Chapter 69: Urging the Manuscript and Reader Reviews

In the spring of 1982, Guo Jia’s statutory holiday lasted only three days; enterprises and government offices resumed work on the fourth day of the New Year, while schools delayed slightly longer.

For Li Ye, who had grown accustomed to longer breaks, this was extremely hard to adjust to, so he had previously arranged with Hu Man and others to resume regular studying only on the sixth day.

Even so, Li Ye felt he was already the model of diligence among time-travelers.

Hu Man and the others had learned his habits: even when studying at the Second Grain Store, they wouldn’t arrive until well after sunrise, and they made sure not to disturb Li Ye, keeping their questions to themselves.

But fate contradicted his plans: on the morning of the fourth day of the New Year, before Li Ye had even risen from the small heated brick bed, still pondering where to take Li Dayong for a stroll, Wen Leyu rushed over and knocked urgently on the door.

“It’s not even nine yet—what’s the hurry?”

“Quick, look at the telegram.”

Li Ye quickly took the telegram and read it carefully.

【Progress has been made; return trip may be delayed... Please send the next manuscript as soon as possible to Room 306, Guangming Grand Hotel, XX Road, Beijing.】

Li Ye read it twice, confirmed there was no hidden meaning, then looked at Wen Leyu and said, “This should be good news.”

Wen Leyu nodded vigorously, her nose running: “It’s good news.”

Li Ye smiled: “If it’s good news, why are you sniffling? Hurry up and copy the manuscript—what are you going to mail otherwise?”

Li Ye had the habit of keeping original drafts, so whether it was Haihai Publishing or Teacher Ke, they always received copied versions.

Though he’d been lazy during the holiday, he’d still written ten to twenty thousand characters—copying them would take half a day.

Fortunately, Hu Man and the others had come along today; with five people sharing the task of copying ten to twenty thousand characters, the pace quickened significantly.

Before noon, Li Ye went to the post office to mail the manuscript; Wen Leyu finally relaxed, no longer so anxious.

But barely a day passed—on the next morning, Teacher Ke’s second telegram arrived.

【Supplementary materials have been sent; please confirm receipt and organize them promptly for use.】

“Supplementary materials?”

Li Ye was puzzled—he had shown Teacher Ke the outline when revising “Fires of the Deserted Soldier,”

and after multiple discussions and revisions, the novel’s outline and plot structure were nearly perfected; adding more supplementary materials now wasn’t a good sign for the author.

Indeed, the very next afternoon, right after the telegram arrived, a thick parcel reached Li Ye’s hands.

【Is this JD Express speed?】

Li Ye felt uneasy: from Beijing to Qingshui County was less than five hundred kilometers, but in 1982, parcel delivery took three to five days at best,

yet this parcel had arrived in under thirty-six hours.

Confirmed—it was a senior’s parcel.

Opening the parcel, the first thing inside was a letter from Teacher Ke.

The letter told Li Ye that some character prototypes had provided many additional wartime and daily life details, and begged him to carefully select and integrate them into the upcoming manuscript.

Teacher Ke’s letter was written with sincere tone, as if speaking not to a high school student but to an equal writer in discussion.

But Li Ye read it once and understood Teacher Ke’s true meaning—hurry up, hurry up, send me the next update as soon as possible.

Li Ye put down the letter and began flipping through the “supplementary materials.”

Then he sat motionless for the rest of the afternoon, like a statue of clay.

Wen Leyu beside him grew frightened and shoved him hard.

“What’s wrong, Li Ye? Is something wrong?”

“Your humble servant cannot... nothing, nothing.”

Li Ye snapped out of it, smiled at Wen Leyu, and reassured her.

But right then he desperately wanted to scream: “I cannot do this!”

This wasn’t supplementary material—it was fierce reader commentary threads!

【Dear author, I have some feedback for you... your portrayal of that Yang character isn’t deep enough. Let me tell you, in XX year, XX month, he... you must write it clearly, so we can vent our anger.】

【Dear author, who told you that Gao Yidao was the best bayonet fighter in the whole regiment?】

【Look at him try to boast that in front of me—you must include me! I’m from the First Company, Second Platoon, XXX. Give me a cool nickname, okay?】

【Dear author, I must criticize you: why did you only give us half the book? When will the second half come? Even the doctor scolded me for not sleeping on time.】

This wasn’t just a push for updates—it was a death warrant!

They wanted the rest of the manuscript tomorrow, but over a million characters remained! How was Li Ye supposed to write it?

Li Ye sighed to the heavens: “The money for custom-written novels is certainly not easy to earn!”

It was like writing web fiction, when a top reader suddenly demands you change a plotline or alter a character’s personality—

though the author’s brain cells burn by the billions, there’s still some way to make minor adjustments.

But when several top readers demand conflicting things—this one wants the protagonist to go east, that one wants him to go west,

this one wants the hero to ascend to heaven, that one wants the villain to sink to hell—how could you possibly revise it?

Li Ye tossed the “supplementary materials” aside, grabbed paper, and began writing furiously.

He decided not to revise—at least not for now. He’d write ten thousand characters based on his mental draft and send them off first.

Quantity over quality was a writer’s great trick; when you’re burning out with massive output, even the pickiest readers would feel pity and hold back criticism.

While Li Ye wrote with total focus, Wen Leyu picked up the supplementary materials and read them carefully.

As she read, her expression changed; her face wrinkled like a steamed bun, her eyes darting repeatedly toward Li Ye.

Li Ye kept writing, asked casually: “What’s wrong?”

Wen Leyu said: “Is it... too difficult?”

Li Ye shook his head: “Not difficult. You’ll get used to it.”

Wen Leyu: “........”

Wen Leyu naturally didn’t know that in his past life, Li Ye had often been bullied by readers into silence, and over time had developed thick skin and high endurance.

If it could be changed, he’d change it; if it couldn’t, go ahead and rant—I’ll take it.

Li Ye’s thoughts flowed smoothly; he wrote four or five thousand characters in one go, only stopping when his wrist began to ache slightly.

Wen Leyu finished copying right after, gathered his manuscripts, and moved slowly, listlessly.

Li Ye sensed something was off and asked: “Are you feeling down?”

Wen Leyu nodded twice, her lips pouting, her face brimming with grievance.

Li Ye asked gently: “Can you tell me?”

Wen Leyu looked at Li Ye, thinking for a long time.

“Actually, Shi Cheng... is my grandfather.”

“Mm.”

Li Ye softly murmured, asking no further questions.

He had long guessed that Shi Cheng’s prototype was closely tied to Wen Leyu and Teacher Ke.

Wen Leyu added: “My grandfather passed away several years ago.”

Well, no wonder he’d been forgotten—the patriarch was gone, so the senior brother might as well vanish too.

“Hm?”

Li Ye suddenly realized something was off.

He sat up straight, looked into Wen Leyu’s eyes, and after a moment, understood.

This wasn’t the same feeling as during his past-life dating, when girls would casually introduce their family background?

“My father and brother are in Beianling... I haven’t seen them in many years.”

“But my father writes me a letter every month... though we’re far apart, our family bond grows stronger...”

Wen Leyu spoke at length, but with sincerity.

Li Ye understood: only now had this girl opened her heart to him.

Until now, she had wrapped herself tightly in a shell of coldness.

If not for this extraordinary man, Li Ye, who had slowly chipped away at that barrier, she might have remained sealed off forever.

Wen Leyu pointed to the supplementary materials and said softly: “These people—I’ve met some, heard of others—they’re all from my grandfather’s generation...”

“They’re all stubborn and fiercely proud, none willing to yield to another; if you say one word against them, they’ll argue endlessly...”

“It’s fine—I’m not afraid of stubborn readers. I’ve met worse.” Li Ye smiled to reassure Wen Leyu.

Wen Leyu looked at Li Ye, nervously saying: “What I mean is... this book, ‘Fires of the Deserted Soldier,’ might... possibly... never get published.”

“Never get published?”

Li Ye froze, then realized—when so many people and opinions are involved, it was indeed complicated.

Wen Leyu nodded: “If it’s not published, you won’t get your royalty.”

“Huh?”

Li Ye hadn’t expected this twist—she’d just been giving a family background, and now she was jumping straight to royalties?

Does money even matter between us?

Why do you look so guilty, like a lioness shouting “one million in bride price”?

Li Ye said generously: “No royalty? Fine. You must know, writing novels doesn’t guarantee profit—

often, failure is just a trial before success.”

Wen Leyu’s face once again filled with grievance: “But if you don’t get royalties, I won’t get my proofreading fee—how will I afford food?”

Li Ye was stunned.

At the Second Grain Store’s small warehouse, Li Ye charged a symbolic ten cents per meal,

but Wen Leyu, because her proofreading fee was held by Li Ye, had always eaten freely and without guilt.

It wasn’t that Li Ye refused to pay her—it was that she adamantly refused to take it.

Li Ye had always thought the girl regarded money as dirt—she wouldn’t take a single coin without name or claim.

As for meals, that was only natural; even a day laborer for a landlord got fed, let alone a lowly proofreader?

But now, what kind of thinking was this?

Your money is mine, and my money is yours?

No, it seemed more like... an active, effort-driven... strategy to secure a long-term meal ticket?

Li Ye’s heart stirred; he whispered softly to Wen Leyu: “If you’re willing, I’ll feed you... until the end of time.”

The pool of autumn water in Wen Leyu’s large eyes seemed to freeze all at once.

Then, it rippled with surging waves.

She slowly stepped back, like a wary fawn, then suddenly turned and ran.

Listening to the fading “clattering” footsteps, Li Ye’s heart pounded uncontrollably.

Was that a confession?

Was it?

Of course it wasn’t! Otherwise, wouldn’t he die of shame?