Chapter 46

After leaving the matchmaking corner, Qin Yun sighed that marriage these days was no easy thing—some were parched to death while others drowned in excess.

Someone like him, divorced, would likely find no one willing to marry him if he ever ran out of money; no matter how good his appearance, he’d only attract shallow people.

“By the way, Qin Yun, where are you planning to look for a job? It’s hard to find one in Zhoushan.”

As they left the park, Wang Lili suddenly asked while chatting.

Qin Yun shook his head—he had long given up on job hunting: “I’m going to do self-media and see if I can make a living.”

“Self-media?” Wang Lili wasn’t surprised by this answer—everyone these days wanted to do self-media, since it looked easy and paid well.

Hangzhou was even bigger for self-media; eight out of ten people had this idea.

But once you actually tried it, you realized this field valued personal ability even more.

Don’t say things like “Giao Brother made it, why can’t I?” You should know that before he became famous, Giao Brother acted like a dog in his videos and livestreams—he was willing to throw away his dignity; could ordinary people do that?

So when Qin Yun said this, she assumed he was just one of those people who only saw the glamour of self-media and didn’t understand its difficulties.

But then again, Qin Yun had lived in Beijing for years—he might have his own thoughts; she shouldn’t speak too freely, since they hadn’t seen each other in years and weren’t close.

“That’s good. Good luck.”

Qin Yun didn’t care about her thoughts; he waved at her at the crossroads: “See you. I’ll come to Hangzhou to eat with you.”

“Mm, goodbye.”

Watching Qin Yun’s tall back recede, Wang Lili pursed her lips and muttered: “What a pity—he fits my taste, if only he had money.”

Qin Yun didn’t go straight home; he bought some vegetables at the market, made himself a pot of fried rice cakes, prepared dinner, and waited until the right time to cook, planning to let his mother taste his cooking.

While eating the rice cakes and scrolling through TikTok, Qin Yun suddenly saw an official invitation pop up in his backend.

He checked it and found it was an invitation to join the Creator Partner Program; he clicked in to read carefully.

The Creator Partner Program was formerly the Mid-Video Partner Program—it’s currently TikTok’s most important monetization method, paying based on your video views.

Qin Yun’s three videos all had decent traffic, but he’d earned nothing because he didn’t qualify yet.

Now, unexpectedly, TikTok’s official team invited him to join—his content must have been recognized. But he guessed it was probably because of that livestream; otherwise, a carving video and a motorcycle repair video wouldn’t have drawn this attention.

When he entered the Creator Partner Program, he found one requirement he hadn’t met: publishing over twenty pieces of content. But strangely, it showed as already satisfied—he was clearly treated differently as an invitee.

Besides that, there were two other conditions: age and follower count.

Follower count needed to exceed fifty thousand—that would be the hardest to achieve.

He submitted his application, and within less than a minute, the backend showed he had successfully joined the Creator Partner Program—meaning from now on, every view of his videos would bring him some income.

He searched TikTok and found the payout per view wasn’t fixed; broadly speaking, it was profit views multiplied by unit price, where “profit views” weren’t total views—the platform filtered for watch time, interaction, and other valid views to determine earnings.

And the unit price was dynamic, set by the platform—nobody knew exactly what it was.

“Not bad. Another way to make money.”

At his current follower level, income would come from brand deals; pure view counts probably wouldn’t earn him much. But if his followers grew and he became a ten-million-follower influencer, things would be different.

If each video got tens of millions of views, the earnings would be solid.

After eating and washing the dishes, since Qin Yun had nothing else to do, he went out again—this time riding his motorcycle.

He had no specific destination, just wandered around aimlessly, like a social loafer doing nothing but strolling.

He rode from Lincheng to Dinghai, then from Dinghai to Xiaosha, then to Cezi Island. After circling around, he returned to Haishan Park in Dinghai.

Just as he parked his bike in a spot, a call from Hebei suddenly came in.

“Yes, it’s me. Hello… Haha… Of course… So much?… Thank you… Mm… Yes, that’s the email… Got it, I’ll send it to you soon… Bye.”

The Hebei call made Qin Yun extremely happy.

After hanging up, he logged into his email and found a message; following the link, he entered Alipay, filled in his information including bank account details, confirmed submission, then walked cheerfully into the park.

“Three hundred thousand… Wow… That’s unexpected. Didn’t expect it to be this high.”

The earlier call was from Hebei—his bravery award medal had been mailed, the bonus approval process was complete, and payment could be made anytime. The bravery bonus was a staggering three hundred thousand yuan, tax-free.

That meant his total assets now exceeded six hundred thousand yuan.

From being left with nothing after divorce to now having over six hundred thousand in savings, he’d done it in just two months—averaging ten thousand yuan per day.

“Perfect. When the DJI payment arrives, I’ll hit exactly seven hundred thousand. Ha! Never been this wealthy before.”

Walking deeper into the park, he suddenly saw two women holding bows, shooting at a target ten meters away, with occasional onlookers stopping by.

Curious, Qin Yun walked closer. He clearly saw the bows in their hands—compound bows.

A compound bow uses a pulley system to reduce effort; once drawn fully, only a fraction of the force needs to be maintained. It’s used in competitive sports and hunting.

The bows used in Olympic events were recurve bows—different from these.

Clearly, the two women’s bows were beginner-level, no more than thirty pounds—any adult woman with slight training could pull them easily. No doubt, they were absolute beginners.

Because ten meters was far too close for a compound bow’s range.

Most compound bows had a range of over fifty meters.

*Snap!*

A crisp twang of the bowstring, then the woman on the left shot her arrow—*whoosh*—and missed the target entirely.

Qin Yun heard several “Eh?” sounds from the crowd.

Then the girl on the right shot—she was more accurate than the middle-aged woman, at least hitting the target.

“Mom, I hit the target!” The girl jumped up happily.

The woman praised her briefly, then stubbornly drew her bow again—and missed again.

“Mom, don’t rush. You’ll get it.”

Qin Yun thought: Your mom’s a complete beginner—wrong distance judgment, wrong strength, wrong posture—how could she hit the target?

Many onlookers watched for a while and left, bored.

Only Qin Yun stayed, watching the woman shoot arrow after arrow—about ten shots total—until she gripped her arm, exhausted.

“Lingling, I need to rest a bit.”

Cheng Ke felt she’d been foolish to agree to join her daughter in archery lessons—why not just play mahjong instead?

Now she was dragged out every week under the guise of “mother-daughter bonding.”

As she sat down on a nearby bench, a voice came from beside her: “Sister, can I try?”

Cheng Ke looked up, her eyes brightening—a strikingly handsome young man, tall and muscular, with strong arms.

She didn’t refuse, smiling as she handed him the bow: “Do you know how to shoot?”

Qin Yun took the bow and arrow, humbly saying: “Learned a bit.”

He walked over, facing the target. When the girl’s arrow landed, he drew the bow—sure enough, the draw weight was only twenty-some pounds, effortless for him.

The moment he raised the bow, a mysterious sensation rose in his heart. Almost instinctively, he sank into stillness—his breathing slowed, his heartbeat steadied.

He could sense wind direction, air humidity—all through the touch of his skin.

His gaze fixed on the bullseye, faint yet clear—a mere void in his awareness: the target was both in his sight and not.

The instant he released, he felt neither hand nor bow—as if his consciousness had merged with the arrow.

*Bang!*

The arrow struck the bullseye dead center. Qin Yun instantly returned to normal awareness.

The girl stared, mouth slightly open, astonished.

Qin Yun shook his head—too close. Ten meters was like shooting at something right under your nose. He walked to the target, lifted it, and moved it back thirty meters—stopping at forty meters.

“Big… big brother… that far… can you even hit it?” The girl eyed him skeptically.

Qin Yun smiled: “Try and see.”

Several onlookers had gathered now, all curious to see if Qin Yun could hit it.

Cheng Ke stood up, thinking: At that distance, the target’s barely the size of a palm.

*Whoosh—Snap!*

The arrow pierced the red center, its tail quivering violently—proof of immense force.

“Awesome!”

Someone shouted.

Qin Yun, on a whim, picked up another arrow and shot several more—each one struck the bullseye. His Archery Skill Lv1 had already elevated him to master level in this skill.

At this distance, with a compound bow, his hand stability was unaffected. But the bow’s draw weight was too low—he felt nothing.

Qin Yun estimated that even a hundred-pound bow would be easy for him.

After playing a bit longer, Qin Yun generously corrected the mother-daughter pair’s form, greatly improving their chance of hitting the target within ten meters.

Though they still couldn’t hit the bullseye, the dramatic improvement in hitting the target thrilled them.

Seeing them excited, Qin Yun quietly slipped away.

Walking up the path of Haishan Park, he reached the top when Fang Nan’s message arrived.

“Brother Yun, the video’s ready. Take a look.”

Qin Yun had plenty of data—he didn’t mind using a gigabyte, and chose to download via mobile data.

By the time he walked back down to the park’s entrance, the video had finished downloading.

He clicked play—the first frame was a stunning image, paired with an exaggerated title design, instantly grabbing attention.

This kind of design—he could edit with CapCut until he died and still couldn’t replicate it.

The rest of the video was even better: drone multi-angle shots, perfectly timed transitions, each frame conveying tension, enhanced by sound effects and music—turning an hour of footage into forty minutes of polished brilliance.

He sat on his motorcycle, watching every second without missing a frame—until the final black screen thanked DJI, and he finally snapped out of it.

“Impressive, Fang Nan. Your editing is amazing.”

“Haha, it’s your footage that’s great—without it, I couldn’t have made this.”