The late afternoon sun was still blazing with ruthless intensity.
Since the end of the college entrance exams, Fang Yi had been constantly out and about, and he'd noticeably tanned from all the sun.
But he didn't mind much—his skin was the type that darkened easily but could also recover its fairness quickly.
Just as he reached the third floor and stepped into the stairwell, he heard the sharp ringing of the phone coming from the living room.
He hurried his pace, pulled out his keys, and quickly unlocked the door. Striding inside, he picked up the receiver.
"Who's calling?"
"Hello, is this Mr. Fang Dayong?" came a calm and steady male voice from the other end.
Fang Dayong—that was his pen name.
It came from a line in the inner chapters of Zhuangzi: "The use of the useless is the greatest use."
"I am. And you are?" Though Fang Yi asked out of courtesy, he already had a good idea who this was.
"I'm Yang Zhen, chief editor at Hongyan Publishing House in Shanghai."
Honestly, Fang Yi had expected them to reach out eventually—but what surprised him was how fast they moved.
He had just left his number a little over an hour ago!
What he didn't know was that the sudden halt in updates over the past few days hadn't dampened the popularity of Ghost Blows Out the Light at all. In fact, it had made the book even more of a hot topic.
Now, every major forum, BBS board, and chatroom across the country was buzzing with speculation about the abrupt pause.
Some believed he was just too busy with work to update.
Others claimed he had fallen seriously ill and was hospitalized.
There were even rumors that he had run out of inspiration and couldn't continue writing.
Those were the reasonable theories.
But on some corners of the internet, things had taken a turn for the bizarre.
There were posts insisting he was actually the descendant of a real tomb-raiding clan—and that he had encountered an accident while exploring a Han dynasty tomb a few days ago, never to return.
What the actual hell…
Still, this unexpected storm of attention had drawn the eyes of other publishers, who were beginning to realize the book's explosive potential. Hongyan Publishing couldn't sit still any longer. They had to make a move—and fast—before another house beat them to it.
Fang Yi played it cool. "Ah, Editor Yang. What can I do for you?"
It was an old trick, but it worked.
Anyone who could rise to chief editor at a publishing house wasn't just some corporate drone—they had patience and polish, and had seen every negotiation tactic in the book.
Yang Zhen wasn't the least bit annoyed. He got straight to the point.
"Mr. Fang, I'll spare you the pleasantries. Our publishing house—and I personally—see great promise in your book. I'd like to discuss the possibility of a physical print run. Would you be interested?"
"Absolutely."
Since the other party wasn't beating around the bush, there was no reason for Fang Yi to keep pretending.
"I'd like to ask first," Yang Zhen continued, "How many words do you plan to write for Ghost Blows Out the Light?"
This was a crucial question.
After all, a publishing house needed to know the length to gauge investment risk and potential profit. If it was just a short story of a few tens of thousands of words, it wasn't worth pouring in serious resources.
Fang Yi understood perfectly and answered confidently, "Eight volumes total, more than 2.3 million words."
There was a pause on the line. Then Yang Zhen's voice came again—this time tinged with pleasant surprise.
"You've already finished the entire thing?"
"Not yet," Fang Yi replied. "I've completed the drafts for the first two volumes. The remaining six will be submitted digitally."
Then he added, "It's hard to explain everything over the phone. If you're genuinely interested, I suggest we meet in person. You're welcome to come to Jiangzhen."
"Gladly!"
Yang Zhen didn't hesitate for a second. "Shanghai isn't far from Jiangzhen. I can come by anytime. Could you share the location?"
Fang Yi thought for a moment. "Let's meet tomorrow at 11 a.m. at the Youlan Café on Dingmao Road."
"Got it. I'll be there on time!"
—
After hanging up, a smile crept onto Fang Yi's lips.
Done.
The first bucket of gold was just around the corner.
Whistling a breezy tune—Whistle, to be exact—he picked up a change of clothes and headed for the bathroom.
His good mood lasted all the way until dinnertime.
Noticing her son's cheerful energy, Zhuang Shufen couldn't help but ask, "Son, what's got you in such high spirits?"
"A publishing house reached out to me today. My novel's getting published!" Fang Yi grinned as he answered. He had no intention of hiding it from them.
"Really?"
Zhuang Shufen didn't sound especially excited. If anything, there was a trace of skepticism in her tone.
Tch.
Fang Yi raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "What's that supposed to mean, Mom? You don't believe in your own son?"
To be fair, Zhuang Shufen's doubt wasn't totally unfounded.
It was the year 2000. The concept of internet novels hadn't yet taken off. Bookstores were still dominated by children's books, educational texts, and traditional literature.
The only fiction you'd see on shelves were classics from authors like Jin Yong and Gu Long.
She had skimmed a little of her son's writing before, but figured it was just him goofing around for fun. She never dreamed it would actually get published.
Seeing his reaction, Zhuang Shufen's eyes widened. "You're serious? A real publisher's interested?"
"Well, duh. You think I'm bored enough to make this up?" Fang Yi huffed.
Fang Yucheng, who was sipping a small glass of liquor, added calmly, "Are you sure it's an actual publisher? Be careful you're not getting scammed. There are too many con artists out there these days."
"Relax," Fang Yi said with a smile. "I know what I'm doing."
While their son's academic performance was a bit shaky, when it came to everything else, both parents actually trusted him quite a bit.
So Fang Yucheng didn't press further and went back to enjoying his drink.
Fang Yi glanced at his dad and thought to himself, Better drink up while you can, old man. Once those exam results drop in a few days, you might not be in the mood for liquor anymore…
"Son," Zhuang Shufen asked curiously, "How much can you make from the publication?"
Still eating, Fang Yi answered offhandedly, "We haven't negotiated yet. But in my mind, I won't take anything less than a million."
"A million?!"
Zhuang Shufen nearly choked. "Don't be ridiculous! You'd be lucky to get a few thousand."
She clearly didn't believe a word of it.
After all, a million yuan in the year 2000 was no joke.
Just for reference—at the time, property prices in Beijing's Chaoyang District were only around 3,800 yuan per square meter.
Here in Jiangzhen, it was even cheaper. New developments in the suburbs were going for just 850 yuan per square meter. A 100-square-meter apartment could be had for a little over 100,000 yuan.
And even that was considered expensive by many locals.
A million yuan could buy ten apartments in the city center.