

Right now, just supporting the distribution, legal affairs, and payment collection for the seven European countries is already reaching our limit.

If we were to expand into North America, South America, and Southeast Asia, the logistics and legal work alone would be enough to break my old bones."

"I am fifty-seven this year, and my energy really can't keep up with what it used to be.

Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about these things, I'm always afraid of delaying your work, sir."

Seeing this, Lin Que took his fingers off the keyboard and leaned back in his chair.

He could see it.

There were two layers of meaning hidden in Wang De'an's words.

The first layer was the truth.

Xinchao Publishing House indeed lacked the hardware conditions for global operations; they didn't have enough manpower, experience, or deep enough channels.

The second layer was an old publisher's obsession with Chinese literature going global.

His greatest ambition in this life was to see Chinese literature cross national borders with his own eyes and stand in the very center of the world's bookshelves.

But his body and time would not wait for him.

Lin Que sat up straight again and began to type.

"President Wang, no rush."

"Just keep things steady in Europe. For the next period, focus on making the channels deep and thorough; don't seek speed."

"As for the road further ahead."

He paused for a moment.

"I have already thought of the next work."

"It will be shorter than 'ordinary world,' but also more ruthless."

There was silence on the other side of the screen for nearly a minute.

Then Wang De'an's reply exploded out.

"The next one? Sir, are you talking about... a new book?"

"Yes."

"But... you previously said 'ordinary world' would be a trilogy?

The first two parts are highly acclaimed domestically, and overseas data is also rising.

Isn't it more logical to strike while the iron is hot and finish writing the third part?"

Lin Que looked at this paragraph and thought for a few seconds.

He thought about the direction of the third part in the original work.

Sun Shaoping survives the mining disaster, but a scar that can never fade is left on his face.

Tian Xiaoxia perishes in the flood.

Sun Shaoan's brick kiln goes through several ups and downs.

The core of the third part is no longer about rising up in suffering.

But rather, after suffering, how one learns to live with their own scars.

That is something deeper, slower, and closer to the essence of life.

Lin Que typed.

"The story of the third part needs time to settle."

"The first two parts were about people moving forward in suffering.

The third part is about how people continue to live with their scars after enduring suffering."

"Things like this cannot be rushed; a reconciliation that is rushed is fake."

It was quiet on Wang De'an's end for a long time.

Lin Que continued typing.

"Moreover, the direction of the new work is different.

It is not limited to the experience of a certain piece of land or a certain era.

It wants to write about life and death, about family, about how a person lives in the face of the times and fate.

These things do not require the reader to first understand a specific piece of land."

"No matter which country or which language a reader opens the first page in, they will be able to find themselves in it."

"Sir, are you..."

Wang De'an's reply came very slowly, as if he were repeatedly deliberating.

"Yes."

Lin Que replied with one word.

Then he added the second half.

"But before that, the new work must first undergo the highest standard of domestic inspection."

"Only if it can stand firm domestically does it have the qualifications to go out."

"It must first pass through the fire of the most critical readers and evaluation systems in China.

Once it passes, use it as a blade to head to even further places."

There was silence on the other side of the screen for a full two minutes.

Then Wang De'an's reply popped up.

"Good."

Immediately followed by another one.

"Sir, New Tide will always be your strong backing.

No matter where the next stop is, leave the logistics to me.

Even if I have to run my legs off, I will clear the path for you."

Lin Que looked at this line and did not reply again.

He knew what state this fifty-seven-year-old veteran publisher was in at this moment.

Most likely, he had taken off his reading glasses and was pacing back and forth in his office, his heart beating faster than a young person's.

He closed the encrypted email window.

Lin Que picked up the tea he had just poured, the tea with steam rising from the rim of the cup.

A red unread notification suddenly popped up on the communication software in the bottom right corner of the screen.

The person who sent the message was the editor in charge here at Dream Weaver, who was also the Editor-in-Chief of Hong Guo Net.

Hong Hu.

...