Chapter 44: A Summary for Yan Zu and Yi Fei and Others

When the fifth month ended, I kept thinking about what I should write next.

Many friends told me that continuing with urban fiction was certainly the safest choice, since I still had some popularity in that category.

But in truth, that was the option I resisted the most.

I’ve written urban fiction for many years, and now I’ve hit my personal ceiling—I don’t believe continuing would bring any further progress.

I poured all my passion into Jiang Qin and Feng Nanshu, and exhausted every ounce of effort.

Writing another would just be reheating cold rice, continuing to exploit them, and consuming the people and things readers love.

But in my heart, those stories belong solely to Jiang Qin and Feng Nanshu; I don’t want to misattribute them to other characters.

After all, Feng Nanshu had too great an impact on me—even after finishing the book, I never stopped thinking of her.

I know that if I wrote a similar story in a similar world, her shadow would still linger in my mind.

I don’t want to repeat a similar story, or stay in my comfort zone until I grow outdated and slowly be forgotten.

So I chose another category: xianxia.

In truth, my decision to write xianxia wasn’t driven by copyright concerns or greater profits, as many assumed—it was ultimately about seeking breakthrough.

I wanted to experiment with multiple perspectives, no longer limiting the story solely to the protagonist, but adding another thread that exists outside the main viewpoint.

Put simply, when I wrote my previous book, I always felt that the world only moved when Jiang Qin moved; when he stood still, everything else froze.

I wondered: could I write a story where the world moves even when the protagonist doesn’t?

Some events may not occur because of the protagonist, yet all things are still turning, eventually converging into a vast network pointing toward a final goal.

The reason I developed this idea was because I discovered my own weakness in my previous book.

I’m not good at handling multiple perspectives.

For example, in that book, Cao Young Master and Ding Xue’s story was actually quite sweet, but because I kept writing strictly from the protagonist’s viewpoint, their plot couldn’t be smoothly integrated into the main storyline and ended up relegated to an epilogue.

And Zhuang Chen—I always wanted to give him a proper mainline ending, but I never managed to include it.

The plot about Zhang Guangfa’s fruit going unsold was brushed over in a single line.

I realized I seemed to know only how to write the protagonist’s story, and that terrified me.

So I knew I was still green, still unskilled, and needed to keep cultivating.

I decided to return to how I was right after graduation: forcing myself each week to do something I originally found uninteresting.

So I chose xianxia.

Writing this book was extremely difficult; I was deeply dissatisfied with myself, to the point where I rewrote a single chapter three times—my draft folder already holds tens of thousands of discarded words.

Earlier, when writing the Kuangcheng High School segment, readers asked how results could appear overnight—it was because I deleted three chapters about the protagonist working away but forgot to adjust the timeline.

Also, Old Qiu originally had a solo scene where he knelt and begged for mercy, meant to highlight the contrast between life and death, but I ultimately cut it.

In fact, until just yesterday, I was still continuously revising the earlier chapters.

Before I started this book, I never imagined what kind of success it might achieve, nor did I expect it to be loved by readers as my previous book was.

But it matters deeply to me.

Because I’m torturing myself, searching for a different path.

I once said in an interview that I’m not a gifted person—I’ve written for ten years, six of which were spent failing.

So all I can do is be the slow bird that flies first: write what I’m bad at, let those weaknesses expose my flaws, then correct them.

Writing is my sole profession; I have no other job, no other identity—I have no fallback.

So I cherish every book I write, every opportunity I’m given.

I don’t want the new era’s ship to leave me behind.

So no matter the results, I will keep writing well.

Because I know that what doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger.

This is my response to readers’ confusion over my genre switch, a brief summary of the current plot, and also an expression of gratitude for your unwavering support.

Finally, as always, I beg for monthly votes and continued reads—for an old hand like me in this new book’s early stage, these metrics still matter… or2

(End of chapter)