Chapter 197: You Call That a Concession?

"It's in English. Mr. Li, are you proficient in English?"

Pei Wencong took Li Ye's manuscript and froze.

Although China has produced literary giants like Lin Yutang and Gu Hongming, who could conquer many Western literary media in English.

But not everyone is Gu Hongming or Lin Yutang, and Li Ye clearly excels at commercial literature—something entirely different from those masterpieces.

Commercial literature prioritizes commercial value; literary value is merely an accessory, and its target readership is entirely different.

In Pei Wencong's view, for someone whose native language isn't English to write a commercial literary work that English-speaking readers would buy, the difficulty might be more unbelievable than mainland China's early success in developing nuclear weapons.

But since Li Ye had produced the manuscript, Pei Wencong had to read it—minimum respect for any author.

Especially when that author is particularly "unique."

Pei Wencong's native language is Cantonese, but he studied at HKU, where instruction was in English; as an outstanding student, his English was excellent—he could read an English book without issue.

He read carefully for twenty minutes, then went back to the beginning, and slowly frowned.

"Mr. Li, the storytelling in this 'A Song of Ice and Fire' is decent, but I think promoting it globally might not succeed easily."

Pei Wencong expressed his opinion tactfully, only to find Li Ye still calm and composed.

So Pei Wencong explained again: "Mr. Li, I've read many original English works, and I feel your piece resembles Mr. Tolkien's 'The Lord of the Rings.'

But that was thirty years ago, and your writing style is too distinctive—it may not align with Western readers' reading habits."

Pei Wencong thought he'd been extremely tactful; if another author had submitted such a manuscript to his literary society, he'd have already turned into a Maxim gun and sprayed them full of bullets.

【What is this? This isn't writing—it's a textbook, and a damn middle-school textbook at that.】

Li Ye's original translation instruction to Wen Leyu was "plain and accurate"—a lesson from later experience, where many successful Chinese works heading overseas pursued plain prose to facilitate translation and publication.

If you write in flowery, convoluted prose, foreigners will just stare blankly—how are they supposed to know what you're trying to say?

A little distortion here, a little misinterpretation there, and by the end, the translated meaning is completely wrong.

"Heh~. It's not 'might not align'—it definitely doesn't."

Li Ye smiled and said frankly: "Mr. Pei, no need to be so tactful. I know the problems with this book, and I've already prepared a proper solution."

"A proper solution? I'm all ears."

Pei Wencong smiled, but inwardly he was skeptical.

Literary works aren't industrial products—you can't just meet a functional standard. They're delicate things.

Even many excellent works take decades to suddenly explode in popularity; who dares say "proper solution" before a work even hits the market?

Li Ye said: "Mr. Pei, does your publishing house have the capacity to solicit submissions in English-speaking cultural circles?"

Pei Wencong paused, then replied: "Yes. Hong Kong is one of the 52 members of the Commonwealth. I have many overseas colleagues and sometimes accept translated submissions from abroad."

"Good," Li Ye said confidently: "I'll offer thirty thousand U. . dollars as a prize. Arrange a worldwide contest advertisement to find people to retranslate my manuscript.

After gathering reader feedback and ratings, select several outstanding versions for print and market testing, then choose the winner based on market response for final publication."

Pei Wencong: "."

Li Ye's plan borrowed part of the later-era web novel selection mechanism—diminishing the critic's influence and greatly elevating reader opinion, finalizing the text based on market response.

For a commercial literary work, whether it's good or bad is decided by readers and the market.

Take an inappropriate example: 'Jin Ping Mei'—critics branded it as a rotten relic of the old era, yet it endures generation after generation thanks to reader support.

And how many once-popular literary works are still read decades or centuries later?

"Mr. Li, I think your idea is brilliant. I'll immediately assign people to draft a plan and implement it as soon as possible."

In fact, Pei Wencong had already understood Li Ye's intent halfway through his explanation, and even mentally envisioned multiple follow-up strategies.

Pei Wencong didn't know if Li Ye was capable, but this method was definitely viable. Thirty thousand U. . dollars in this era was a powerful incentive for many authors.

Pei Wencong couldn't help asking himself inwardly: Am I still even in the publishing industry?

Why, as a HKU graduate in the hyper-commercial environment of Hong Kong, had he never thought of Li Ye's method?

Li Ye nodded slightly and said: "Then we need to discuss our cooperation."

Here it comes again—that familiar feeling.

Pei Wencong seemed to see again the shadow of the Tongluowan boss, his sharp melon knife glinting in the sun, slicing off a big chunk of fat from your ass.

"Mr. Li, this time, will you still take 20% of the publishing house's profits under the partnership model?" Pei Wencong smiled. "I must say, Mr. Li, your terms are on par with those of the greats."

Currently, Li Ye and Pei Wencong's cooperation model was Li Ye contributing 'The Roaring North Wind' as technical equity, earning 20% of the TaLang Literary Publishing House's profits.

When Li Ye first proposed this model, Pei Wencong had almost rejected it outright—by Hong Kong standards, what Li Ye demanded was simply too much.

【Do you think you're Gu Liang Jin?】

Had Pei Wencong not been nearly out of options, he would never have accepted it.

But just months later, Pei Wencong now felt he'd "gotten the better deal."

For a small company like TaLang Literary Publishing House, with limited resources but also low overhead, one blockbuster book could launch it into the ranks of mid-sized publishers.

And now that the "Seven-Inch Blade" name was famous, it was a cash cow!

Since 'The Roaring North Wind' hadn't finished serialization yet, Li Ye still took 20%—using this time to promote 'A Song of Ice and Fire' was fine; if it failed, Li Ye's thirty thousand U. . dollars covered the loss; if it succeeded, Pei Wencong kept 80%. Either way, it made sense.

More importantly, based on Pei Wencong's understanding of Li Ye, he felt Li Ye would never accept terms lower than those for 'The Roaring North Wind.'

Sure enough, after hearing Pei Wencong's words, Li Ye shook his head slightly: "Last time, we didn't know each other or each other's capabilities.

Now I've proven my ability, so I think a 70-30 split is more appropriate."

"Seventy-thirty?"

Pei Wencong looked troubled: "Mr. Li, I know you're confident in your work, but my publishing house is also growing. You're only providing one book, yet you want 30% of the profits—it's simply too high."

"You misunderstand," Li Ye waved his hand. "It's you three, I seven."

"."

Pei Wencong jumped to his feet, eyes wide and voice sharp: "Mr. Li, are you joking? You provide one book and want to be my boss?

Not just Hong Kong—even across East Asia—there's no such logic. You're clearly joking."

Had Pei Wencong not gained new respect for Li Ye on Zhongyingjie, he might have already shouted something like "Fuk nee ah mum!"

You come here with an uncertain manuscript and demand a 70-30 split to become the major shareholder of TaLang Literary Publishing House? Are you trying to rob me?

"Mr. Pei, calm down. Negotiating cooperation means we must negotiate."

Watching Pei Wencong nearly jump out of his skin, Li Ye remained calm: "Since you find this arrangement unreasonable, I'll make a concession."

"I won't take any share of your publishing house's profits. We'll account for this book's earnings separately—you get 30%, I get 70%. Is that acceptable?"

Acceptable? Bullshit!

Is this a concession? Aside from your two books, the entire publishing house has almost no income—what difference does your "concession" make?

Pei Wencong yanked hard at his tie and unbuttoned one shirt button to release the pressure building in his chest.

Li Ye's prize contest plan sounded like just a few casual words, but implementing it would be extremely complicated, demanding immense effort and connections.

All that work would fall on Pei Wencong to coordinate—and yet, when profits were split, he'd get only 30% while the author took 70%?

Who's the capitalist here, anyway?

But Pei Wencong was actually wrong about Li Ye.

Based on his later-era web novel experience, top-tier authors received a 70-30 split.

For example, the dominant Chinese web novel platform, "DianXin," gave ordinary authors a 50-50 split on subscription revenue, while top-tier authors got 70-30.

Although this was after operational costs were deducted, it at least gave authors a sense of fairness.

Given the current status of "Seven-Inch Blade," was demanding a top-tier author's share unreasonable?

Pei Wencong looked at the calm, composed Li Ye, and his emotions gradually settled.

"Mr. Li, implementing your proposal is difficult. My publishing house incurs many hidden costs, and it's hard to accurately calculate profits for a single book."

Li Ye was right—cooperation meant negotiation!

But after Pei Wencong spoke, Li Ye showed no interest in further discussion.

"Let's first tour Hong Kong's scenery. We'll talk again in a couple of days."

Li Ye stood up and walked out. Pei Wencong opened his mouth to speak but stopped, then reluctantly followed.

When Li Ye and Pei Wencong reached the ground floor, they found Hao Jian and Jin Peng hadn't gone far—they were still standing at attention nearby, like sentinels, watching the hotel surroundings.

On this trip to Hong Kong, the two knew their role clearly: protect Li Ye.

Li Ye never explained why he'd invited Hao Jian and Jin Peng, but both sensed it wasn't just because they spoke the best Cantonese.

It was trust.

Seeing Pei Wencong come down, Ah Min hurried over from the nearby tea house and whispered something to him.

Pei Wencong nodded slightly, then asked Li Ye: "Mr. Li, where would you like to visit?"

Pei Wencong remembered that during their first phone call, Li Ye had mentioned wanting to tour Victoria Harbour and visit publishers like Sanlian Bookstore.

Now Pei Wencong was truly torn—he didn't want to lose Li Ye's brand. A long-term partnership between TaLang Literary Society and Seven-Inch Blade was a win-win.

But Li Ye's 70-30 demand was too extreme—he couldn't accept it right away.

Yet Li Ye didn't suggest visiting any publishers. Instead, he said: "Do you know where there's a fashion store that makes clothes? I want to order a few outfits."

Worried Pei Wencong wouldn't understand, Li Ye added: "Make them stylish. Budget under ten thousand per person."

"Yes, yes," Pei Wencong immediately said. "I know a shop. The owner studied fashion design in Europe and opened a store nearby."

Ah Min drove the car, and after several twists and turns, they arrived at a narrow alley.

It was a typical Hong Kong alley—extremely narrow, flanked by tall buildings, with a row of shops along the street, their storefronts decently decorated.

"Mr. Li, don't be fooled by the small size of these shops—they're famous in Hong Kong. Many movie stars come here for custom clothing. They're the most fashionable tailors."

As Pei Wencong introduced, he led Li Ye past several shops, turned down a side alley, and arrived at a small tailor shop.

"Cough, cough~"

Facing Li Ye's "Are you a shill?" expression, Pei Wencong cleared his throat and whispered: "Mr. Li, the owner here is one of my junior sisters, but I mean no improper intent—and you may not understand Hong Kong well; many people hold misconceptions about mainlanders."

"I know, you're worried they won't welcome us, right?"

Li Ye smiled and pushed open the door straight ahead.

The clothing shop was small, but nicely decorated; inside, a young woman in her twenties was flipping through a children's picture book with a little boy.

The woman immediately stood up, but before she could speak, Li Ye asked in clear, standard Mandarin: "Hello, we'd like to have a few outfits made—can you accommodate us?"

Even in 1983, there were still people in Hong Kong who looked down on mainland visitors! Speak to them in Mandarin, they reply in Cantonese; speak to them in Cantonese, they ask if you know English.

Some Guangdong locals would angrily rebuke: "If you speak Cantonese fluently, why deny your own ancestors?"

So Li Ye didn't wait for Pei Wencong to introduce them—he spoke Mandarin right away. If you don't want to take the job, say so early, don't make Pei Wencong lose face by forcing yourself to comply.

"Of course we can! We open our doors to customers—especially friends of Brother Pei."

The young woman inside spoke surprisingly good Mandarin, which greatly improved Li Ye's impression.

Pei Wencong stepped forward and said, "A Ling, these gentlemen want some fashionable clothing—recommend something for them."

"Sure, what kind of styles are you looking for? Take a look at these catalogs—what designs do you like?"

The shop owner, A Ling, showed neither excessive enthusiasm nor any neglect. She called over a young assistant to take measurements for Li Ye and the others, then pulled out a stack of catalogs for them to choose from.

In fact, Pengcheng Factory No. 7 had its own tailors, and Li Ye had been wearing custom-made clothes for the past six months.

But their vision still lagged forty years behind; sometimes, the veteran tailors who had retired from state-owned factories simply couldn't grasp Li Ye's requests.

Li Ye couldn't tell whether it was the veterans' limitation or his own thinking too avant-garde, so he came to Hong Kong to test the waters.

The evidence proved both reasons were true.

Those retired, rehired tailors were indeed constrained by the mainland's level of clothing industry development—their horizons were too narrow.

But Li Ye's fashion sense was genuinely ahead of its time.

Li Ye picked out several designs from A Ling's catalogs, then requested modifications to certain details. A Ling quickly understood his intent and effortlessly sketched new pattern drafts by hand.

Yet the surprise in A Ling's eyes made it clear—even this "overseas-return designer"—could not escape the limitations of her era.

(End of Chapter)