Chapter 168: One Hundred and Sixty-Eighth Chapter: Ruling Twenty Thousand Li, None Dare Disobey

Hong Kong Island, Sai Wan, Tàlàng Literature Publishing House.

Pei Wencong sat in a brand-new executive chair, legs crossed, his shiny leather shoes bouncing—three parts smugness, three parts ease.

But a sharp-eyed psychologist observing him would notice four parts anxiety hidden beneath his movements.

Within ten minutes, Pei Wencong spun his chair seven times and unconsciously touched his left wrist four times.

On his left wrist he wore a newly bought Rolex.

A genuine Rolex worth sixty thousand Hong Kong dollars—not those cheap fakes that shatter with a single hard slap.

The saying goes: money can solve ninety-nine percent of problems, including the matter of "face."

A few months ago, Pei Wencong spent fifteen minutes every morning grooming himself: suit crisp, shoes polished, a battered Corolla wiped again and again, desperately holding up his face in social interactions.

But the fake smiles of others, and his own inner unease, made him realize that forced face was not real face.

Money is a man's courage—this phrase is certainly extreme, yet it holds some truth.

Wise men with strong inner cores can ignore the illusion of money, but aren't there still more ordinary people in this world?

So once he had money in his pocket, Pei Wencong immediately transformed himself to test whether this saying was true.

The proof showed it was largely correct.

First, he himself now had confidence, and his partners clearly became much warmer toward him—even if he internally despised their opportunism, he couldn't deny how satisfying it felt.

For a time, Pei Wencong was riding high, floating on air, feeling he was only one step away from Hong Kong's elite class.

But a month ago, sudden changes appeared on Hong Kong's market: several "masterpieces" on the same theme as *Shuofeng Feiyang* suddenly hit shelves, riding the trend.

Pei Wencong had some psychological preparation, since Hong Kong's literary market was highly commercialized—once a theme became popular, imitators flooded in, nothing unusual or shameful.

But the simultaneous release of works by several long-established writers greatly exceeded Pei Wencong's expectations, bringing him intense pressure.

Never mind how prestigious those authors were—the publishing houses behind them were so powerful they crushed Pei Wencong with pressure.

Shulian Sales, highly sensitive to the market, immediately notified Pei Wencong to respond.

As for how to respond, they left it to him to figure out.

So Pei Wencong urgently alerted Qichun Dao Feng in the north, urging him to take this seriously and make the subsequent plotlines more captivating.

It was almost as humiliating as saying, "I'm weak and frail, unable to withstand storms."

But with imminent wealth facing uncertain danger, how could Pei Wencong still care about face?

【Even three more months would do! Even two months!】

Pei Wencong felt helpless: just two more months of growth, and Tàlàng Literature's accounts would have tens or even hundreds of thousands in surplus—he could then deploy market tactics to challenge those competitors.

But now, he simply had no strength.

Rain fell again outside the window; the deep, winding crack on the gray building wall ten meters away was maddeningly irritating.

"A Min, hasn't Shulian Sales sent this month's report yet?"

Pei Wencong shouted toward the clerk, A Min.

Today was the day Shulian Sales distributed reports to partners—all cooperating merchants received last month's sales data.

If sales were good last month, promotion would increase this month; if sales were poor, the consequences spoke for themselves.

Pei Wencong's anxiety today stemmed from this report, since within days after its release, Shulian Sales' revenue share would be deposited into Tàlàng Literature's account.

That was real cash!

"Not yet, Boss—you've asked me three times already this morning," A Min smiled at Pei Wencong. "According to our market survey, this month should still be fine! Don't be so anxious."

"Where am I anxious? I'm just bored!"

Pei Wencong naturally wouldn't admit his nervousness—his mouth was stubbornly stiff.

A boss must never show weakness in front of employees—even if his legs trembled, he must remain unmoved under a mountain's weight.

"If you're bored, why not write a review and trash that Korean guy named Park? Are you a Hong Kong University Chinese Literature graduate or just a fraud?"

Qiang, who was Ditou editing layouts, muttered a retort.

A few days ago, a Korean immigrant openly plagiarized *Shuofeng Feiyang* and published it in a small magazine.

He merely swapped the protagonist and supporting characters' names—didn't even bother changing plotlines, sentences, or paragraphs.

Yet he claimed it came from Korean historical records—truly infuriating.

Qiang, a fiery junior editor, immediately wrote a scathing review—but the guy's pen was sharper, and his rebuttal shut Qiang up completely.

So he kept pushing Pei Wencong to engage in a war of words; Pei Wencong's writing was excellent, just neglected these past years due to business.

"Qiang, verbal battles have levels. You, Huo Renqiang, fighting that Park guy is evenly matched. But I, Pei Wencong, drive a Benz. To even glance at him is to lower myself."

Pei Wencong looked down at Qiang with contempt, chin raised proudly.

Qiang instantly bristled, returning the contempt: "How is your level higher than mine? Is there hierarchy between people? Don't forget your Benz was secondhand—I bought it for you. What's there to boast about?"

"A Benz is a Benz—even a secondhand Benz is still a Benz."

Pei Wencong sneered, unashamed—wasn't a secondhand Benz still a luxury car? Besides, I wear a Rolex on my arm! You, Qiang, can't even be bothered to comb your hair—how could you be on my level?

"You're just stingy. You promised us a raise three months ago and still haven't given it. You bought yourself a Rolex to show off, 【52】 but I know you've secretly saved money. We work our asses off for you, and this is how you treat us?"

Don't think I don't know you've been secretly hoarding money—we work our asses off for you every day, and this is how you treat us.

Qiang angrily tossed down his work, ready to argue fiercely.

He'd followed Pei Wencong for years, enduring hardship without complaint—they weren't just boss and employee, but close enough that an argument carried no psychological weight.

"I'm the boss. Do I need your approval to spend or save my own money?"

Pei Wencong was also growing angry—he had indeed saved money, but that was Li Ye's 20%. A man must keep his word.

A Min smiled, brewed coffee, and stood aside to watch the drama. But after just two sips, the office's ancient fax machine began whirring.

"Stop arguing! Shulian Sales' fax just came in!"

Both the furious Qiang and the smug Pei Wencong rushed to the fax machine, staring as the paper slowly emerged, tense as death.

They were all insiders—they knew how vital this data was.

Before the settlement statement finished printing, Qiang stared at the numbers in disbelief.

He blurted: "How can this be so high? Did Shulian Sales' finance department make a mistake?"

A Min exclaimed happily: "How could Shulian Sales' finance make a mistake? They're at least HKU graduates. This is exactly what our press is owed."

"But it shouldn't be this much! It's more than last month… Oh!"

Qiang suddenly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head.

He turned—Pei Wencong held a thick magazine, clearly enraged, having grabbed the nearest object and hurled it.

"You bastard, stop being a jinx! Say one more word like that, I'll dock three months' salary and make you eat rice for free."

In Hong Kong, superstition ran rampant—everything required good omens. Qiang's unconscious muttering had offended Pei Wencong's beliefs.

Qiang knew he was in the wrong, so he stepped aside from the fax machine and sulked off to draw his comics.

A Min and Pei Wencong watched silently as the fax machine continued printing.

But today's report was unlike any before—it whirred for a long time without finishing.

Seeing several pages of dense data, A Min stared in shock at Pei Wencong.

Pei Wencong closed his eyes, tilted his head toward the ceiling, then said slowly: "Overseas sales must have exploded—Malaysia, Shicheng, and sales across the strait far exceeded our expectations."

A Min found it hard to believe—only a few famous writers had significant influence in surrounding Chinese-speaking regions capable of driving readers to spend.

Qichun Dao Feng had only just emerged in Hong Kong—many places hadn't even heard his name!

Finally, A Min couldn't help asking: "Why?"

"Because of identification—with Huazhong civilization."

A Min seemed to see a strange halo around Pei Wencong's face.

"Shicheng, Malaysia, Hong Kong… though far from the mainland, more prosperous, advanced, and open today, 【80】 no one can deny we share the same roots, the same ancestral civilization.

But no one can deny that we share the same origin and have a common ancestral civilization.

No matter which flag we swear under or which national anthem we sing, we all internally recognize our skin, eyes, and hair as unique.

Even if some deny it, these traits remain indelible bloodline marks."

A Min frowned, pondered long, then asked: "But how does this connect to *Shuofeng Feiyang*'s success?"

Pei Wencong smiled: "A Min, do you know what 'admiring strength' means?"

A Min chuckled: "Admiring strength? That's women envying men! We women all hope for a strong man to protect us, shield us from wind and rain."

"Not just that. Admiring strength is all the weak's reverence and envy toward the strong."

Pei Wencong pointed north, lost in thought: "When I was in university, I encountered things not in textbooks…

For thousands of years, though dynasties rose and fell on the mainland, they maintained overwhelming dominance and influence over East Asia.

Within twenty thousand li north and south, everyone bowed to the northern dynasty, soaked in its culture—orders issued, none dared disobey.

Even the height of Korean royal palace roofs was restricted by the mainland dynasty—dared not exceed by a single millimeter. Can you believe that?"

Pei Wencong smiled, continued: "The mainland has weakened recently, but how could thousands of years of historical influence vanish?"

"As long as Chinese is spoken, this identification with history, ancestors, and strength will never die.

*Shuofeng Feiyang*'s depiction of the mighty Tang Dynasty has quietly, silently, reconquered this land."

"From now on, no need to worry," Pei Wencong added with a light laugh. "Those authors who lack true identification cannot produce a work like *Shuofeng Feiyang*—they'll inevitably fall short."

……

At 4: 0 p. ., Pei Wencong stood beside the publishing house phone, doing nothing.

This was his scheduled weekly call with Li Ye, to exchange information and needs.

If Li Ye didn't call this week, it meant no urgent needs—postpone until next week.

This left Pei Wencong passive: if something urgent arose, he had to either go through Blue Ocean Publishing or wait for Li Ye to call.

After some time of contact, Pei Wencong changed his original view.

Although Lanhai Publishing placed great importance on Pei Wencong, their operational style was too conservative, burdened with countless rules and restrictions; instead, this Seven-Inch Blade had gradually grown compatible with Pei Wencong's temperament.

"Ding ling ling~"

The phone rang on time; Pei Wencong picked up the receiver and heard a familiar voice.

"The call might drop at any moment, so I'll be brief," Li Ye said calmly: "First, buy me the latest books and magazines on finance, and forward them to me through Lanhai Publishing."

"Second, a novel called 'Wandering Soldiers of the Homeland' may soon be submitted to your press—arrange for its serialization as soon as possible."

"Third."

Pei Wencong listened patiently until Li Ye finished, then quickly voiced his anxiety: "Mr. Li, the situation I told you about last time has worsened recently."

"I haven't received your next manuscript yet—I'm wondering if the plot has any fresh elements?"

Li Ye replied: "Do you think brilliant plotlines alone can crush your rivals in such a situation?"

Pei Wencong said apologetically: "I know, I know—I'll ramp up marketing. I just got this month's sales report; there should be some surplus funds."

"No, no promotional tactic beats an author's diligence."

Li Ye said coldly: "I sent you two hundred thousand characters of manuscript. Whether you issue it as a special supplement or standalone volumes, flood the market—smother them with volume."

"Flood the market? Smother them?"

Pei Wencong didn't quite understand; it sounded like Li Ye was talking about eating.

【Does this Seven-Inch Blade like rolled pancakes? In the north, they have scallion pancakes.】

Pei Wencong ventured: "Mr. Li, if I understand correctly, you mean to overwhelm them with quantity?"

"Yes, you understand perfectly—smother them with volume."

(End of chapter)