Chapter 153: Whether It Has Effectiveness Depends on Strength

"Mr. Seven-Inch Blade, may I ask your surname?"

Pei Wencong fell silent for at least ten seconds before calmly continuing his conversation with the Seven-Inch Blade on the other end of the line.

Although the other party's tone was harsh, Pei Wencong was a graduate of HKU—he couldn't behave like a street thug from Causeway Bay.

But the voice on the other end remained cold and blunt: "Does my surname have anything to do with the two conditions I mentioned earlier?"

"。"

Pei Wencong's fingers involuntarily tightened around the receiver, both angry and astonished.

He didn't understand why, among inland "intellectuals," the differences could be so vast.

When Pei Wencong had previously dealt with Lanhai Publishing, they had always been extremely courteous.

Pei Wencong merely spent a few hundred Hong Kong dollars to help them acquire a few cutting-edge international literary journals, and received heartfelt thanks in return.

In recent phone conversations, Lanhai had gone to extraordinary lengths to demonstrate "friendship and respect."

Whenever Pei Wencong called, it was always a senior executive from Lanhai Publishing who answered—junior staff dared not pick up the phone.

But why is this Seven-Inch Blade so arrogant?

"Then I'll address you as Sir," Pei Wencong said calmly: "Sir, the promotion and sales of 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' have just begun; we haven't reached a profit stage yet, so your demand for a 20% profit share is invalid."

"Invalid?" Li Ye said coolly. "How much profit did you make each month before publishing 'Shuangfeng Feiyang'?"

Pei Wencong couldn't admit that before publishing 'Shuangfeng Feiyang,' his situation had been dire—with almost no profit at all.

He could only reply: "It's hard to say—it's also a business secret."

Li Ye didn't argue further, but said directly: "Then take the profit after publishing 'Shuangfeng Feiyang,' subtract the profit before, and I want 20% of that difference—is that a problem?"

You're really clever!

Pei Wencong was genuinely impressed—who said northerners were all warm-hearted proletarian brothers? This guy's no different from Hong Kong's capitalistic sharks!

Of course, maybe slightly better—because in Pei Wencong's situation, a capitalistic shark would've likely devoured him outright.

"Sir, 20% is unreasonable—you're only one author; our magazine features many other writers' works."

Pei Wencong finally took this seriously and adopted a bargaining stance with Li Ye.

But Li Ye replied: "You think 20% is unreasonable? How about 25%?"

Pei Wencong wanted to slam the phone down right away.

Do you really think this is a gangster turf war? Whoever's more aggressive gets the upper hand?

But right now, Pei Wencong needed 'Shuangfeng Feiyang'—without it, he couldn't sign a contract with Shulian Sales and would lose his chance at redemption.

Still, Pei Wencong had spent over a decade in the industry and had encountered plenty of difficult people.

So he immediately changed the subject: "Sir, we're in disagreement over the 20% profit share—let's first discuss your second request, shall we?"

Li Ye replied briefly: "Fine, but don't waste my time—I hate beating around the bush."

Pei Wencong had grown accustomed to Li Ye's style and said calmly: "Sir, inviting you to Hong Kong to visit is something I should naturally do, both morally and professionally.

But an invitation letter isn't something you can just issue—it requires time to process, and I can't guarantee an exact timeline."

Before Pei Wencong had even finished speaking, the voice on the other end asked incredulously: "Aren't three months enough for you to develop it?

If you can't make 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' a sensation in three months, are you even worthy of your HKU degree? At that point, what's the point of an invitation letter?"

"。"

Pei Wencong was finally stunned—this Seven-Inch Blade seemed to already know 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' would be a hit.

He hadn't told Lanhai Publishing anything about the book's sales performance.

True, if he could sign with Shulian Sales, Pei Wencong's ability alone could transform Tawang Publishing within three months.

Even among taxpayers, there are hierarchies—Pei Wencong three months from now would be an entirely different person from the one he is today.

"Alright, Sir, I'll definitely get you the invitation letter. When you come, I'll show you the splendor of the Pearl of the Orient—the Lion Rock, Ocean Park."

You never agree to everything right away—Pei Wencong felt the timing was right.

He understood well the mainlanders' deep desire to visit Hong Kong.

In the past two decades, countless mainlanders had swum across the border, willingly becoming illegal residents.

Even those who came on business trips were awestruck by Hong Kong's prosperity—just Ocean Park alone could keep them enchanted.

But Li Ye continued: "I'm not interested in Ocean Park. I want to see Victoria Harbour, and also Kowloon Tong.

I want to see if there are still teenage street racers on Tsing Shan Road, and whether the hillside really is full of immortals—by the way, Mr. Pei, do you own a mansion on the Peak?"

If I had a mansion on the Peak, I wouldn't waste another word on you, damn it!

Pei Wencong cursed silently under his breath several times, barely holding back from swearing aloud.

Are you mocking me?

Who lives on the Peak? Would someone like that bother negotiating a petty deal worth tens or hundreds of thousands?

But Li Ye didn't wait for an answer—he continued: "Still, what interests me most about Hong Kong is its cultural market—I'd like to visit Chung Hwa Book Company, Joint Publishing, Commercial Press, and Ming Chuang Publishing."

Pei Wencong listened in stunned silence as Li Ye rattled off names like a menu—by the time he'd named over twenty publishers, Pei Wencong's sense of calm and superiority had vanished completely.

【So this Seven-Inch Blade knows Hong Kong well—in fact, from the very beginning, he saw me for what I am: a tiny shrimp.】

When dealing with Lanhai Publishing, Pei Wencong had always maintained the persona of a "big Hong Kong businessman."

But now he realized—the Seven-Inch Blade had seen right through him.

No mansion on the Peak, no renowned publishing house, no guarantee of turning things around in three months—inadvertently, the Seven-Inch Blade had gently peeled back Pei Wencong's wounds.

Pei Wencong sighed for a second, then made his decision.

"Sir, long-distance calls are expensive—I'll arrange your invitation letter by Spring Festival.

Let's talk about the profit-sharing now—I think 20% is perfectly reasonable."

Pei Wencong felt uneasy—he feared the Seven-Inch Blade might now demand 25% or even 30%.

At this point, he had no bargaining power left.

If this Seven-Inch Blade simply wrote a letter to Joint Publishing or Commercial Press saying the copyright for 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' wasn't held by Tawang Publishing, all Pei Wencong's month-long efforts would benefit someone else.

Would he work tirelessly to build up 'Shuangfeng Feiyang's' reputation, only to let the big fish steal the harvest?

Pei Wencong couldn't accept that.

As for the 20% profit share Li Ye demanded—he could always find ways to manipulate it later…

But then Pei Wencong suddenly remembered Li Ye's earlier words on the phone: Don't play games.

Should he play games?

Would it backfire?

……

Li Ye hung up the phone inside the Xicheng Post Office, curling his lips into a faint smile.

He had assumed that whoever was connected to Lanhai Publishing couldn't be a major publisher—after all, Lanhai wasn't a cultural giant on the mainland.

But he hadn't expected just how weak the other side was.

Since Li Ye was still young, he couldn't afford to be polite or deferential—he'd only be seen as weak.

So he adopted a decisive, blunt, even unreasonable tone.

Yet Tawang Publishing didn't even put up a fight.

Or rather, they lacked the courage to even slam the table or challenge him.

Either Pei Wencong was a powerless little fish grabbing at any scrap of profit, or a cunning, untrustworthy schemer planning to renege on his promises.

Given the current situation between mainland China and Hong Kong, it wouldn't be hard for the other side to play tricks.

But so what?

If Pei Wencong can play games, why can't Li Ye?

I could cut off your serialization mid-stream, or even release a special edition that subtly leads you into a trap—Hong Kong's colonial government might even invite you for a "tea chat."

Li Ye dialed Dong Yuejin at Lanhai Publishing again.

"Brother Dong, have you drafted the reprint contract? If so, send someone over to sign it."

Dong Yuejin paused, then chuckled and scolded: "I've had it ready since day one—just waiting for your big-writer approval! But didn't you already foresee this situation when you signed the original contract?"

Originally, when Li Ye signed with Dong Yuejin, he had explicitly reserved only mainland sales rights.

At the time, Lanhai never imagined a cheap book could earn foreign exchange—they'd casually overlooked it.

Now, they had to sign another contract and peel off another layer of profit.

Li Ye laughed: "Times are changing—we should look at things from a developmental perspective, right? Besides, you're getting this money for free—I'm only taking a small cut, nothing excessive."

"Don't say that, little brother," Dong Yuejin said seriously. "No matter how famous you are on the mainland, you're still just an individual. We at Lanhai are a state-run institution.

I won't ask why you insist on dealing with Hong Kong, but I warn you: any agreement you make with Hong Kong, without Lanhai's involvement, may not hold legal weight—capitalists don't care about honor."

"I know, Brother. Legitimacy comes from strength."

"Ah, you're right—it's all about strength. And Lanhai has strength."

"。"

Li Ye didn't want to explain to Dong Yuejin that the "strength" he meant wasn't Lanhai's.

Right now, if Hong Kong reneged, Lanhai would be powerless.

But Li Ye was certain Pei Wencong could see the true strength of 'Shuangfeng Feiyang.'

Hong Kong's literary scene was certainly filled with brilliant minds—Gu Liang Jin were giants of their era.

But 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' was a literary work spanning nearly thirty years, written on the shoulders of predecessors—its perspective and understanding of reader psychology far surpassed 1980s standards.

Previous generations had spent countless works testing reader preferences, and today's writers absorbed them unconsciously.

Many now simply feel 'Shuangfeng Feiyang' is thrilling to read, but its core substance is entirely different.

"Li Ye, how did your talks with Hong Kong go? Did they agree to issue you an invitation?"

Dong Yuejin tried to control his tone so Li Ye wouldn't sense anything unusual.

During the society meeting, they clearly said to let the Seven-Inch Blade test the waters, see how Hong Kong responds—if it works, we could even issue invitations ourselves!

After all, the Seven-Inch Blade is young; being turned down won't shame them.

"They said they're applying—it's not easy to handle," Li Ye said. "I won't chat anymore, Brother Dong. I might send you a similar manuscript soon—give it some consideration."

"A similar manuscript? What kind?"

"The title isn't settled yet, but the mailing address should be Peking University."

"Oh, that invitation."

"Dududuu~"

Dong Yuejin listened to the dial tone, shook his head, and muttered bitterly, "How could it be that easy?"

Li Ye hung up the phone and paid the call fee, drawing stunned looks from the post office staff.

Back then, several dozen yuan was no small sum.

He mounted his bicycle and rode slowly to find Li Huai and the others—today was the last day to mail submissions, or they'd miss the next issue of New Wind.

When Li Ye arrived at Li Huai's activity room, before he even stepped inside, several people were shoving Li Huai and Yang Yu, getting pushed out the door.

These men weren't as strong as Li Huai and lost the shoving match, but their mouths didn't stop: "What's this about promoting historical culture? You're just digging up feudal trash from the garbage pile!"

"You were raised by the new society, yet you praise and glorify that decaying feudal dynasty—you're an embarrassment to Peking University. Only fools would publish your articles."

Li Huai and the others blushed with anger, clearly furious.

Even mild-mannered Yang Yu grabbed a broom handle and shouted at the men outside:

"You write your poetry, we write ours. Say one more word—I'll crack your skull open."

"Go ahead, hit me. If I dodge, you're impressive."

The poet outside kept talking tough, but his body was helplessly shoved far back by Li Huai, and he finally stormed off, breathing heavily.

Yang Yu dropped the broom and glared at Li Ye, who stood nearby grinning at the spectacle.

"Little brother, you came at the perfect time—watched a good comedy. You owe us admission."

Li Ye ignored his teasing and asked, "Who are those two? What grudge do they have with us?"

"Two great poets," Li Huai snorted, nodding toward the room. "That's the grudge—but nobody admits it."

Li Ye stepped forward and glanced inside, spotting a very tall girl.

A long, neat braid hung down her back, radiating efficiency.

Li Ye whispered, "Who's this trying to stir up jealousy?"

"Jealousy? Pfft. She just likes reading what we write, doesn't care for their poetry. I'm not looking down on poets—but their poems? Pfft."

Li Ye nodded, decided not to enter, and turned to leave.

Third-year campus gossip had nothing to do with him, a freshman.

But Li Huai grabbed Li Ye, urgently saying, "It's been days—we've argued back and forth and still can't settle on a title. You've got ideas—give us one."

The reason Li Huai's group hadn't named their new book was because they'd caught the academic disease:

None of them were from ancient literature or history, yet they kept tossing out archaic names like "Return O'" and "Come Back."

Li Ye thought for a moment and said, "I'm an economics major. From an economic standpoint, a popular title must be simple and clear."

"Like 'Lonely Soldiers Gazing Home'—you hear it and instantly understand. Add a banner with a Tang-character flag and some tattered armor on the cover, and you're done."

"'Lonely Soldiers Gazing Home'? That's too plain—no historical flavor."

"Fine, I'm uneducated—I'm leaving. My girlfriend's waiting for me to eat."

"."

Li Huai stared blankly after Li Ye's retreating figure, filled with resentment and envy.

He, a freshman, already had a beautiful, elegant girlfriend—while he, a third-year, still bickered like peacocks with a bunch of poets.

Pfft—who's showing off?

Li Huai pushed open the door and said coldly, "I asked Li Ye. He says the book's title is 'Lonely Soldiers Gazing Home.' Any objections?"

"."

After a long silence, one student finally said, "Arguing is pointless. Whatever. Just don't use your 'Soul-Calling' title."

"What's wrong with my title? 'Return O' isn't soul-calling!"

Another round of arguing broke out, and eventually even the tall girl joined in.

Scholars can't rebel for three years—it's not without reason.

(End of Chapter)