Chapter 42: Talking About Demons, But Seeing Ghosts

Ms. Ke changed her mind and refused to be listed as a co-author on Li Ye’s “Infiltration” because last night, Wen Leyu gave her a new novel manuscript.

When Wen Leyu first wanted to learn novel writing from Li Ye, Li Ye chose a “collaborative creation” model for real-time teaching and asked Wen Leyu to provide the story setting and character materials.

The materials were naturally provided by Ms. Ke, and on the very day she supplied them, she began writing herself.

She wanted to test whether she could write a novel as good as “Infiltration.”

Ms. Ke was proud of her own abilities and was no stranger to literary writing; she believed that with “Infiltration” as a reference, she could surely produce something with at least some merit.

Ms. Ke’s writing went smoothly—after all, she was a university graduate from the 1960s and had previously published literary works, so her command of language was unquestionable.

Moreover, many of the character prototypes in her materials were stories she had heard from her elders, and putting them into words now was merely a matter of retelling.

The more she wrote, the easier it became, and soon she had a promising opening.

After reading it over several times, she felt a quiet confidence and planned to let Li Ye see it in a few days, “to learn from each other.”

Collaborative creation meant shared effort.

Unfortunately, before Ms. Ke could give her manuscript to Li Ye, Wen Leyu brought Li Ye’s manuscript to her.

After reading it, she sat up all night again, just as she had when she first read the “Infiltration” draft.

People compared to people die; goods compared to goods get thrown away.

With the same character materials and the same story setting, the resulting works were entirely different.

If forced to compare, Ms. Ke’s story was like a pot of salty, haphazardly boiled vegetables—bland, barely filling.

But Li Ye’s story was a sizzling, well-balanced feast—colorful, aromatic, flavorful, and nutritious.

All the missing seasonings and cooking techniques were Li Ye’s own private additions.

Ms. Ke’s story was essentially “accounting fiction”—elegant prose but dull plot—while Li Ye’s was true literary fiction with rich narrative depth.

When dawn began to lighten outside the window, Ms. Ke laughed bitterly.

She finally understood how unprofessional and presumptuous her earlier request to add her name as a co-author had been.

Li Ye didn’t need her help at all—her help only caused trouble.

Though she had truly been desperate at the time, unwilling to let go of even a straw, was that a valid justification?

And looking at the manuscript in her hands, Ms. Ke could feel that Li Ye had genuinely tried to help her.

The novel, temporarily titled “Fugitives of the Fire,” was a “high-end custom text” perfectly tailored to Ms. Ke’s heart.

Though only an opening, the soldiers who sacrificed their blood for the light were vividly portrayed by Li Ye through multiple techniques, leaving a deep impression at first glance.

And that mattered greatly.

Once the book was finished, when Ms. Ke showed it to certain people, if they formed an impression, her long-forgotten husband would surely be remembered again.

Ms. Ke had never explained to Li Ye what she needed—but Li Ye had precisely given her what she most desired.

Sincerity in dealing with others is mutual.

Ms. Ke immediately decided to apologize to Li Ye.

She would show Dong Yuejin her own previously published works and admit her shortcomings—indirectly elevating Li Ye’s literary standing.

After all, Li Ye was still too young and easily underestimated.

In front of Li Ye’s parents, humbly admitting her own inadequacies didn’t feel humiliating to Ms. Ke—on the contrary, it felt entirely appropriate.

Ms. Ke had watched her daughter’s changes; who knew what might develop between her and Li Ye in the future? But she absolutely couldn’t let his parents gossip.

“I toast you both—congratulations on raising such a fine son and grandson.”

Ms. Ke raised her glass and formally toasted Li Zhongfa and Li Kaibian.

“Nonsense, the boy is still young—we still need your guidance, Ms. Ke!”

Li Zhongfa and Li Kaibian were seasoned socialites; they didn’t hold back, clinking glasses, and the private room buzzed with warmth and cheer.

Moreover, with Ms. Ke’s involvement, everyone had automatically filled in explanations for certain doubts.

Li Ye was still too young; writing a spy thriller like “Infiltration” lacked credibility.

But now, with Ms. Ke standing beside him, she had inadvertently filled that gap—everyone assumed she had told Li Ye many stories to serve as his foundation.

Soon after, Li Ye noticed Dong Yuejin’s face turning red and sweating—he knew Dong’s alcohol tolerance was low; if he got drunk, they couldn’t discuss business.

Business on the drinking table works best between “slightly tipsy” and “drunk”—drunk, words mean nothing; sober, words mean nothing.

So Li Ye seized an opportunity to interject: “Editor Dong, did the publisher mention anything about royalties?”

Editor Dong had prepared for this and replied confidently: “Of course—they offered you five yuan per thousand characters. That’s already high for a new author.”

“Five yuan?”

Li Ye was clearly disappointed. The state standard was three to ten yuan per thousand characters; five yuan for a debut author seemed decent.

But for a book like “Infiltration,” five yuan per thousand characters was far from high.

Li Ye paused for a few seconds, then asked again: “Editor Dong, what’s the royalty rate? What percentage?”

“Royalty?” Dong Yuejin blinked. “What royalty?”

Li Ye was equally stunned. He thought a moment: “The print-run royalty—didn’t the State restore print-run royalties in 1980?”

Dong Yuejin looked embarrassed. “I’m not actually sure about that...”

Li Ye frowned—he didn’t know whether Dong was genuinely unaware or pretending ignorance.

Because in his past life writing web novels, he had once, out of envy for the high royalties of top authors, casually read about China’s royalty system.

Royalties had been introduced to this land in the 1920s; Hu Shi and others lived comfortably in Beijing, where “it’s hard to live,” thanks to royalties.

By 1980, the State had restored the long-suspended royalty system, setting a base rate of “5% for every 10,000 copies,” which later increased repeatedly—even Han X had received 20%.

But Li Ye didn’t know that while the State had set the rules, actual implementation of this author-friendly policy only happened after “Shuo Ye” emerged.

But Li Ye didn’t know that—he thought he had misremembered.

So he probed: “Then, Editor Dong, is the 1980 royalty standard three to ten yuan per thousand characters for original works, and two to seven yuan for translations?”

Dong Yuejin was equally awkward. He nodded: “Yes, that’s correct—but print-run royalties... I’ll verify with the publisher...”

So he hadn’t misremembered. For a moment, Li Ye felt uneasy, and his smile grew noticeably colder.

Dong Yuejin was also in a bind. Though “Infiltration” was truly an exceptional work, without proven sales, it couldn’t erase the power imbalance between publisher and author.

For a new author like Li Ye, Dong Yuejin had already been unusually kind and accommodating.

In this era, there were plenty like Feng Bo of Dahe Publishing.

Li Zhongfa and Li Kaibian felt uneasy too—so the maximum was ten yuan, minimum three, and they’d only given their grandson five? And they’d cut off future earnings?

Li Zhongfa burst into laughter and raised his glass: “Come on, Editor Dong, let’s drink! Kids are picky—don’t take it to heart. We didn’t write this book for the money, did we?”

Li Kaibian, a retired reconnaissance soldier, took advantage of the drinking to quietly retrieve Li Ye’s manuscript and tightly pack it into his bag.

[A thousand yuan to buy my son’s treasure? Is that a lot of money?]

Hao Jian’s malt sugar business was booming. Two days ago, Jin Peng came to report—this batch’s profit share might reach three thousand yuan.

So the Li family’s attitude toward money had changed from before.

Dong Yuejin, heavily drunk, grabbed his bag to pull out the contract and finalize publication with Li Ye—only to realize the unfinished manuscript was gone.

It was like being mid-episode and losing power and internet—agonizingly suspended.

But this also subtly reminded Dong Yuejin: if even a seasoned editor like him was so hooked, what would ordinary readers do?

Li Ye’s second half of the manuscript far exceeded Dong Yuejin’s expectations—and solidified his decision.

[“Infiltration” is a great book—I must secure it!]

He pulled out the contract and smiled at everyone: “We’ve drunk, we’ve eaten—time for business. Here’s the publisher’s contract for ‘Infiltration.’ Li Ye, take a look...”

“Why the rush?” Li Kaibian grabbed Dong Yuejin’s shoulder warmly. “Editor Dong, you’ve come all the way to Qingshui—you must let us host you for a few days. Tonight, we drink again...”

Dong Yuejin smacked his lips—he knew this was going to get complicated.

But he was a man of responsibility and immediately declared: “No more drinking—we’d delay work. I’ll call the publisher and try to negotiate a higher royalty. Is that acceptable?”

Li Kaibian was momentarily surprised, then slapped Dong’s shoulder hard. “Old Dong, you’re a straight shooter—I’m keeping you as a friend.”

Li Kaibian paused in surprise, draped an arm over Editor Dong’s shoulder and gave him a hearty pat. “Old Dong, you’re a straightforward man. Regardless of anything, I’m taking you as a friend.”

Dong Yuejin left the restaurant, firmly refusing Li Kaibian’s further hospitality, and went to the post office to make a call.

The call didn’t go well—the publisher strongly objected, claiming “there’s no precedent.”

Only after Dong Yuejin mentioned “Dahe Publishing is interested” did the chief editor snap: “If you’re willing to take full responsibility, go ahead and do as you please.”

That carried weight—if Dong Yuejin insisted on an exception, unless “Infiltration” became a massive hit, his career prospects would suffer.

Dong Yuejin wandered the county town in frustration, the more he thought, the more it gnawed at him.

The alcohol was rising, and it was nearly five in the afternoon—he decided to check into a hotel and think clearly before talking to Li Ye tomorrow.

He walked into the Qingshui County Guesthouse and saw a young man at the front desk, checking in while asking how to get to No. 2 High School and what age the repeat students usually were.

Dong Yuejin took notice, leaned over to glance at the man’s introduction letter. Though his nearsightedness blurred the details, the large red stamp clearly bore the words “Publishing House.”

[Damn, talking about demons and seeing ghosts.]

Dong Yuejin jolted awake, the alcohol instantly gone.

He quietly stepped back, slipped out the guesthouse door, and sprinted toward No. 2 High School.