Chapter 97: Summary of Volume One

Summary of Volume One

Volume One has now ended; let’s have a little chat.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m a new author, so this is my first time meeting readers, and this summary is my first direct discussion about the book’s content. Through this, you can get a rough sense of what kind of author Parrot Bites Tongue is, and what kind of book *The Food Immortal Lord* is—whether it suits your taste.

First, let’s address a point that drew strong reader reactions: the issue of “knifeing.” This was likely the book’s first minor controversy.

This controversy first appeared with Zhu Gaoyang. At the time, I thought it was just a serialization issue—the later content hadn’t been updated yet, and the protagonist’s group had hit their lowest point; Zhu and Heichi were caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the Immortal Lord.

This was the Immortal Lord’s first move after awakening, and he had planned it in secret—so it couldn’t fail. Thus, I wrote him crushing everything effortlessly.

But I did leave hooks—for instance, why did the Immortal Lord let Zhu Gaoyang go when he was precisely in need of consuming energy? Clearly, Zhu Gaoyang still has something left to do.

Some readers reacted strongly to Heichi’s arc, so I wrote it extra clearly out of sheer consideration—I bluntly showed he had a backup plan; later we learn he used the enemy’s plan against them, embedding his consciousness into the dragon body.

But this didn’t solve the problem—readers’ moods remained low. I realized it must be an issue with the entire first volume’s story: it had been consistently oppressive, always reactive, with no satisfying release.

Since this couldn’t be fixed short-term, I decided to just continue regular updates and reflect on Volume Two’s creation.

That’s the story behind Zhu and Heichi’s arc.

I understand why readers called this “knifeing”—because they thought Zhu and Heichi were truly going to die. Characters introduced early, clearly meant for long-term arcs, dying within ten or twenty chapters clearly contradicts expectations. If I read a book and saw this, I’d find it baffling too.

But I was confused by other chapters where readers also cried “knife”—genuinely confused, because in some scenes I didn’t even think it was “knife.”

The only major character I truly intended to kill in this volume was Yue Muzhou—and he appeared already as a broken body, already close to death. All other major characters—Zhu Gaoyang, Ming Qitian, Heichi—and secondary ones like Xing Zhi and Shang Lang—all survived.

Those who died were all minor characters, tools, or extras—appearing for half a chapter, one chapter, two chapters. The Immortal Lord finally descended once; he had to kill someone, or it’d be too embarrassing.

So I tried putting myself in the readers’ shoes.

And I realized: readers might feel “knife” not because of a character’s importance, but because of the emotional investment they’ve placed in that character.

In other words, if a reader even slightly likes or pays attention to a character, their death will make the reader sigh.

Now I’ll make a defense.

I am absolutely not an author who takes pleasure in this—deliberately crafting a likable character just to destroy him and watch readers suffer.

My creative logic is this: I create a character out of plot necessity, and as soon as he appears, his fate is death—he serves a specific narrative function.

But before he dies, he must speak, he must act. I can’t bear to let him become a faceless, forgettable tool. So I spend time refining these “speeches” and “actions,” making the character slightly more fleshed out.

In other words, from the moment they appear in my mind, they’re already dead—I’m just imagining their final moments alive.

This is different from first crafting a character with great charm, then killing him deliberately to make readers cry—even if the effect on readers seems similar.

So why do readers feel “knife” when I don’t? I think there are two reasons.

The first might be a difference in narrative tolerance.

In my previous reading experiences, I’ve encountered many books that truly knife and make readers nauseous, so I’ve built up resistance. When I kill someone, I don’t feel much.

Of course, sometimes I do deliberately use death to stir the protagonist’s emotions—like Cheng Feng—but I think this is a normal writing technique: the protagonist must feel anger and grief to seek revenge.

The only character who was truly “knife for knife’s sake” was the princess of the princely mansion. Her death had no impact on the following plot; though surviving might’ve been slightly illogical, when I wrote that scene, I thought, “I’ve never flown before,” would be a better exit—so I killed her.

If you say I deliberately knife, I admit it—but I’m not trying to manipulate readers’ emotions. Let me phrase it better—I’m trying to share this emotion with you.

More often, I simply didn’t think any of these scenes were “knife.”

For example, Shen Yanping, Old Xiangzi, Feng Zhi, Jing Ziwang—I wrote their deaths without intending to stir the protagonist’s or the reader’s emotions.

They were plot-function characters, and they simply got their box lunch.

I’m not saying their deaths should be met with zero reaction—after all, a character’s exit signifies a plot shift or turning point—but they serve the story’s direction. Calling it “knife” is excessive; I didn’t even attempt emotional embellishment.

If you truly can’t handle the deaths of these few, then please subscribe more to *The Food Immortal Lord*! It’s like doing a tolerance training session!

The second reason—I think it accounts for about seventy percent—is the overall oppressive tone.

Readers were already feeling stifled; when someone dies, it becomes even harder to accept. If the overall tone were uplifting, killing a few people probably wouldn’t matter much (I assume).

But this circles back to the tone of Volume One. If I had another chance, I wouldn’t write this story—but since I already did, I can’t force it to be cheerful. Where it needs to be heavy, it must be heavy; otherwise, the joy won’t feel earned, the sorrow won’t land, and it’ll just collapse.

Alright, Parrot Bites Tongue, now that you know the problem, what are you going to do about it?

Sorry, I can’t fix it.

What needs to be written still needs to be written; what needs to die still needs to die.

Of course, as mentioned earlier, I’m not someone who takes pleasure in knifeing, so I can still make a statement.

First, like all web novels, our major characters are vital—they won’t die casually. They’re all late-game figures (though that doesn’t mean they’ll die in the end, nor does it mean they definitely won’t).

Second, ordinary side characters and extras don’t have to die. If a character is meant to die, I’ll craft him well; if a character is meant to live happily, I’ll craft him well too.

Some readers asked: I scoured two hundred thousand words and still couldn’t find anyone living happily.

That ties back to the tone of this volume.

In every volume, I strive to craft characters well—but in heavy, brutal volumes, most will meet grim fates; in light, cheerful volumes, most will live cheerfully, depending entirely on the story the volume aims to tell.

Writing such an oppressive story in Volume One was probably not a wise decision.

It’s hard on everyone to watch a protagonist who doesn’t advance a single level for two hundred thousand words, just tagging along uselessly for one hundred and fifty thousand.

It further proves I’m a completely inexperienced pig of a beginner.

Alright, after addressing the controversy, let’s summarize Volume One’s creation—both as my own reflection and as a dialogue with readers, to see how our perspectives differ.

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The “function” of Volume One’s story is very simple: to forge an enmity.

Why should Pei Ye, this ordinary boy from a small town, kill the so-called Taiyi True Dragon Immortal Lord? This needs a source—a main thread to anchor the entire story.

This is, of course, a somewhat traditional approach—using an entire volume for it. Nowadays, it’s no longer popular, but I didn’t deliberately choose unpopular material; I simply lack experience and awareness.

The character I most wanted to write in Volume One was Yue Muzhou.

His portrayal was somewhat rushed and imperfect, but overall, he was still written.

What I most want to share with you is my view of this character—you’re welcome to have your own.

What kind of person is Yue Muzhou?

When I myself can’t enter that state, I look at him and think he’s foolish.

Because his actions are deeply counterintuitive, defying normal human logic.

I can’t help but ask him: you’ve sought breakthrough for so long, and it’s within reach. You have such talent, such status, such a bright future—why on earth give it all to Zhenbei Prince to kill?

Because I project myself onto him—these things he possesses represent what people dream of as “success,” things our protagonist might struggle for many volumes to attain.

But Yue Muzhou would say: “Because I don’t care.”

“I want to kill him—I must kill him now, immediately, right now.”

What I want to do, I must do.

True “freedom” isn’t just freedom from others’ control—it’s harder to escape the chains we impose on ourselves.

Each of us is bound by every aspect of life—by desires for fame and fortune, by fear of loss, by all our past experiences.

If Yue Muzhou were bound by these things—his divine weapons, divine arts, talent and status, glory and profit, even his half-lifetime of cultivation—he’d be no different from us.

So I wrote him repeatedly discarding what we consider precious.

Even his deep-seated hatred.

One reader commented on the princely mansion chapter: “I killed your son and tormented you; now I’ve killed your daughter—so what?”

This is our different versions of Hamlet.

Of course, I’m not here to teach readers how to read. What I write, you’re free to interpret however you like—even from the Immortal Lord’s perspective.

I’m just citing this to express my own view of the character.

When Yue Muzhou killed that girl, he didn’t think like that.

Because those tortures never turned him into someone who turns bloodshot at the mention of “Zhenbei Prince’s Mansion.” If, when killing the girl, he thought, “Zhenbei Prince, let you feel again the pain of losing a loved one,” he’d still be bound by hatred.

Even if he hadn’t seen the girl tormenting the maid, but the steward bullying the stable hand—he’d still act.

Even if his great vengeance could never be fulfilled.

When he first appeared, I wrote that he “didn’t care much about his own life.”

At the end, when the girl asked if he feared death, he answered plainly: no.

He truly didn’t fear it.

He is precisely such a person—unbound, unattached, truly daring to discard everything, utterly free, utterly unrestrained.

He walked through the world; fame and fortune couldn’t entangle him, hatred couldn’t bind him—he lived only doing what he wanted.

Thinking of such a person fills me with exhilaration.

Of course, his ending still carries a tinge of tragedy—I didn’t wish for this, and it’s an area for improvement. But I think Yue Muzhou himself wouldn’t feel tragic, because when he wanted to be free, he truly was.

This is the character who first appeared in my mind when I conceived this volume.

You may also notice that although he departed, he left many small and large hooks—later, in some volume, we’ll still describe him from the protagonist’s perspective.

But that might be far in the future.

Besides Yue Muzhou, this volume also accomplished other tasks. For example, Pei Ye forged trust with Heichi. They’re not the same person, nor will they unconditionally rely on each other—but from suspicion to setbacks to trust, they ultimately became true “kindred spirits” due to shared goals, and will gradually grow accustomed to entrusting their lives to each other.

Of course, there were many other tasks—I won’t list them all.

Overall, Volume One, with some revisions, could serve as a fairly complete novella: Pei Ye as the thread, Yue Muzhou as the protagonist—it seems quite good.

Now, let’s look ahead to Volume Two.

Volume Two will likely be a classic journey-and-growth story. Our perspective will come down, no longer depicting lofty figures, but returning to the grassroots jianghu, returning to the protagonist, with a lighter tone.

I can outline the plot for this volume, but I haven’t yet conceived a “good enough act” that makes me eager and passionate to write it.

This matters deeply to me.

I hope it comes.

Of course, there are still many other learning and preparation tasks. As always, I’m a newcomer, so I’m anxious about my future writing—I hope to write better, yet fear suddenly stumbling into some hidden pit obscured by fog.

Anyway, I’ll just keep wading forward.

That’s the first volume done; now let’s talk about some small, trivial things.

Since writing is still somewhat new to me, I’ve had quite a few fresh insights.

For instance, I’ve noticed a few of my own small tendencies and flaws.

First, I like writing simple people, simple light and darkness.

Many readers say the allies are all good, with no dark intentions.

Of course, because the protagonist has no dark intentions either, haha.

I like writing this kind of simplicity: enemies are cruel, cunning, brutal, and each one is hard to defeat.

But friends are bright, sincere, united, and willing to live or die together.

This is even a kind of satisfaction for me—such a simple world lets you pour all your hatred into one side and give your complete sincerity to the other, without needing to worry too much.

Later, I’ll try writing complex characters, but my experience and skill may not be enough, so what I write will probably lack power.

Like when I wrote the cave scene, I hinted at the faint familial bonds and humanity of those fanatical believers, but if I were truly to depict, in full detail, how human nature twisted in that environment, how the believers struggled internally, how a speck of light flickered briefly in the dark bloodshed, I feel I’d be pushing beyond my limits.

But if I could actually write it, it would certainly be deeply rewarding.

Second, I seem to have a problem with narrative detail and omission.

When I see readers confused by certain plot points, I think: Isn’t it just like this and that?

Then I look again—oh, I skipped over some of it.

One example is the bronze cup in Pei Ye’s hand in the wine cellar.

I wrote Pei Ye tilting his head to drink, then the bronze cup falling to the ground, and later Pei Ye splashing a full cup of liquid onto Wu Zaigu.

What I didn’t write: Pei Ye used an empty cup he’d taken from Lao Xiangzi’s house as a prop, while the cup filled with liquid was secretly held in his palm.

I don’t know whether readers understood my omission or simply didn’t notice the “bug”—either way, if you missed it, the first layer is the same as the third, and it doesn’t affect reading.

The second example is when Zhu Gaoyang and Pei Ye plan to counterattack the purple-robed man.

I wrote Zhu Gaoyang taking out two different outfits and a strange device, then immediately described how the white-clothed man and the boy became Pei Ye and Zhu Gaoyang in battle.

What I didn’t write: Zhu Gaoyang wore a linen shirt, Pei Ye wore white robes, and the strange device wasn’t chewing gum—it was a disguise tool—Zhu Gaoyang had already disguised himself as “Zhang Siche.” Later, when the purple-robed man saw a linen-shirted boy carrying a white-robed young master, it was actually Zhu Gaoyang carrying Pei Ye.

This adds some reading cost, admittedly.

Maybe it’s a flaw—I don’t like writing everything too plainly, too clearly. So if readers skim or read too fast, they’ll miss some information.

Of course, if you think it’s better written more clearly, I’m willing to revise—it’s all damn words anyway.

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Alright, that’s enough—I’m starting to feel everything I wrote is flawed.

Authors are always like this: when planning, they think it’s brilliant; when writing, they’re full of passion; but once done, they feel everything’s wrong.

From a gut feeling, I think my two hundred thousand words are only 4 to 6 out of 10—problems everywhere—but from my own ability, I’ve probably already delivered 8 or 9 out of 10, and the next volume may not be better.

Always aiming higher than I can reach.

Keep writing.

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Volume Two starts tomorrow! No rest!

But I might not hit four posts a day this month, and might even take a break—just a heads-up.

Finally, thank you all for your support, and please, if you’re planning to wait and read later, set up auto-subscription.

I wrote so many words—if only they could become my draft reserve.

Thank you to Bei Dui’s tip, thank you to Book Friend’s tip, thank you to Yue Zhi Jiangye’s tip!

Thank you all for your support!

(End of Chapter)