"This is…" Lang Lin was stunned. He never imagined that just one chapter of a novel could attract so many comments. After all, the time it took him to eat noodles with the little rabbit was only fifteen minutes.
And now there were already 150 comments.
That number was incredible for a single chapter.
"As expected of Qing Wei's debut work. He truly was a genius." Lang Lin couldn't help but admire. Normally, one chapter wasn't enough to judge whether a story was good, but Qing Wei's writing had already proven itself.
"Let's see what they're saying." Lang Lin scrolled down to read.
Washerwoman's Tears:"What is this? How can a novel seize my soul like this!"Fashion Ghost:"I haven't read anything this exciting in ages."Stupid Baby Stroller:"Hey, Author! Post the next chapter right now, or I'll come burn your house down!"Rubber Band Rocket:"Just the prologue is already this addictive. A bad-boy emperor? I love it!"Sneaking Away from Wife to Read:"I don't usually read this genre, but what the hell is this? I've never read anything this amazing. Hurry up and update, Author!"Gardener in a Car:"Even your pen name is arrogant—Heaven-Splitting Sword! Every word cuts like a blade. This chapter already sliced my heart wide open. I know I'll be bleeding for this novel again and again!"Pastry Chef Mom:"I hope it won't get even sadder, or I'll cry myself dry. The first chapter already broke my heart!"Tiny Ant in an Inflamed Nostril:"Update soon, Heaven-Splitting Sword! Or I'll build an ant nest in your nose—you know what happens then! Hahaha!"
The comments kept pouring in. Lang Lin's fingers trembled, his face pale with shock. He never expected such overwhelming enthusiasm.
By the next morning it was the same story. Every time he posted a new chapter, feedback flooded in. Female readers especially were flocking to it, and within just two days the fan base had grown into the hundreds of thousands.
Lang Lin's lips curled into a satisfied smile. He hadn't expected that his first dimensional raid would yield something so valuable. Just one story, only a handful of chapters, and already readers were swarming like a tidal wave.
It was proof. He would succeed as an author.
He would not be a starving writer.
Even if he wasn't an expert in literature, he could still become a god among writers. Why? Because he possessed an entire mountain of novels from another dimension. Every one of them had already proven themselves on bestseller lists and recommendation shelves.
From the moment he first saw those books, he had already decided. He would harvest them all.
And the results so far were beyond his expectations.
The next day he received a message. A publishing house was interested in his novel.
Just a few chapters in, and they were already reaching out.
When he thought about all the comments, he immediately understood why.
But Lang Lin didn't accept. He refused. He already had another plan.
He would self-publish. Print the books himself, sell them through pre-orders. Of course, it was risky. Self-publishing required upfront costs and a strong fan base. Otherwise it could easily end in disaster.
Traditional publishing was safer. Once a contract was signed, the payout was guaranteed, even if sales flopped. But with self-publishing, all profits would be his alone. No splitting royalties. No restrictions.
He knew these pros and cons well thanks to Yu Yafei. In the past, he had helped her prepare manuscripts, design book layouts, and even contact printing houses. She had always been kind to him, paying him for his help. And he had never refused. Why should he? He was poor. Why reject money out of pride? He wasn't some noble protagonist in a story. He was just an ordinary man.
Back to the present, Lang Lin decided to stop posting chapters. He hadn't even uploaded the full sixteen. The feedback was already more than enough. Now it was time to start selling books.
He created a Weibo account under the name Heaven-Splitting Sword and posted an announcement on the fiction site. Throne of Blood would be released as a three-volume series, available for pre-order. Each print run would require a minimum of five hundred copies.
The response was overwhelming. Hundreds of thousands of people showed interest, and more were flooding in every hour.
But Lang Lin set his limit. He could not handle more than five hundred orders. Processing payments, keeping track of deliveries, managing shipments—all of it was exhausting for one man alone.
So he posted an update: "The quota of five hundred copies has been reached. Pre-orders are now closed. The next print run will be announced after this one is shipped."
As expected, complaints filled the comments. Readers were furious, as if he had killed their parents by denying them a book. Lang Lin could only smile bitterly as he watched the chaos.
It was like having a mountain of gold right before his eyes, but only being able to carry a handful home.
The price of each handmade book was set at eighty yuan. With shipping, it came to ninety-five. More expensive than mass-produced titles, but that didn't matter. He didn't need to worry about paying the printer upfront. Every buyer who secured an order had already transferred the money directly to his account. He would simply take those funds and hand them to the printing house.
He hadn't yet visited the printer, but thanks to Yu Yafei he already knew the costs. And more importantly, his adoptive father had once been close friends with the owner of an old printing shop in the city. Lang Lin intended to use their services, hoping for a discount from that connection.
Two days later he withdrew the money. His face was haggard, dark circles under his eyes like a panda. He had spent sleepless nights formatting files into PDFs, double-checking payments from every single customer, and handling everything alone.
The day before, he had already posted a cover photo. He photographed the original novel from the other dimension, then edited the author's name to his own. The design was striking. The moment he uploaded it, readers who had missed the pre-order rushed to ask when the next batch would be available. Lang Lin reassured them. "Once this round is shipped, I'll open orders for the next."
That calmed the storm for now. Otherwise his Weibo might have collapsed under the flood of desperate messages.
He withdrew all the funds from the ATM: 47,500 yuan.
Five hundred copies sold. It was a huge amount. Even after paying the printer, he would still walk away with a tidy profit.
Pocketing the thick stack of cash with a smile, Lang Lin hailed a taxi to the print shop.
He no longer hesitated about taxis. In the past he would have thought them a waste, choosing to save money for instant noodles instead. But now he could afford dozens of lavish meals.
The taxi stopped in front of an old shop. Lang Lin stepped out, an ordinary-looking young man with nothing remarkable about him, except for the crooked leg dragging behind him.
"Here's the fare," he said, handing money to the driver before limping toward the entrance.
"This place looks ancient… I wonder if they're still open for business." Lang Lin smiled bitterly. Once, this had been a thriving print shop. Now the faded sign was missing, the exterior worn down with age. For a moment he worried they might have closed entirely.
He pushed the door open. It wasn't locked. That alone told him the shop was still alive. Inside, the walls were lined with dusty old posters of a celebrity long since forgotten. The air was heavy with the smell of ink and time.
"What brings you here?"
A round-bellied man emerged from the back, his face glowing with warmth. His cheeks were so plump they nearly hid his eyes.
It was Wu Xichen, the owner of the printing house.